Marissa Day Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Teaser chapter

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2011 by Sarah Zettel. Excerpt from The Surrender of Lady Jane by Marissa Day copyright © by Sarah Zettel.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  HEAT and the HEAT design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Heat trade paperback edition / January 2011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Day, Marissa.

  The seduction of Miranda Prosper / Marissa Day.—Heat trade pbk. ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47846-2

  1. Magicians—Fiction. 2. London (England)—18th century—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3576.E77S43 2011

  813’.6—dc22

  2010023004

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This book is dedicated to

  my loving husband and happily ever after,

  Timothy B. Smith

  Acknowledgments

  The author would very much like to thank the authors of the Untitled Writers Group, the Excelsior critique group and the SF-FFWs newslist who actively supported the writing of this book. She’d also like to thank her agent, Shawna, for all her continuing hard work, and her editor, Wendy, who made this a better book.

  One

  Corwin Rathe knew he was in the presence of a Catalyst as soon as he entered the house, or rather his cock did.

  Corwin paused in the threshold to admire the glittering private ballroom. As he inhaled the richly mingled scents of perfume and humanity, his cock began to swell, hot and eager. There was most certainly a Catalyst amid the sparkling throng. It was summer, and most of London society was making ready to retire to the country to escape the heat and stink of town. For Lady Viola Thayer, this was the perfect excuse for a party. She had thrown open the doors of her Mayfair home for approximately two hundred of society’s finest. They moved about the room, dancing, chattering and, no doubt, intriguing. Despite the seriousness of his errand, and despite the fact that he suddenly had to resist the strong urge to stroke himself, Corwin grinned. With any luck the evening would prove productive, and very pleasant.

  A liveried servant hastened toward Corwin, ready to eject him as an interloper. Corwin met the man’s gaze directly.

  “I have an invitation,” he said in a tone that was firm yet conversational. “You will announce Mr. Corwin Rathe.”

  The footman’s eyes unfocused briefly under the force of Corwin’s bespelling gaze. “Yes, sir.” He bowed, turned and did precisely as he was instructed.

  “Mr. Corwin Rathe!”

  Curious heads turned. Curious eyes narrowed. Corwin stood in place, giving the assembly sufficient time to look him over. He was a tall man with a form that was the result of an active and dangerous life: broad in the shoulder and narrow in the hip, with strong legs. His hair was midnight black, and his eyes nearly as dark. Tonight, he dressed in a burgundy coat cut away to show his patterned waistcoat, a spotless linen shirt and tight fawn breeches—a choice he was beginning to regret, due to the fullness of his erection.

  As the company took his measure, Corwin returned the favor. He surveyed the ballroom, his gaze lingering on the delightful variety of women present (although any number of the men looked as if they also would be intriguing company, were they so inclined). It would surely take a while to select the Catalyst from so many fine flowers, but he was quite prepared ...

  Then he saw her.

  Her hair was as black has his own, piled high on top of her head and crowned in the style a la minute with glittering gems and a trio of pale ostrich feathers. Her skin was tawny rather than pale cream. It went well with her black hair and her rich brown eyes. Her high-waisted gown was a bold, emerald green silk trimmed with pure white lace. It had been cut low, allowing him the delectable sight of her ample breasts. More feathers decorated the fan held to her gloved wrist by a slender chain. Her skirts were somewhat fuller than those of most of the other ladies in the room, done in an utterly mistaken—and futile—attempt to disguise the luscious curves of her hips and thighs.

  But despite all these enticing attributes, she sat alone on a little gilt chair at the edge of the room.

  As Corwin gazed at her, a quick pulse of blood to his cock told him she was indeed the Catalyst. He breathed a silent prayer of thanks to all the gods and goddesses. Not only was he in time; she was surely one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

  Corwin’s cock pulsed again, its urgency bordering on pain, but that only made him grin harder.

  Soon, he told his eager member. Very soon.

  Like everyone else in Lady Thayer’s ballroom, Miranda Prosper turned to look at the stranger. Despite rumors of an indiscreet past, Lady Thayer now gave the most exclusive, elaborate and dullest parties on record. To Miranda’s way of thinking, that was a very long record indeed. For her end-of-season party, Lady Viola Thayer had spared no expense. Each of the three chandeliers was fully lit, flooding the room with rich, warm light. Draperies of gold and ivory silk glimmered on the walls and festooned the high-arched windows. The parquet floor had been polished mirror bright. As for the guests, they were all the cream of London society, arrayed in their summer finery; a human garden of silks, la
ces and jewels.

  But Miranda had been staring at them all for several hours now and was bored to tears by their glamour. A stranger might provide something new to speculate about, if only for a few minutes.

  She was, however, utterly unprepared for what she saw, or for what that sight did to her.

  Mr. Corwin Rathe was tall and broad. His supple fawn breeches showed off magnificently muscled legs. His face was chiseled, with high cheekbones, a long, straight nose, a strong jaw, and eyes like midnight.

  It was those eyes that did Miranda in. Although Mr. Rathe bowed to the whole of the company, it seemed as if those deep, black eyes gazed only at her. She felt hot. She felt cold. No, she wasn’t cold; she was fevered. That was the only explanation for the tremors running down her spine, and the flush rising to her cheeks. But there was no explanation at all for the sudden yearning that rose up from deep within her at the sight of the stranger. It was as if she had been starving for years, but had discovered the fact only at this moment.

  No. Please, don’t. Please stop, she begged her traitorous body. It’s pointless. Miranda closed her eyes, and willed the sensation to go away.

  At twenty-five years of age, Miranda knew with remorseless certainty that she was not the sort who attracted men. She was too short, too plump, her hair too coarse and dark, her eyes too bold, her nature too ... discontent. She could not master the arts of flirtation and general coquetry that would snare her a husband and get her out of her mother’s house. This, she knew, was very much due to the fact that she could not convince herself marriage would do anything but move her from one kind of cage into another.

  So, she had become an “aging spinster,” and as her mother was not quite prepared to let her sit home with a book, Miranda instead sat alone on the little gilt chair at the edge of the ballroom making polite conversation with the maiden aunts, or—more often—saying nothing at all, because sometimes it was all she could do not to scream.

  Mother, of course, was not with her. Having despaired of anyone ever making an advance, proper or improper, to Miranda, Mother was on the other side of the ballroom. Every now and then the sound of her perfectly calculated laugh would rise above the music and more sedate conversation from where she made the glowing center for a gathering of wealthy widowers and titled married men. Miranda’s mouth quirked itself up tightly and she wondered which of those wealthy, fascinated men was being selected as Mrs. Rowe-Prosper-Lester-Quicke’s next husband.

  Miranda looked away, not even bothering to hide her “so unattractive” frown. That proved to be a mistake, however, because now she could see Corwin Rathe making his way through the ballroom. He moved like a slash of night through the bright rainbow around him; smiling, bowing and being introduced. The more Miranda looked at him, the more intensely the heat flared inside her. Something else began as well, some loosening at her very center, and a tingling that reached up to her lips and down to the ends of her fingers. Unaccountably, an image flashed in Miranda’s mind, of a man and woman in the darkness, naked bodies pressed tight together while their mouths fastened against each other in deep, passionate kisses.

  Don’t let this be love, she prayed, looking down at her hands clenched around her fan. Don’t do this to me.

  When Miranda at last looked up again, she saw Mr. Corwin Rathe standing not three feet from her. This time there was no mistaking the fact that his burning, black gaze focused on her entirely. The sight of him this close was so stunning and unaccountable that Miranda at first didn’t notice that her mother stood with him, her hand resting lightly on his sleeve.

  “Miranda, dear, this is Mr. Corwin Rathe,” said Mother, smiling brilliantly. She wore her gold dress and light widow’s cap the way a queen would wear her regalia and carried herself with an ease Miranda had never come close to matching. “Mr. Rathe, permit me to introduce my daughter, Miranda Prosper.”

  Mr. Rathe took Miranda’s hand. The moment his fingers clasped hers, another picture flashed through Miranda’s mind, clearer and more intense than the first. She was naked in the darkness, and so was he. His arms wrapped tight around her as he kissed her. His hands splayed across the curve of her buttocks, pulling her close as he bent to kiss her throat, her breasts.

  Miranda’s nipples tightened under her chemise, and she realized she hadn’t answered him at all.

  “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Rathe,” she managed to croak.

  “Charmed, Miss Prosper.” His voice was soft, like velvet. It seemed to stroke her skin, and Miranda could not stop herself from shivering.

  Mother raised her brows. “Mr. Rathe was asking if I knew you to be engaged for the waltz. I don’t believe that’s so?” More than a hint of impatience colored Mother’s voice.

