Rules of Passion (27 page)

She looked away, shrugged. “There’s nothin’ to tell,” she said.

Ian sighed. “I know that’s not true. I am very fond of you, Lil, and it hurts me that you can’t tell me about yourself without worrying that I might somehow think less of you. I couldn’t.”

It was very sweet of him, thought Lil, but the truth was she was terrified. If she told him that once she had walked the streets—well, huddled miserably in the streets would be a better description, selling her scrawny body to pay her Ma’s rent—he would…what? She tried to imagine it now. The worst scenario would be if he was so repelled that he never
spoke to her again. The second worst would be if he looked upon her with gentle pity, as if she were dying of some dreadful disease. Yes, that
would
be bad.

She couldn’t risk it.

For the first time in her life Lil had found a man to love and admire—not a servant like Jacob or a gentleman who loved someone else, like Mr. Jardine. A man who loved
her
! Lil didn’t want to take the chance she might lose him.

And yet she was beginning to think that if she didn’t she might lose him anyway.

“Max, you must know you can’t possibly have anything to do with this girl! She is beyond redemption.”

Max cast his cousin so angry a look that Harold was taken aback. Good, it was time someone showed Harold he could not run the world to his liking. If Harold had his way, then everyone with an aristocratic pedigree would be on one side of the fence, and those without one on the other, and as for women like Marietta…they would probably be cast into the Thames. Well, if necessary, Max would be quite prepared to join her there!

“I can do what I like, Harold,” he said softly. “That’s the thing about being disinherited, you see. I no longer have to please my father, or my family. It’s quite liberating, actually.”

Harold clicked his tongue angrily, but Susannah reached to place a soothing hand upon his arm. “Please, stop it, both of you. Max, you are in a state. This girl has worked her way under your skin and now you cannot think clearly. You are not yourself. Won’t you please stop and consider what you’re doing?”

“But I am myself,” he said with a smile. “That’s the whole point. I am more myself than I have ever been.”

Harold straightened his sleeves and brushed a speck off his trousers. “Susannah, my love, would you mind leaving Max and I alone for a moment?”

She looked as if she would rather not, but then she gave an irritable sigh and rose elegantly to her feet. “I’ll leave you then, shall I? To speak of manly things?”

“Susannah,” Harold began.

But she waved a languid hand as she opened the door. “No, never mind. I will amuse myself by asking Mrs. Pomeroy for a list of the townhouse contents, for when we come to live—” She caught Max’s glance and gave a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry, but life moves on, Max. We must be practical about these matters. I love you dearly, you know, but I have always been a practical sort of woman.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I understand.”

She hesitated a moment more, but there was nothing further to say and they both knew it.

“She does her best,” Harold said quietly, when the door had shut behind her. “She’s feeling a little low, and she’s never been strong. Sometimes she remembers the past, when she was a girl in Jamaica, and it upsets her. She dreams of going home. More than you think, Max.”

“I thought that was all behind her. She’s lived in England most of her life, this is her home now. Her real father died, didn’t he?”

“You don’t understand, and she doesn’t speak of it. Susannah is still a Creole at heart. I have promised myself that one day I will take her back to see the old plantation house where she grew up.”

“I thought Father pulled it down. He was never very sentimental about things like that. He never talks about those days, you know. I’ve asked him and he always avoids the subject. It’s as if he feels…guilty about it.”

Harold shrugged. “Maybe he does, maybe what he did in Jamaica wasn’t strictly legal, but he was only thinking of saving Valland House for his family.”

“Hardly comfort for Susannah though, was it?”

“She is very fond of you, Max. It’s not her fault that this has happened to you.”

“I know that, I’m not saying it is!”

Harold cleared his throat. “No need to get niggledy with me, cousin, this isn’t my fault either. I’m just trying to talk some sense into you. This girl is completely unsuitable and if you marry her it won’t just be your life that is affected. We will all suffer the consequences. Besides, how could you possibly support a wife without help from the family? You can’t have it both ways you know, Max; you can’t cast yourself off from the family without a backward glance, only to then turn around and beg for an allowance.”

“I don’t want an allowance.” Max was furious, and although he tried to moderate his tone, Harold’s eyes widened in mock-alarm.

“Now old chap—”

“I don’t want anything from any of you. Can’t you understand that? My life is no longer your business, Harold, and I won’t have you interfering!”

