Wicked Becomes You(59)

How curious, then, that the longing still persisted. She had always supposed that attraction thrived on nerves and uncertainty, but the more comfortable she felt with him, the closer she wished to be.

After they had parted ways and gone to their separate compartments—her unassisted disrobing made possible by the simple clasps of the Pretty Housemaid corset she’d purchased in the Galeries du Louvre the day of her scandalous shopping spree—it occurred to her that she might be confusing her emotions. Perhaps what she felt for Alex was only an extension of her love for Richard.

She tossed the corset onto the floor. It subsided with a sad, cheap flop, and so did she, into the single small chair.

She stared at the corset. “Pretty housemaid,” indeed. What sort of name was that? Certainly it had succeeded in inspiring her to buy it, but only as a lark; she’d imagined gifting it to Caroline just to hear her shriek with laughter. Housemaids could be pretty, and the corset was priced to appeal to that demographic, but it seemed rather lewd, associating an undergarment with the wearer’s source of income.

And the corset itself was not, in fact, pretty. No housemaid would wear it if seduction was on her mind. Indeed, the insert did not even advertise it as pretty; rather, the manufacturer assured her, it was both strong and cheap.

She frowned. Was that a lewd reference, as well? A strong, pretty, cheap housemaid?

She slid down in her chair and kicked the thing across the small space. It went skidding up against the bed, where it sagged dispiritedly. It knew there were far prettier corsets in the world, far more appealing to men, and stronger, too. She had several lovely corsets to her name, each designed to mold her body slightly differently, the better to flatter the line of particular gowns. She’d often thought, while half-dressed in front of the mirror, that some of her corsets were almost too fetching to be covered up—that somebody should get to see her in them.

But not the Pretty Housemaid. She scowled at it. She should not have abandoned her other corsets in Paris. What had she been thinking? Corsets were not articles to be abandoned lightly; they were the benchmarks of a lady’s success, in some circles. Amongst the girls who had debuted with her three years ago, everybody had aspired to marry no later than the age that corresponded to the measurement of their corseted waists. Twenty-four had marked the beginning of proper spinsterhood.

Corsets had shortened in the years since, and lacing had grown more vicious. The current lot probably all wished to marry before they turned twenty-two.

Why . . . she sat up. The very fact that she had not overheard the other debutantes discussing the current equation of waist to marriage age was probably a sure sign that her age fell somewhere above the acceptable limit.

Or that her waist was too large!

Heavens. She put her hands to her hips, squeezing lightly. Would she still look pleasing only in her underclothes? Cream puffs and champagne took their toll, of course. If only she had brought her sea-green corset with her, a bit too long now for current gowns, but cunningly trimmed in matching ribbon and ivory lace. If it were with her, that was what she would wear into Alex Ramsey’s compartment.

She clapped a hand to her mouth.

Good Lord!

She was thinking of undergarments because somewhere, in the course of their conversation earlier, she had made a decision: the Pretty Housemaid would not serve for the seduction she planned to undertake tonight.

She could not have him forever. But she meant to have him now.





Chapter Ten





It took her a good hour, and the rest of her glass of cognac, to build her courage. Then, unbuttoning her white cotton nightgown to the point where the slope of her breasts began, she took a deep breath and slipped into the corridor.

He had the compartment directly next to hers, and the door was not locked. It swung open beneath her hand soundlessly, revealing a direct and immediate view of his bed. He was lying flat on his back, one arm thrown over his head. A clothed arm, by the look of it.

For some reason she had imagined he would be naked.

When it became clear that the clamor of her thundering heart would not wake him directly, she crept forward toward the bed. How did one begin to seduce a man? Did one wake him and announce her intentions? I have come to ravish you. I will not accept rejection.

That approach seemed to require a good deal of brute strength. She also suspected that if she told him he could not deny her, he would do so simply to prove her wrong. If she knew anything of him, it was that he was a man who jealously guarded his prerogatives.

The single chair was drawn up by the bed, and lying atop it was a magazine—The Board of Trade Journal, great ghosts, how awful—and, more intriguingly, something that glinted. She bent down, squinting, and discovered that the glint came from a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles.