“We’ll dampen your petticoats,” Roslyn said. “You do have rather fine limbs, and you’ll want to display them.”
“My mother would never allow such a—”
“Your mother isn’t here, is she?” Roslyn asked.
They didn’t understand. Even if her mother wasn’t here, her rules and fears constantly echoed in Sandrine’s mind.
“A single pearl pendant around her throat to draw his gaze!” Francesca fastened a necklace around Sandrine’s throat.
“French scent.” Marta dabbed liquid from a cut-glass bottle behind Sandrine’s ears until she coughed from the overpowering floral smell.
Francesca swept her hand toward the looking glass. “Well?”
The gown hugged her curves in an entirely indecent manner and her breasts were on display, but her hair did look nice piled up high like that. “I can hear my mother gasping in horror.”
“You look a perfect dream. Won’t Lord Dane be sorry!” Francesca crowed.
“Pretend I’m Lord Dane,” said Marta. “And you’re meeting with me to make your request.” She widened her stance, crossed her arms over her chest, and dropped her voice to a low growl. “Good day, Miss Oliver.”
“G-good day, Lord Dane. I hope you’re having a pleasant morning?”
“No trembling, no stammering. Remember, you’re an honorary Pink Lady. We don’t allow any man to intimidate us,” said Roslyn. “Try it again.”
“Good day, Lord Dane,” she said firmly, holding her head erect and meeting Marta’s gaze.
“You’re looking well, Miss Oliver, I must say. Is that a new style of gown you’re wearing? There seems to be more of you on display than when last we met.”
Sandrine giggled nervously. “He wouldn’t say something like that, would he?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Francesca. “I once had an inebriated earl compare my hair to a pineapple, my lips to cherries, and my bosom to ripe melons. Then he said he wanted to feast upon my fruit and lunged at me.”
“What did you do?”
“Plucked a pin from my pineapple and poked him with it.”
“Ahem, Miss Oliver,” said Marta in her deep Lord Dane voice. “I’m a very busy man. What is it you want from me, Miss Oliver?”
Sandrine squared her shoulders, channeling the anger she still felt simmering inside her. “I want you to fall upon your knees and apologize for your abominable behavior, and then I want you to sign over the leasehold for Squalton Manor to my historical society.”
“Too direct,” Marta said, returning to her normalvoice. “Remember, you’re meant to play his wicked game. First you disarm him with a little bit of this,” she said and cocked her hip seductively, “and this.” She wiggled her chest. “Then, you compliment his... desk.”
“His desk? I’m not following.”
“Every gentleman has a very large desk in their study where important financial matters are decided. And every gentleman is always fantasizing about draping young ladies over their desk and having their wicked way with them. You want his attraction to you to be tied up with his desk and therefore with helping your financial interests. Or you could literally allow him to tie you up on the desk?”
“Marta! She’s an innocent.” Roslyn rolled her eyes.
“I’m afraid I’m lost,” Sandrine said.
“Never mind the tying-up. Keep it simple. Go to his desk, compliment it, make sure he’s staring at your bosom or your lips, and then, when he’s good and distracted, you slip your petition onto his desk. Then you sit next to it, and when he leans over to try to kiss you, you slide away swiftly, leaving him staring at the petition instead.”
“All right. Desk. Bosom. Make him think I want him to kiss me, and then substitute the petition for the kiss.”
“Very good, Sandrine. That’s it exactly. You’re a natural.”
“I doubt that. You make it sound very simple. Honestly, I don’t know why I must go through these maneuvers. He should want to help thepeople of Squalton from the goodness of his heart.”
“A rake has no goodness in his heart,” Roslyn said sternly. “You’ll need to remember that at all times if this is to work. You must try to think like a rake.”