Harold stood up and his mouth was pinched, as it always was when he was upset. “Very well then, if that’s what you want, cousin. I am leaving now because you obviously can’t think straight. This girl has
turned your brain. God knows what else she’s done to you—I don’t want to know—but I think you will be very, very sorry. Of course I will have to tell the duke.”

Max stared at him in amazement. Was he a child, that his cousin should treat him thus? “Harold,” he said quietly, “haven’t you realized yet that I don’t give a damn who you talk to? Make a speech in Parliament. Take out an advertisement in the
Times
. Please, Harold, be my guest!”

Harold gave him one last glare, and left the room.

Max sank back into his chair, feeling as if he had been wrung dry. Surely his family never used to be so concerned with his private affairs? He could remember several times being involved with women who were clearly unsuitable as permanent mates, and nothing was said.

That’s because you never intended to marry them.

Of course not!

Because you weren’t in love with them.

No, I wasn’t.

But you are in love with Marietta Greentree. Aren’t you?

That was when Max knew it to be true. And it was almost a relief; it explained the way he had been feeling lately. He
was
in love with Marietta Greentree. His life would be barren without her. And yet how to convince
her
of that?

He supposed he couldn’t blame her for refusing to marry him and go to Cornwall. What had he to offer after all? He was a disinherited pauper, at least compared to what he had been. Marietta was probably better off without him…

His eyes flared and he clenched his fists.
Damn it, no!
He wouldn’t give in, he would fight for her. She
must realize that they were meant for each other. She must!

Outside in Bedford Square, Harold settled his wife into their carriage, fussing about her until she told him to stop.

“Max has upset you,” Susannah said quietly. “You are very fond of him, aren’t you, Harold?”

“As you are, my dear.” Harold sighed and sank back in his seat as they began to move off. “I feel as if I have failed him in some way, as if there was something I should have said or done to resolve this mess.”

“Papa was very angry and we cannot blame him for that.”

“No, but I thought…” He sighed again, and smiled at his wife. “I thought he would have come around by now and realized that even if Max isn’t his son he still loves him like a son. Max doesn’t deserve to be treated like this, Susannah.”

“Life is cruel,” she murmured, staring back at him with big, dark eyes. “Often there are no happy endings. God doesn’t give us justice, we have to find if for ourselves.”

“But the duke will come around,” Harold insisted. “I know he will. I just hope that when he does it won’t be too late to save Max from himself.”

“Yes, we can only hope it will not be too late.”

Amy Greentree stroked Marietta’s hair, her long fingers gentle and soothing. She had her foot propped up on a stool and was seated in an armchair in her bedroom, ostensibly resting but in reality enjoying a peaceful moment with her second daughter.

“You have not had an easy time recently, Marietta,
I know that. I wish you had never met that dreadful man.”

Marietta glanced upwards at her mother. “Man?” she murmured, thinking,
Max, she knows about Max!

“That Jones creature. I loathed him the first time I saw him, with his smirk and his bowing and scraping. So false, my dear. But you could not see it, you were blinded by your infatuation.” She sighed. “Of course, he was very handsome, and I behaved very stupidly in forbidding you to see him. Vivianna wrote and told me that I should allow him to visit us often, so that you would come to realize what a beast he was. She said that if I forbade you to see him then you would think him all the more fascinating.”

Marietta smiled wryly. “I did think he was fascinating. He seemed such a man of the world to me, so clever and witty, and when he stole kisses in the garden I thought him daring.”

“And then he was impertinent enough to ask for your hand!” Amy’s gray eyes snapped with remembered anger. “I sent him off immediately and told you that you were never to see him again.”

Marietta sighed. “He persuaded Francesca to carry a note to me. She has never forgiven him for it. In the note he asked me to elope with him, but in the most romantic terms.”

“Ah, romance.” Amy smiled. “There is nothing wrong with romance, dear child. Indeed it is something we should all aspire to. But romance sometimes needs to be mixed with a good dash of common sense.”

“Anyway I have grown out of that nonsense now,” Marietta retorted.

Amy laughed. “Then you are the poorer for it,” she teased. “Every man, woman, and child dreams about being loved, Marietta. There is nothing wrong in it.”

“He knew just what to say to capture my silly heart,” she answered without inflection, “but it was all a game to him, and once he had taken the prize…”

“Yes,” Amy was sober again. “When I found you gone I was so angry. I sent Mr. Jardine to find him with a horsewhip—”

“A horsewhip!”

