Page 107 of To Catch A Rogue
"I did offer," Lark pointed out.
"You speak Russian. I don't."
"Besides," she mused, "you're prettier than I am."
Charlie shot her a mutinous glare. "You're enjoying this."
"Relax, Charlie. You're masculinity's intact." She glanced down suggestively. "In fact, I think you're going to put all the gentlemen in there to shame."
"I hate you."
Lark burst into laughter.
"Revenge," he promised, "is going to be very sweet. I think I'll insist upon reversing our circumstances the second we get a chance. I want you wearing exactly what Gemma's wearing."
He looked pointedly at the long black coat Lark was buttoned into, and her leather boots and leggings. She looked every inch the Russian aristocrat tonight, complete with gold braid dripping off her shoulder and her buttons gleaming in the lantern light that hung from the carriage. She even had a sword sheathed at her hip, though she barely knew how to use it. No, it was the knives within her coat that were her real claws.
Lark's cheeks heated. "I'd hate to disappoint you. I'd look nothing like Gemma."
"Trust me." He leaned close enough to scent the dab of cologne she wore at her throat. "It wouldn't be a disappointment."
"Concentrate," Obsidian warned.
"Why the hell am I always the bait?" he asked Gemma as Obsidian helped her down from the carriage.
"As Lark says, you're too pretty for your own good. You practically reek of innocence and good intentions. It's like offering a—"
"Don't say it," he warned.
"—sugarplum to a child. Irresistible to a certain type of predator."
"You don't look innocent at all," he told her.
Gemma resettled the collar around her throat. "No, but I have these." She gestured at her very visible décolletage. White silk draped her figure and left most of her back bare. Without her corset, the dress was utterly indecent, and he very determinedly did not look where she pointed. "Trust me. Most of the men in there aren't even going to remember my face."
"Or yours." Obsidian's face resembled a sphinx.
The same kohl that darkened Gemma's lashes was traced around Charlie's eyes, and Gemma had dabbed some sort of beeswax on his mouth to make it glisten. There was fucking rouge on his cheeks.
"Don't say another word," he told Lark, who was biting her lip as if to restrain herself.
"Absolutely not." Her eyes sparkled. "But I assure you I am never, ever going to forget this night."
"Time to enter the seventh circle of hell," Obsidian muttered. "Try and stay together. We'll maintain a spot out of the way and wait for the auctions to begin. Hopefully we've got enough money. If we don't, we'll have to cut our way out."
Lark's smile vanished.
A footman wearing a black mask and white wig awaited them at the door. He held out his hand, and Obsidian handed him the pair of gilded invitations they'd stolen from a pair of Blood aristocrats three streets over.
Lark and Obsidian accepted masks at the front door, though neither Gemma nor Charlie were offered that luxury.
And then they were through the dark foyer, the lush velvet curtains at the end of the hallway drawing apart as they approached. Light spilled from the parlor beyond, along with the sounds of raucous laughter.
"Welcome to House of Swans," said one of the footmen in Russian as he held the curtain back.
* * *
Gilt drippedfrom every surface and chandeliers glittered like diamonds.
