Rules of Passion (18 page)

“You are surprised,” the courtesan said gently. “But it is so. It happens all the time, Marietta. If you do decide to become a courtesan, then it is something you should know about. It is not such a terrible thing as you might think. Some girls lose their virginity to a stranger in a hayfield, or a boy they ad
mire at a local fair. It is easily lost, more easily than you imagine. Why not make something worthwhile from the transaction?”

“I just…I always thought it was a gift, Madame.”

“Ah, and I have made it sound like a bunch of turnips on market day? It is a gift, but even gifts can be bought and sold.”

Marietta knew she would have to consider what Aphrodite had said, but the concept disturbed her. She had not been brought up to think in such a way—she supposed she had been privileged, far more privileged than the girls here at Aphrodite’s Club, and far more privileged than Aphrodite herself.

“Do you still wish to go ahead with the assignation?”

Startled, Marietta met her mother’s questioning dark eyes, and then smiled. “Of course. I am looking forward to it!”

“Then we need a time and date. We will say eight in the evening, in four days. I will expect you much earlier, however, so that we can prepare.”

“Of course. I’ll let Max know.”

“No, I will send him the invitation. You are strangers, remember. Do you think he will refuse?”

“He can hardly refuse me, not after he promised to help. And by then he should be well enough to travel the short distance to the club. Especially,” Marietta’s mouth turned down, “as it doesn’t look as if he’ll be exerting himself much when he gets here.” It would be Marietta who would be doing all the work.

“That is settled then,” Aphrodite said, ignoring her daughter’s expression, and rising to her feet with a rustle of silk and lace.

It was a dismissal, and obediently Marietta stood up, too. “Thank you, Aphrodite. I will try to…that is, I will do as you say.”

“Of course you will,” Aphrodite agreed. Then she hesitated.

Marietta looked at her expectantly.

“My child, I do not know how to say this…You have never asked me about your father, who he is, where he is? Vivianna was eager for such information, but you…you do not seem to want to know.”

Marietta felt a little chill inside her and knew it for what it was—fear. “I do not need to meet him, Madame,” she said quietly. “I am content with you and my sisters. I am sure I would be a disappointment to him.”

Aphrodite gave a fierce frown. “That is nonsense! A disappointment,
psht
! You are a daughter to be proud of, and so he will be. I will not have such talk, do you hear me?”

Marietta had never seen her mother so angry. “I did not mean—”

“He is in town.”

She stopped, confused. “You mean my father is here, in London?”

Aphrodite nodded. “I have seen him. I can call upon him, if you wish, and ask if he will see you. Of course, it is entirely up to you.” She shrugged huffily, and Marietta bit her lip on a smile, but her humor was brief.

Her father. Now a desperate sense of longing had joined the fear. The need to see this man, to look into his eyes and see herself there. It was true she had never asked about him, and she could not say that she had craved this moment, but now that the offer
had been made…Marietta knew she would not be able to just walk away and forget it.

“Marietta?”

She looked up at her mother, and there was something in the courtesan’s gaze, an uncertainty that Marietta had never seen there before. As if she thought Marietta would refuse and throw the offer back in her face. Impulsively, Marietta reached out and hugged her. “Thank you! I would love to meet my father.”

And Aphrodite’s eyes shone with tears for the second time, as she held her daughter in her arms.

Dobson’s big blunt fingers were gently rubbing the muscles in Aphrodite’s shoulders, loosening the tension and with it any aches and pains from the long night of making herself agreeable to her guests. It was a talent, to keep smiling even when her body was crying out for rest. Now she closed her eyes and groaned her appreciation. “You have the best of hands, Jemmy. Did I ever tell you so?”

“Frequently, my love, but you can never say it too often.”

Aphrodite smiled and bowed her head to give him access to her neck. She thought about her meeting with Marietta earlier, and her smile broadened. The girl had been pleased enough with the new task Aphrodite had set her, but she had been dismayed by the rules. They went so very much against the grain of her character. Aphrodite had almost laughed out loud at the expression on her face. Still, there was no doubt that she would try to accomplish this task, just as she had the previous one. And she would probably manage to do it, too.

Marietta may well be destined to become a courtesan, but Aphrodite doubted it. Her daughters were strong-willed women, yes, who sought to take their own paths through life, but they were also romantics, and romantics followed their own hearts. A courtesan could not afford to be a romantic, to fall in love—as Aphrodite knew to her cost.

Surely it was better Marietta learned her mistake now than suffer heartbreak later on, when she might be trapped into a situation where it was impossible—indeed, dangerous—to follow her heart. Aphrodite had only ever wanted her daughters to be happy, and that had not changed.

Some people, she knew, might consider her advice to Marietta to be morally questionable, but Aphrodite had no time for the borders and boundaries drawn up by a respectable society to which she had never belonged. It was Marietta who mattered to her—her security and her well-being. The fact that she had already been damaged socially made it easier for her to have an affair, to learn beneath the safety of Aphrodite’s wing the pitfalls of living life among the
demi monde
. In her opinion the girl should be allowed to enjoy herself with Max Valland, however briefly, if in the process it helped her understand that being a courtesan was not for her. Sharing herself with many men, keeping her heart removed and cold, no, no! The more Aphrodite understood her daughter the more set against the courtesan idea she became, but of course she would not tell Marietta that. She must not risk losing her daughter’s confidences.

“You are far away,” Jemmy murmured.

“I was thinking of Marietta and Max. Marietta
says that Max has had many accidents, more than is usual for the son of a duke.”

But Jemmy was ahead of her. “I thought there was something odd about the way Lord Roseby was knocked down. I’ve been asking around and there’re whispers it was no botched robbery. Someone was paid to do the job on him, and paid well.”

“I don’t understand. How could Max being dead matter when he is already disinherited?”

Jemmy smiled. “Just because a father is hurt and angry with his son now don’t mean he’ll stay angry.”

“So…he might well reverse his decision and restore Max to his position as heir.”

“I’d say that’s what someone believes.”

“And if Max is dead…”

“Someone is safe.”

“Have you any idea who that someone is?”

“Word is it’s probably the cousin, Harold, but no one knows for sure. I’ll keep my ears open, if you like.”

“Thank you, I would like.”

Jemmy’s warm lips brushed her nape.

Aphrodite felt herself tingle all over, and it was as if they had not been lovers for these many years. Her body recognized his, readied itself for his, she
was
his, and always had been. It was just that she had not realized it until it was too late. And that was why she would never allow Marietta to make the same mistake—to turn her back on love.

Jemmy kissed her again, and his hand slid inside her chemise, with its narrow band of lace, and cupped her breast. Aphrodite sighed with pleasure, and put aside her own concerns, as she turned into her lover’s welcoming arms.

That night in Berkley Square, Marietta found herself too restless to sleep. Her mind was on the assignation with Max, and although she had told Aphrodite she was not nervous, she was. Excited and nervous, all at the same time. Max would help to teach her to be the best courtesan in London, after her mother that is. One day
she
would wear the fine clothes and the jewelry, to show how many lovers she had had and how successful she had been.

She snuggled down under the covers, trying to imagine what Max would think of her if he were to meet her many years into the future. Would he boast that he was the one who taught her to kiss, or would he listen to Harold and cut her dead? But then again, she reminded herself, Max would be living in Cornwall—it was doubtful she would ever see him once he left London.

The thought unaccountably depressed her, but then she cheered herself up by remembering the assignation at Aphrodite’s. Being submissive to Max, serving Max his supper,
flirting
with Max and kissing him, if he’d let her. Never mind, she’d find a way to persuade him. There was a lot that Max could teach her, Marietta thought with a smile, but there was also an awful lot that she could teach him.

And then there was her father. She hardly dared to imagine what he would be like, and whether she would feel a closeness to him. She had spoken to Vivianna earlier tonight, and Vivianna told her about Fraser, and how she felt when she first met him, and how she grew to love him, before the end. Perhaps there was something about sharing the
same blood that formed a bond between two people, no matter how you tried to deny it.

Marietta turned over and her eye caught the sober gleam of a leather-bound book, sitting on her bedside table. Aphrodite’s diary. Vivianna had given it to her, telling her that Aphrodite had once presented it to her to read. “She has added to it over the years, but do not expect to find your father’s name in there,” she said. “I think it will help you to understand our mother a little better.”