  How is it we are even having this conversation? This stunning man was of mature years, Miranda could now see. Why aren’t you taking him for yourself? It would not, after all, be the first time.

  “No, I am not engaged at present,” Miranda managed to reply, more clearly this time.

  “Then, Miss Prosper”—Mr. Rathe extended his arm—“will you do me the very great honor of claiming you as mine?”

  He meant for the dance, of course. But it didn’t sound that way. It sounded like so much more. Miranda felt the flush creep down from her face to her breasts.

  No! Don’t! part of her screamed. There was danger here, as great as it was inexplicable. Where her certainty came from was yet another unknown, but it was real and she did not doubt it for an instant. Just as she did not doubt that this man was the cause of the fire that burned within her. If he left, that fire would die, possibly for all time.

  Miranda found she did not want the fire to go out.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rathe. I would be delighted.” Miranda laid her hand on his silk-clad arm, and permitted him to lead her to the center of the dance floor. She was proud of how well she walked, holding herself calm and steady, keeping her shawl neatly looped across her arms, and her fan tidily folded in her free hand, even though the whole room was openly staring at the inconceivable sight of Daphne Quicke’s unmarriageable daughter on the arm of this oh-so-intriguing stranger.

  It’s a mercy dance, thought Miranda. Mother has persuaded him to this, and he has agreed in order to gain her favor.

  This thought thoroughly doused Miranda’s spirits, and the mysterious fires inside her guttered hard. She stood passively while Mr. Rathe took her right hand to extend their arms and placed his left hand on her back. Even through the layers of their gloves, she could feel the warmth where he touched her, and another shiver that had nothing to do with cold crept across her skin.

  “Now, then, Miss Prosper, will you be kind enough to tell me what has turned you so suddenly sad?” Mr. Rathe asked softly.

  Miranda lifted her chin. “I thank you for the dance, sir,” she answered. “But you need not cater to my feelings. My mother cares not one whit for them.”

  “Ah. I believe I understand.” Behind them, the music lifted. A lovely Viennese creation wrapped the room in bright, rhythmic strains. Mr. Rathe began the steps at once. He was strong and graceful, leading Miranda into the turns without forcing her to follow. Each move was expert and fluid. Miranda found it unusually easy to fall into step with him. His well-formed arm beneath her gloved hand was a comfort, but his hand on her back ... She felt the unnamed heat rising at her center again.

  Mr. Rathe dipped his head close to whisper in her ear. “What would you say, Miss Prosper, if I told you it was for your sake alone I asked you to dance?”

  Miranda parted her lips in reply, but no words came. In that instant, another vision washed over her. She was naked again and Corwin Rathe knelt before her. His broad, brown hands gripped her thighs, and his mouth pressed against her pussy. She felt his hot tongue lapping between her folds and his eager mouth sucking the soft flesh there. Pleasure flared up Miranda’s spine, too strong to resist, and she gripped his arms, lost to desire.

  In the vision she knotted her fingers in his thick hair an
d pressed him closer.

  “For your sake alone.” She heard his voice in her ear, cutting through the lustful dream. But even as he spoke to her in the ballroom, there in that other world she watched and felt his tongue thrust deep into her slit. “For the sake of your beauty and the satisfaction of your desire.”

  He licked strongly; one stroke, two.

  “What are you doing to me?” She didn’t know where she was, or what was happening. There was only this indescribable dream. In it, he was again standing, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as he had thrust it into her slit. She opened to that kiss, willingly, eagerly. Corwin pulled her close to rub her wet and swollen pussy against his gorgeously erect cock while with his right hand he firmly massaged her taut breast. Pleasure and need made her moan.

  Then she saw they were not alone.

  Another man walked from the shadows, watching them. He stepped up behind Miranda and put his hands on her waist, holding her firmly in place to receive Corwin’s delightful attentions.

  The fire that blazed through her at the touch of that second phantom man must kill her. She must die from this searing madness.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Corwin murmured. “I have you safe. You see it, don’t you? You feel it.”

  “Yes,” she gasped. In the vision Corwin smiled at her and stroked her face. The second man was as tall as Corwin, but whereas Corwin was dark as midnight, this other man was all red-gold like the dawn. That golden man slid his hands up her curving sides to cup her breasts. He pulled her back against him to press his rigid cock into the split between her buttocks.

  “I feel it too, Miranda.” Corwin’s hands slid down, stroking her thighs. In the dream or in reality? She couldn’t tell anymore. “The need, the desire. It’s real for me as well.”