Vexing The Viscount Read Online Free PDF Page B

her décolletage at the opera in a daring froth of Parisian lace. It was unthinkable that a courtesan would do less.
    And yet Isabella’s advice echoed in her head. What ever happened this night, she would have to wash her own face in the morning. Even courtesans should be allowed modesty when they wished it. Perhaps she could be a courtesan on holiday, not seeking a patron, and therefore not displaying her wares quite so boldly.
    Daisy skittered back over to the dressing table and selected a filmy red fichu to tuck around her neck and into the deep-cut bodice. Her rouged nipples still showed darkly through the delicate fabric, but the slight additional covering gave her a mea sure of relief.
    She caught Nanette scowling at her in the mirror. “You wish to say something?”
    “Only that mam’selle has ruined the line of the gown,” the lady’s maid said with an injured sniff.
    “Perhaps,” Daisy allowed. “But now the line of my conscience remains untroubled. Blanche La Tour is not trying to entice a new patron this evening. This is daring enough.”
    Uncle Gabriel always said she could have had a career on the stage, if only the theater weren’t so tawdry an undertaking. She would look upon this evening as if it were a play, Daisy decided. The Venetian shoes lifted her to a new height. The gown was more daring than plain Daisy Drake would ever think of donning. She would speak nothing but French for the rest of the night. Her accent was excellent, and the nasal quality of that tongue should effectively disguise her voice, even if she met someone she knew.
    No one would penetrate this disguise.
    Daisy slipped into the role of Mademoiselle Blanche LaTour, bird of paradise, albeit with a few of her finer feathers discreetly tucked. With a lace-gloved hand on the brass railing, she descended slowly to join Lord Wexford’s party, already in progress.
    Lucian accepted the flute of champagne from Lord Wexford’s butler and surveyed the long ballroom. He rarely attended such events. Since the family fortunes were so depleted, Lucian didn’t have the resources to be fashionable. Cultivating the image of a misanthropic rake was more palatable than letting the threadbare truth be known.
    The only enticement that drew him out this time was Lady Wexford’s suggestion in her invitation that he might find an investor for his newest enterprise this evening. He was surprised she’d heard of it so quickly. The gossip mill in London was obviously as ruthlessly efficient as ever. No doubt the news of his excavation and his hopes had been trumpeted and tittered at all over town.
    At least Lady Wexford hadn’t laughed at him as the Society of Antiquaries had.
    “Bunch of gossipy old hens,” he grumbled to no one in particular, and turned back to gaze over the assembly.
    The theme of the masquerade seemed to be a bacchanal. Several guests sported Roman togas. One randy old fellow had bared his sunken chest, donned furred leggings and was cavorting about the dance floor. Already seriously in his cups, he chased the female dancers and interrupted the stately lines of the gavotte, proclaiming himself Pan incarnate. Finally, one of Lord Wexford’s servants in the guise of a praetorian guardsman firmly escorted him of the floor.
    Lord and Lady Wexford looked cool and classical in their flowing white robes and gold leaf laurels. Though the lady was reputed to be her husband’s senior by some fifteen years, she still turned heads as they glided from one group to the next, greeting their guests.
    Given the lateness of his invitation, Lucian decided his hostess couldn’t quibble about the fact that his costume consisted solely of a silk mask and a decidedly old-fashioned frock coat and knee breeches, all in black. The original buttons on the ensemble had been ornately worked silver, but he’d been forced to sell them to fund his work. Now somber pewter was his only decoration. If anyone asked, he supposed he could claim he’d come