Marietta wriggled up against the pillows, and drawing the candle closer, took the diary into her hands. The tooled leather felt luxurious, almost alive, against her fingers. She let the book fall open, and found herself about a third of the way through it. Aphrodite’s neat writing told her that she was living in Paris, on the Boulevard de la Madeleine…

Marietta set aside the diary, and there were tears on her face. Aphrodite had lost her Jemmy, lost her love. It did not sound as if the life of a courtesan was
quite what Marietta imagined. Despite all that she had, it had not been enough for Aphrodite—she had still wanted more. She wanted her lost love back again.

M
arietta handed the footman another parcel as she left the milliner’s shop in Regent Street. The new plate-glass windows gleamed with the spring sunlight and the reflections of fellow shoppers. She was admiring the tight fit of her new pale green muslin dress with the pink rosebud pattern, and its double skirt with two flounces. Under that skirt she was wearing a new pair of green slippers, tied about her ankles with ribbons. Her feet were aching from the lack of any support offered by the slippers, which were thin and without a heel, but they were very pretty. There was nothing quite like a new outfit to cheer one up, and she had been feeling a little dowdy—Yorkshire was all very nice but it wasn’t at the forefront of fashion. In London the styles seem to change every other day, and while Marietta did not consider herself so shallow that she must always have the latest style, she did like to be smart.

Just then a figure paused behind her. A broad chested man in a shabby brown coat and plaid trousers. His eyes, in his rugged pugilist’s face, met hers. Marietta was good with faces and she recognized him. It was the man she had seen in Bedford Square when she had visited Max there and stood at the window with Mrs. Pomeroy watching Harold and Susannah arrive. He had seemed as out of place there as he did here, and how odd that she should see him again!

He recognized her, too, she could tell. His mouth tightened and his eyes flared and then he quickly walked on, leaving her wondering whether she should be afraid.

“Miss Greentree!”

Startled, she glanced around expecting to see the same man. Instead there was a large lad in livery sitting upon a coach that looked familiar and gesturing to attract her attention. “Daniel?” she said, unaccountably relieved to see him. “What are you doing here?” Even as she walked towards him she saw that it was indeed Max’s coach.

“Master Max wants a word, Miss,” Daniel said, clearly proud of himself for tracking her down.

“Does he?” Marietta leaned against the door, and standing on tiptoes, peered inside. “Max? Are you well enough to be out? Your head is barely healed, and the doctor said your brain might swell.”

He was looking pale and elegant, and he raised his eyebrows at her comments. “Miss Greentree, perhaps you would be so kind as to allow me to drive you home? Interesting as my private business is to the rest of London, I don’t particularly want to discuss it in front of them.”

She felt the color in her cheeks. She was being more impulsive than usual, she supposed, but for a moment she had allowed her concern for Max to overcome her good sense and caution. She glanced around and, finding that Vivianna’s footman was waiting a little way behind her, she gestured for him to come and open the door and help her inside. “You can ride with Daniel,” she told him kindly. “If that is acceptable to his lordship, of course?”

Max ignored her sarcasm, assuring her that it was perfectly acceptable. “We will go by way of Regent’s Park,” he said for Daniel’s benefit, and then settled back in his corner and waited superciliously while Marietta fiddled and wriggled and finally made herself comfortable.

The truth was that her stays were too tight, but she wasn’t going to tell Max that. Marietta had never fully accepted her size and shape. The trouble was that her sisters were both tall, and Marietta was short, and although she might be a fashionable hourglass shape, she felt that she was just too curvaceous. With this in mind she had insisted her new dress be made a little smaller, so that to fit into it she must be very tightly laced. At least then, she told herself, she kept her lush curves in check. Sometimes she wondered if she was being a little too self-critical—it might actually be more important to breathe than to look slim—but the recent sight of Susannah Valland’s tall, willowy shape had heightened her dissatisfaction with her own.

“Is there a reason you are here, Max?”

“I was going to call upon you,” he said in his haughty voice, “but I was informed you were shopping in Regent Street. It was just a matter of elimina
tion as to which establishment you would be patronizing.”

“You mean you lurked outside until you saw me.”

“If you like, although it is not my habit to lurk anywhere.”

“All right, Max. Having found me, what is it you want?”

They bowled along by sunny Regent’s Park, with its green vistas and strolling visitors. Marietta peered from the coach window for a glimpse of the zoo and the famous botanic gardens. The sense of being out in the country, though deceptive, was refreshing after the bustle of the shops. Marietta could even bear her stays with fortitude, as she awaited Max’s reply.

