Page 5 of The Seduction of Viscount Vice

She paused briefly and turned her head. “I really am sorry. But I’m not at all in the mood for questions, Iain.”

Then she fled the room at a sprint, turning left toward the kitchens. The next thing he heard was a maid asking where the fire was with a screech, and Mairi replying something about a serious dildo emergency because they’d run out of scented oil. If he didn’t want to hurl her into the Thames, he might have laughed.

Damned witch.

She might have bested him today, but he would find her. And he would get all the answers that had been eluding him for ten fucking years.

She’d thrown down the gauntlet, and hell yes, he’d taken it up.

This was war.

Chapter Two

“And what happened next? Tell us!”

Mairi sighed and looked away from her townhouse parlor audience of three. Her longtime manservant Ramsey, Ramsey’s rascal French lover, Olivier, and their employer, Yvette, all stared in rapt expectation, but the final part of the story stuck in her throat like a damned boulder. While there were most definitely men who deserved a knee jab to the privates, Iain wasn’t one of them. But she’d panicked. His strong hands on her hips, the heat and scent of him, the sizzling quiver along her nerve endings when he’d started stroking her—she’d been seconds away from begging him to kiss her. To strip her bare and take her hard and deep against the wall.

Heaven knows what she might have confessed in the throes of passion to the man who was not only her ex-lover, but now her professional rival. The fates were forever cruel. Of all people, why did Iain have to be Fallen’s Vice?

“And then,” she said reluctantly, “I drove a knee into his groin, sent him sprawling to the floor, and fled.”

Yvette hooted with laughter, her short blonde curls bobbing around her portrait-perfect face. “Oh, chère. With your unfeminine bony limbs, you would have caused him much pain. I hope it is not permanent, or a large mob of Londoners will hunt you down and make you suffer.”

Guilt twisted her insides. “I’m sure it won’t be permanent. He’s a Scot, after all, bred tough.”

“Bad form, my lady,” Ramsey said in his surly voice, his bulky arms folded and thin lips pursed with disapproval. “I taught you that defense only so you could protect yourself in a time of great risk. But on Lord Vissen, of all men? After everything he did for—”

“Errands! We all have errands to attend to,” Mairi snapped. “And don’t call me my lady.”

Olivier raised a delicate eyebrow and sat forward on his chair, his slender, elegant form a striking contrast to Ramsey’s brawn. “Wait. Something was at risk after all. Lady Mairi’s chains of abstinence!”

“I doubt it,” said Ramsey. “It’s been ten years.”

“Au contraire, mon amour,” said Olivier. “For the knee to hurt him so, the viscount must have been close. Very close. His hands away from his body…oh, my lady. What happened just before you maimed his lordship? That is the story I want to hear.”

Mairi scowled. “Nothing happened. Don’t be ridiculous. And it’s Mairi. Just Mairi.”

“Exactly. Do not be ridiculous,” said Yvette, clapping her hands together. “A man like Lord Vice would hardly bother with a seamstress. Now go. Mairi has a large pile of torn hems to mend. As for you two, you have more fabric samples to fetch.”

Ramsey stood, flicking at an imaginary speck of dirt on his immaculate brown trousers. “As you say, madam. My lady.”

The two men left the parlor arm in arm, and Mairi sighed in frustration. It wouldn’t be a normal day unless they had the title battle at least a dozen times. Ramsey had served the MacNair family for many years before the two of them fled to France, and he refused to break the habit. Olivier merely followed his lover’s lead. Damn them. Sometimes living with a couple who were so loyal to each other, who understood jokes and quirks and were madly in love, was a sweet and welcome thing. Sometimes it just hurt terribly.

“Mairi.”

She blinked and turned back to look at Yvette. The petite and voluptuous Frenchwoman smiled as she lounged on her favorite chaise surrounded by fabric swatches for the club, but her gaze was sharp and icy.

“Yes?”

“Is this man a problem? After giving you everything and asking so little in return, it would be impossible to bear if my plans failed because of you.”

“No!” Guilt lashed Mairi, even though Yvette’s words weren’t precisely true. “I promise, Worldly will open as scheduled. And be the best.”

She meant it, too. Reopening the club here in London was a small favor for the woman who had saved her and Ramsey’s lives. Fleeing their plights in Scotland—her hideous fiancé and Ramsey’s vindictive ex-lover—had been difficult enough. But during the storm-tossed voyage in an ancient and not particularly seaworthy vessel, Ramsey had become unwell. By the time they reached Calais he was desperately ill, and another passenger who offered to help had instead stolen the satchel containing most of their money. Yvette had been visiting a friend and found Mairi trying to half-walk, half-drag Ramsey to a physician. Not only had she paid for Ramsey’s medicine, she’d provided food and lodging for the night. In the morning, she’d offered employment for Mairi as a seamstress and Ramsey as a footman if they accompanied her back to Paris. They’d accepted without second thought.

Life hadn’t always been easy at Worldly. Yvette had very high standards; the hours were long and the work often backbreaking. But there was no alternative. Especially when the horrifying news arrived that, rather than admitting the scandalous truth—that their wayward daughter had run away—her endlessly rigid and stonehearted parents had instead proclaimed her dead.

“Good,” said Yvette. “What are your plans for this evening? Some ball?”