Vixen in Velvet by Loretta Chase Read Free Book Online Page A

warn me, my dear, to take care of my heart,
    When I dance with yon Lancer, so fickle and smart;
    What phantoms the mind of eighteen can create,
    That boast not a charm at discreet twenty-eight.
    —Mrs. Abdy, “A Marrying Man,” 1835
    M iss Noirot turned quickly. Since Lisburne hadn’t moved, she came up against him, her bosom touching his waistcoat for one delicious instant. She smelled delicious, too.
    She brought up her hand and gave him a push, and not, as you’d think, a little-girlish or flirtatious sort of push. It was a firm shove. While not strong enough to move him, it was a clear enough signal that she wasn’t playing coquette.
    He took the message and retreated a pace.
    “The circus,” she said, much as she might have said, “The moon.”
    “Astley’s,” he said. “It’ll be fun.”
    “Fun,” she said.
    “For one thing, no melancholy verse,” he said. “For another, no melancholy verse. And for a third—”
    “It’s on the other side of the river!” she said, as though that were, indeed, the moon.
    “Yes,” he said. “That puts the full width of the Thames between us and the melancholy verse.”
    “Us,” she said.
    “You got all dressed up,” he said. “What a shocking waste of effort if you don’t go out to an entertainment.”
    “The circus,” she said.
    “It’s truly entertaining,” he said. “I promise. Actors and acrobats and clowns. But best of all are the feats of horsemanship. Ducrow, the manager, is a brilliant equestrian.”
    For all his careless manner, Lisburne rarely left much to chance. In her case, he’d done his research. Her given name was Leonie and she was, as she’d said, the businesswoman of Maison Noirot. One sister had married a duke, the other the heir to a marquessate, yet she went to the shop every day, as though their move into the highest ranks of the aristocracy made no difference whatsoever. This was an odd and illuminating circumstance.
    The seamstresses, he’d learned, worked six days a week, from nine in the morning until nine at night, and her own hours seemed to be the same or longer. This, he’d concluded, greatly increased the odds against her having time to spend at Astley’s or any other place of entertainment.
    She gave a little shake of her head, and waved her hand in an adorably imperious manner, signaling him to get out of her way.
    He knew he stood too close—that was to say, as close as one could get without treading on her hem, women taking up a deal of space these days, in the arm and shoulder area as well as below the waist. In her case, he tested the boundary more than usual. Still, he was a man of considerable, and successful, experience with women.
    He obediently moved out of the way to walk alongside.
    “Here’s the thing,” he said as he accompanied her across the conversation room. “We can take a hackney to Astley’s, watch the show for an hour or so, and still get back before this funeral is over. By that time, the crowd’s bound to have thinned out. The girls are all here with chaperons. A good many girls, I promise you, will be dragged home earlier than they like, because there’s a limit, you know, to how much a brother, say, will sacrifice for his sister. Same for Papa and Mama and Great Aunt Philomena.”
    They’d reached the door to the lobby. He opened it.
    She sailed through, in a thrilling swish of silk.
    “I know you’re unlikely to find the sort of clientele you prefer in a place like Astley’s,” he said. “But I thought you might enjoy the women’s costumes.”
    “Not half so much as you will, I daresay,” she said. “Skimpy, are they?”
    “Yes, of course, like a ballerina or nymph or whatever it is Miss Woolford will be playing,” he said. “She’s a treat. But the whole show is wonderful. The performers stand on the horses’ backs, and go round and round the ring. And the horses perform the cleverest tricks. As good as the acrobats.”
    She looked up, her blue gaze searching.
    He