“Pomeroy said he saw you and Harold conversing. He seemed to think you were upset, Marietta. I want to know what my cousin said.”

Marietta met his gaze—he looked ill at ease. For him to come looking for her, she thought, he must have a fairly good idea that whatever his cousin had said wasn’t polite. But she wasn’t going to be the one to tell him—if he wanted to know, he should ask Harold.

“I really don’t wish to discuss it,” she said quietly, and looked away. Behind her Max stirred restlessly.

“If you will not tell me what he said, then how can I apologize on his behalf?”

Marietta cast him a sideways glance. “There’s no need to apologize. I don’t care what Harold thinks or says. My dealings aren’t with Harold, they are with you. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

He shook his head.

Marietta sighed with relief. “Good.” She gave him
another look, and found herself remembering his kisses. That feeling had returned, the ache low in her belly, and since it only seemed to occur when she was around him, she considered asking him what it was.

“Max?”

He reached out and took her hand. He wasn’t wearing gloves, but she was, and for a moment he rubbed his thumb over her protected palm. Then, as if the thin barrier between them irritated him, he deftly unbuttoned the wrist of her glove and proceeded to tug it off by the fingers.

“Max,” she said, with a little giggle. “What are you doing?”

“You’re all covered up,” he said impatiently. “Look at you! Buttoned to the throat and the wrists, your skirts covering every inch of flesh, and beneath all that there are petticoats and stays and cotton and lace and God knows what. Even your hands, covered.”

“Not now, though.” He’d freed one of them, and suddenly, with a little frisson, she felt his skin against hers. His fingers were warm, intimate, and she let him entangle them with hers. Perhaps that was
why
women were always covered, she thought, because the touch of skin on skin was so disturbing. So erotic.

He was looking down at her hand, resting now in his, and then he bent his head and kissed her palm. His mouth was hot. She gasped at the sensation. He looked up at her, his dark eyes searching her face, but whatever he saw there gave him no reason to stop. Indeed, Marietta thought, it was more likely to be encouragement.

“I have been thinking about you kissing me,” she said, her voice oddly breathless, and not just from
the tightness of her stays. “I woke up dreaming of it and I felt…I don’t know,” she glanced at him, and found him watching her with flattering attention. “I felt odd.”

“You want us to stop?” he asked quietly.

“No, oh no, I don’t want that. I meant that I felt odd in a nice way, a way that made me think of sending you a note to ask you to come and kiss me at once.”

“You should have,” he said, but he was laughing at her.

“I mean it, Max. And now, with your mouth on my hand, I feel the same sensation. An ache. Almost a longing.”

He smiled. “Ah,” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘Ah’?” she replied irritably. “That isn’t an answer. If you know what is wrong with me then say so.”

His thumb rubbed back and forth over her palm, then brushed the sensitive skin on the underside of her wrist. He lifted her hand to his mouth again and made a bracelet of little teasing kisses, until she shivered.

“Do you feel it now?” he whispered. He moved in closer, his fingers brushing her cheek, her temple, then down to her lips. His thumb traced the shape of her mouth, and she closed her eyes. “And now?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “I…I don’t remember feeling this with…I…it’s as if I want more, Max. As if, nice though this is, I want something more.”

He sighed, and sat back, staring at her with dark eyes that were no longer haughty or smug. “It is a well-known fact, darling Marietta, that the more a woman is kissed and caressed, the more she will
want to be kissed and caressed. She begins to crave the sensation. And yes, she wants more. Like any female in the animal kingdom, her body is telling her to mate with the male of her choice.”

Marietta glared at him. “So I am no better than the giraffes at the zoo?”

Max smiled. “You asked me to teach you about desire. This is desire.”

“I don’t believe it.” She began to pull her glove back on.

Max leaned forward suddenly and drew down the blind over the coach window. Now it was dim and quiet, and she could hear his breathing close by.

“Max?” She put out her hands toward him.

He captured them with his. Before she could protest he kissed her mouth, his lips caressing, gentle but firm. And kept kissing her, his hands moving to her wrists and then the crook of her elbows. He undid her bonnet, tossing it aside, and reached for the pins that held her hair. It came tumbling down, golden tresses thick and sweet with the scent of her. He ran his fingers through them, his mouth still on hers, his tongue stroking hers with a wantonness that made her head spin.

