“What has happened to you, Cezar?” she burst out. “How could you have changed so? You used to dote on me, and I was no different than the little girls in there. Now you would bleed them to death.”
“We will leave at half past eight. Wear the black dress,” he told her, his eyes cold.
“I have no black dress,” she replied, turning from the window as she pulled the drapes closed. Black was for widows or mourning, and as often as she felt dark and drab, it wasn’t a color she wore. Although perhaps after tonight…
“You do,” he said, and gestured to a large white box. “And when you are ready to leave, attend me, dear sister. For I have a new piece of jewelry for you.”
Giordan wasn’t surprised when he received word that Moldavi and his sister would be accepting his invitation for that evening. He’d waited until the day after Moldavi returned from his travels and then extended the invitation under the guise of welcoming him back.
Interestingly enough, although he hadn’t specifically invited Narcise, the response had indicated that she would attend as well.
He sat thoughtfully, awaiting his guests’ arrival, pondering the next step in this imaginary chess game with Moldavi. Perhaps tonight, at last, he could somehow extricate Narcise from beneath her brother’s thumb, stealing her away forever. After all, how could Moldavi stop him, in his own house?
Tomorrow, perhaps tomorrow morning, he would slide into bed next to the woman he loved.
Less than an hour later, Narcise entered Giordan’s private parlor on her brother’s arm. He sensed her presence even before Mingo announced the Moldavi siblings, and allowed his conversation with Voss and Eddersley to trail off.
When Giordan turned and saw her face, he knew immediately that something was wrong. That knowledge was closely followed by the shock of attraction and desire that assaulted him when her brother removed her cloak, revealing her gown.
Merde.
The chamber had gone silent and all eyes focused on Narcise. Giordan tore his gaze away, his mouth dry, fury pumping through his body, tightening his fingers, and he glanced at Cezar Moldavi. The man had a tight smirk on his face, and he was looking directly at him.
Take care. The warning was to himself and served as a mantra to control his reaction. He met the man’s eyes briefly, forcing himself to keep his expression blank and certain he failed, then lifted his glass.
If his hand was unsteady, it was camouflaged by the way he sloshed the drink in it. “To Mademoiselle Moldavi,” he said, “the first woman to ever rend Eddersley speechless.”
Since Eddersley’s sexual preferences were well-known, Giordan’s jest served to break the tension in the chamber, and everyone—except the Moldavis—laughed, including Eddersley himself. Then his friend caught Giordan’s eyes for a moment, and he saw the same shock and distaste lingering in that of Eddersley’s.
Narcise, once disrobed of her cloak, had hardly moved more than a step into the chamber. Giordan was compelled beyond imagination to go to her, but somehow, conscious of Moldavi’s regard, he refrained, keeping his shoes rooted to the rug.
Instead he watched as Voss made a straight line toward the woman, trying not to want to put the man’s head through a wall.
Giordan found himself unwilling to chance looking at Narcise, yet unable to put the image of her out of his mind. Her face, ivory with nary a hint of color to it tonight, was stark and bare. Even her lips were pale, and her eyes had that dull look he’d seen before—a look he hadn’t noticed since the last time she was here. Her night-black hair was pulled back from her face, and twisted and braided into some huge, intricate knot at the back of her head. Diamonds hung from her ears, long teardrops nearly brushing her shoulders, and more of them sparkled around the bulging knot of her hair.
But it was her gown—what there was of it, and gown was not really an accurate term—that had struck every man in the room dumb. It was unlike anything in the shops of the modistes anywhere in Paris, and Giordan couldn’t help but wonder where Moldavi had had it made. The dress was in the style of centuries ago, that of a medieval lady: a simple, high-necked frock that laced up between the breasts and along the sides, clinging to every curve of the body from shoulder to knee. From there it flared out in a train onto the floor. Her sleeves were tight from shoulder to elbow then flared in long points nearly to her feet. And though the cut of her attire was unusual and revealing, it was its very substance that caused comment—for the entire dress was made only of black lace.
The gown clung to Narcise and revealed more than any whore’s undergarments ever had. It was clear to Giordan that she wore no corset, no chemise or undergarments of any fashion. The only nod to propriety—not that such a thing existed in the world of the Dracule—was a black silk triangle at the juncture of her legs, and the triangular panels of her skirt, where it flared below the knees, were alternating black silk and black lace. Even the bodice was lace. Her breasts were uncovered, her nipples hidden by accident or design by a heavy part of the lace…but even the undercurves of her breasts were evident.
He knew without a doubt that Moldavi had forced her to wear it, and Giordan burned to kill the man. But something else bothered him, and it was the only reason he didn’t pin Narcise’s brother to the wall with a stake: the look in her eyes.
His Narcise, the one he’d come to know and respect and love, might not choose on her own to wear such a gown. But, even if forced, she would never show shame or even submission while wearing it. She would walk boldly into a chamber and ignore the openmouthed gaping of every man in the room.
There was something else.
It took him some time, mingling with the other guests, directing his vintages about, but Giordan at last made it to Narcise’s side. She’d hardly moved from where she entered the room, and he could see the drawn expression in her face, the emptiness in her eyes even more clearly as he approached.
“Find some other skirt to chase,” he told Voss flatly. “She’s mine.”
Voss’s quickly checked surprise told Giordan that he, at least, hadn’t sensed the sizzling connection between Narcise and him. And Voss, no matter how much he enjoyed variety in the shape of women, was not at all a stupid man. He gave his host a brief salute with his glass and sauntered away, a bemused smile curving his lips. One thing about Voss: he never tired of the courting, the chase or the variety.
“What is it?” Giordan asked immediately. “By the soul of Luce, Narcise, what has he done?”
“Don’t you wish to compliment me on my gown, monsieur?” she asked in a detached voice. “It was specially chosen to help me in my task of seduction.” Her cool smile didn’t reach her eyes. They remained blank, blue circles. Her cheeks were pale; her lips were nearly colorless.
“And who are you supposed to seduce?” he replied with ice in his veins.
“Why, you, monsieur,” she said, leaning into him, placing a slender hand on the center of his chest. “I am to seduce you. Here. Tonight.”
Giordan stared down at her, his heart thumping madly, her scent and her very proximity luring him into distraction…yet he knew he couldn’t allow his brain to go to mush. It was the first time she’d touched him since the night he spent hanging from a pair of manacles. The sight of her in a gown that amounted to nothing more than a lacy glove, along with her pronouncement, set his thoughts to reeling. But…
“I cannot help but wonder,” he said carefully, resisting the need to touch her, to close his large hand over the one that rested on his shirtwaist, “why you seem to be less than eager. Is seducing me still that revolting to you, Narcise? I thought…I’d hoped…”