Vixen in Velvet by Loretta Chase

and cried, “Brava! Bravissima!”
    The pause allowed for more play between the clown and ringmaster, but Miss Noirot turned away from the clown’s antics—and caught Lisburne staring at her.
    For a moment she stared back. Then she laughed, a full-throated, easy laugh.
    And his breath caught.
    The sound. The way she looked at this moment, eyes sparkling, countenance aglow.
    “How right you were,” she said. “Much more fun than dismal verse. How clever she is! Can you imagine the hours she’s spent to learn that art? How old do you think she was when she first began? Was she bred to it, the way actors often are—and dressmakers, too, for that matter.”
    The eagerness in her voice. She was so young, so vibrantly alive.
    “I reckon, even if they’re bred to it, they fall on their heads a number of times before they get the hang of it,” he said. “But they must start young, when they’re less breakable.”
    “Not like dressmaking,” she said. “Sooner or later would-be equestrians have to get on the horse. But we mayn’t cut a piece of silk until we’ve been sewing seams for an eternity and made a thousand handkerchiefs and aprons. What a pleasure it is to see a woman who’s mastered such an art! The equestrians are mostly men, aren’t they?”
    “That does account in part for Miss Woolford’s popularity.”
    “But she’s very good—or does my total ignorance of horsemanship show?”
    “She’s immensely talented,” he said. “A ballerina equestrienne.”
    “This is wonderful,” she said. “My sisters are always telling me I need to get away from the shop, but Sunday comes round only once a week, and then I like to spend time with my niece, or outdoors, preferably both. Sometimes we go to the theater, but this is entirely different. It smells different, certainly.”
    “That would be the horses,” he said.
    “Beautiful creatures,” she said.
    He caught the note of wistfulness. He considered it, along with her reactions to Miss Woolford, and filed it away for future reference.
    The second part of the equestrian performance began then, and she turned back to the stage.
    He looked that way, too, outwardly composed, inwardly unsettled. She’d changed before his eyes from a sophisticated Parisian to an excited girl, and for a moment she’d seemed so vulnerable that he felt . . . what? Ashamed? But of what? He was a man. She was a woman. They were attracted to each other and they played a game, a very old game. Yet along with the thrill of the chase he felt a twinge of something like heartache.
    And why should he not? Hadn’t he endured an hour of death and dying in rhyme? And was he not obliged to go back to it?
    I t seemed to Leonie a very short time before she and Lord Lisburne were in a hackney again, traveling along Westminster Bridge Street, back to the “obsequies,” as he had put it a moment ago.
    He’d been true to his word.
    But then, she’d felt certain he would be, else she wouldn’t have come with him.
    Yes, she’d been aware of his watching her during the performance when he thought she wasn’t paying attention to him. As though one could sit beside the man and not be aware of him, even if a host of heavenly angels floated down to the stage or a herd of elephants burst into the arena. And when she’d turned and caught him at it, he’d looked so like a boy caught in mischief—a boy she wanted to know—that her logic faltered for a moment, and something inside her gave way.
    But only for a moment.
    Now he was the charming man of the world again, and she was Leonie Noirot, logical and businesslike and able to put two and two together.
    “You don’t care for his poetry, yet you came back with Lord Swanton to London for the release of his book,” she said. “That’s prodigious loyalty.”
    He laughed. “A man ought to stick by his friend in hours of trial.”
    “To protect him from excited young women?”
    “That wasn’t the original plan, no. We’d prepared for a