She felt as if she might swoon. She had heard of women swooning in novels, but never in real life, not from a man’s kiss, but Max was coming very close to achieving it.

“Master Max?” It was Daniel’s jovial voice up in the driver’s seat. “Should we go back to Berkley Square now, sir?”

Max lifted his mouth long enough to call, “Another turn around the park, Daniel,” and then dived into the kiss again.

Her body was throbbing. Her breasts felt tender and swollen, and the ache between her legs nearly drove her mad. Because she wanted him. He was right, she wanted to mate with the male of her choice, and the male of her choice was definitely Max Valland.

When he finally stopped, her head fell against his shoulder and he left it there, stroking her hair from her flushed cheek, his chest rising and falling as violently as hers.

“
This
is desire,” he said huskily. “What we’re feeling now is desire.”

Was he right? He must be. And it made sense. If not for desire, why else would women who knew better run off with scoundrels or refuse to leave them or actually marry them? Love and desire, they went hand in hand, one blurring into the other.

He was still very close, his breath warm on her cheek. As if he couldn’t help himself, he pressed his lips to her skin, little kisses, capturing the corner of her mouth. With a groan she turned her face, and found his mouth again, opening her lips eagerly to him. This time the kiss was deeper, more passionate, their tongues mating in a way their bodies couldn’t. She turned to him and her breasts pressed to his chest, the ache in them intensifying, as his arm wound about her waist and held her there.

As if he understood, he raised his hand and closed it over her, but she could barely feel it through her clothing. Frustrated she made a sound, half sob and half laugh, pushing against him. His fingers squeezed and she felt that, just, and a warm wave of pleasure engulfed her. How would it be if his bare skin was against her bare skin, from neck to toes?

Her head fell back and he kissed her arched throat, his mouth open and hot. “Marietta,” he murmured, “we need to think of the consequences. We need to take care.”

“Why?” she demanded. “I don’t want to take care.”

“You may think you have no reputation to lose, but believe me if we are seen like this then there will be an uproar. My family have disowned me—what I do does not matter—but your family will be made to pay.”

His words were sobering, but still it was a moment before she could gather the strength to draw away from him.

“My family would suffer if it was known that I intend to become a courtesan. That is why I intend to change my name, to become someone else entirely. It is the best way. Marietta Greentree will disappear and Madame Coeur will appear to take her place.”

Max choked. “Is that what you’re going to call yourself? I thought the whole point of being a courtesan was not to lose your heart? Maybe you should think again.”

Marietta made a face at him. She was smoothing her hair back, bundling it up with one hand, while with the other she searched for the pins that were scattered all over her skirts. “I have thought and that is the best I can come up with.”

“Madame Venus? Madame Eros?” Max was watching her.

“I am no Venus,” she retorted, shifting in her tight stays.

His eyes narrowed and moved slowly over her. “I don’t know about that,” he drawled. Then his manner altered, grew serious. “You tell me you are ru
ined for marriage, Marietta, but it is still possible you could marry well. Your brother-in-law is a wealthy man, is he not?”

Marietta froze, and stared at him wide-eyed. It was the same thought as Vivianna had, for Oliver to buy her a husband. Pick one out for her, as she had just been choosing a pair of gloves! And what sort of man would allow himself to be bought like that? A man with no pride, a man who cared more for his position and fortune than for her. The very idea of it made her shaky and ill.

“I do not want a husband who has been bribed to wed me,” she said coldly. “I would despise such a man. Why are you saying this now? It’s because you don’t want me to be a courtesan, isn’t it? You’d prefer I did anything but that; even marry a man who has been bribed to take me.”

“Yes,” he said, “you’re right. I don’t want to see you do anything so foolish.”

“Why will no one take me seriously!”

Max stared into her eyes, reading what was there, all the passion and wonder that was Marietta Greentree. He had told himself that he could enjoy her without listening to his conscience—he had believed he really could lose himself in a hedonistic whirlpool. That he deserved her. But Max wasn’t finding that easy. He kept thinking about Marietta’s future, and what would become of her after he had his pleasure, after he had played the mentor to her pupil, and he left for Cornwall and she moved on to some other man.