Page 18 of The Secret of Flirting
“How interesting that you should mention cosmetics,” he said, “when I would imagine a princess of your standing is forbidden to wear them. But Mademoiselle Servais wore them all the time. She was an opera singer.”
Would she correct him? He watched her expression, but she gave nothing away.
Instead, she broke into a smile. “An opera singer? How droll! Comic or dramatic opera?”
“That is hardly relevant.”
She made a face. “No, I suppose not. But it is no wonder you are confused. An opera singer wears wigs and face paint and patches. How could you even tell what she looked like?”
He tried another untruth. “I saw her without all of that.”
Only the sudden sharpening of her smile betrayed her reaction. “Did you?”
“Yes. Though even if I hadn’t, I never forget a face, cosmetic changes or no. And I noticed Mademoiselle Servais’s prominent chin in particular. The real princess has a very small chin, nothing like the opera singer’s.”
She laughed. “Thatis the source of your evidence? Mychin? You do realize, sir, that no woman wishes to have, as you call it, ‘a prominent chin.’ So of course I asked the artist to reshape my chin for the painting. Even a princess wants to appear beautiful in her portraits.”
“You know damned well that you’re beautiful, prominent chin and all,” he snapped. “You’re certainly more beautiful than Princess Aurore.”
“I’m not sure how that’s possible, given that Iamthe princess.” Her eyes shone merrily in the lamps of the garden. “But I shall take the compliment regardless.”
God, she was as sly as a courtesan, and twice as tempting. “If you didn’t, I’d be shocked, since you didn’t seem to mind such compliments when I paid them before.” He tried to provoke her with another lie, crowding her in and lowering his voice to a murmur. “You didn’t mindanythingwe did before.”
She blinked.Thathad shaken her. “Oh? Are you saying that this Mademoiselle Servais was your... paramour?”
“Can you claim otherwise?”
As if she knew what he was about, she met his gaze coolly. “Of course not. I am not she. What do I care if you have ten paramours?”
He considered his choices. He could give up the fight for now, and see what he could find out. Which might be difficult, given that even the very respectable Beaumonde was obviously part of the plot.
Or he could act to throw her off her game entirely. Because if he kissed her, the actress wouldn’t dare call out for help from the guests—she wouldn’t risk his voicing his suspicions before an audience. But she might lose her temper and give him what for. She hadn’t liked him, after all.
Of course, if shewerethe princess, kissing her could ruin him. But she wasn’t—he’d never been so sure of anything in his life. Andnotexposing her subterfuge could ruin him, too, if it came out later. He’d look the fool for not seeing through her disguise. His enemies would make mincemeat of his political aspirations.
He glanced around. The garden was empty, everyone having drifted inside. And nothing else had provoked her into making a mistake. Unfortunately, until he could get her to admit her masquerade, he couldn’t get her to tell him why there’d been a need for it.
“Now, sir,” she began, “if you are quite done, I should like to return to—”
“Not yet,” he said firmly. Once she rejoined her companions, he wouldn’t have another chance at unraveling this deception. At least not tonight.
He snagged her about the waist, taking her by surprise, and pulled her into a nearby gazebo obviously kept dark for a reason. Then he murmured, “We should take up where we left off in Dieppe.”
“I told you, I’m not from—”
He kissed her, covering her mouth with his in a most insolent manner and praying she wasnotthe princess. Though even if she was, she would probably try to extricate herself from the situation diplomatically, without insulting the man who could make her a queen.
She froze, then jerked back to glare at him. “What are you about, sir?”
He stared her down. “You know what I’m about. Reminding you of what we once meant to each other.”
Her eyes glittered at him, and he held his breath,surethat she was about to call him a liar and tell him that Monique Servais would never have let him touch one hair on her head.
Instead, she smoothed her features into coyness. “We can hardly have meantanythingto each other since we haven’t met until tonight.” She lifted a hand to cup his jaw, the impudent caress shocking him into rigidity—in more places than one. “Though I don’t see why we can’t mean something to each other now. I’m happy to pretend to be this Mademoiselle Servais for you in private... if you will champion me as queen of Belgium in the end.”
“Are you actually attempting toseduceme, Monique?” he said, unable to mask his incredulity.
“Why not, if you pine for Monique so much that you would look for her in every stranger’s face?”