Amy smiled. “I have never told you this, Marietta. Mr. Jardine caught up with him a few miles south. The creature had stopped to enjoy a nap under a tree along the road. I don’t think he can ever have closed his eyes again without remembering the awakening he had that day!”

Marietta gasped. “Do you mean Mr. Jardine—”

“Yes, dearest, he did.” Amy sighed. “But unfortunately that dreadful Rawlings had already spread his poisonous gossip. Impossible to hush it up,” she smoothed her daughter’s ringlets from her cheek. “Well it is over and done, now.”

Marietta giggled at the image of Mr. Jardine with a horsewhip. Her own actions seemed ridiculous to her now, so naïve. Max Valland was more of a man than Gerard Jones would ever be. She wished she had known Max then. If Gerard had never existed, then perhaps she might have considered Max’s offer, for if Gerard had never existed then she would never have had her heart broken and her reputation ruined.

It was all very unfair.

“You know that whatever you wish to do, I will support you.” Amy was looking down into Marietta’s eyes with her own calm gray ones.

Marietta knew then that Amy probably understood her hopes and dreams—understood
her
—better than anyone. Tears welled in her eyes and blurred that beloved face. “I don’t seem to know what I want,” she said tremulously. “That is the trouble, Mama.”

Amy dabbed away her daughter’s tears with her lacey handkerchief. “Hush. You are not a child now, Marietta, you are a woman grown. You are intelligent and sensible and there is no need to rush into anything. Take your time, Marietta, and think deeply. You will know what you want when you find it.”

Marietta thought she was probably right. The only problem was that she had already seen what she wanted. It was just a pity that she couldn’t have him.

F
rancesca had insisted that since she was in London she wanted to visit the Tower of London. Marietta, dragging a reluctant Lil after her, plodded behind her sister as best she could, but she had difficulty keeping up with Francesca’s longer legs. Francesca was inspired by the grim place, with its cawing ravens and blood-soaked history. Marietta suspected that her sister was already planning to create a bleak little watercolor to commemorate her visit.

Afterwards they did some shopping and set off for home. Marietta found herself yawning, and knew it was Max’s fault. She was worn out, she couldn’t sleep for tossing and turning and thinking of him, while her body tingled infuriatingly. It would not do, it really wouldn’t. Somehow she would have to put a stop to it. But not yet, no, not yet.

Aphrodite had sent a note to tell her that her next task was to attend the masque ball at Vauxhall Gar
dens, incognito, and meet Max there. It was an event she had always dreamed of attending, and to go with Max seemed like a dream come true. Marietta knew that until the ball was over she would not make any decisions concerning Max.

Back at the townhouse in Berkley Square, she received a shock. Hodge the butler, after directing a servant to take her parcels, informed her in the hushed tones he only used for the most important of visitors, that there was “a distinguished person” asking to speak to her privately.

“A distinguished person? Who is this person, Hodge?” She knew her eyes were big and that Hodge was enjoying being mysterious.

“The Duke of Barwon,” he replied quietly. “He’s in the best sitting room, with Lord Montegomery.”

Marietta stared, wondering if she had heard him correctly, but Hodge wasn’t likely to be playing some elaborate joke on her. The
Duke of Barwon?
Why on earth, she thought, her heart skipping a beat, did Max’s father want to see her “privately”? And then the second part of Hodge’s answer penetrated her muddled brain. “Is Oliver home?” she asked in a hopeful voice.

“Yes, miss, he arrived an hour ago.”

Marietta was very relieved that Oliver was there. She had no desire whatsoever to meet with Max’s father—if he was anything like Harold then she could only expect hostility from him, especially if Harold had spoken to him about her. In fact that was what it must be about. Harold had discovered she was still seeing Max and he had gone to a higher authority.

Because Max wouldn’t have told his father that
he had asked her to marry him, would he? A disgraced nobody from Yorkshire? Surely he would not do anything so impetuous or so silly. Would he? And yet he
had
seemed very determined and Max was the sort of man who was used to having his way…

Whatever the head of the Valland family wanted from her, Marietta suspected it was nothing good.

“Marietta?” Francesca had been observing her, curiosity making her dark eyes even more catlike than usual. “Who is the Duke of Barwon, and what can he want with you?”

“I was just asking myself the same thing,” she retorted, and smoothed her skirts. “Do I look presentable? Should I go and change into my red and green silk?” Since Max had released her from her stays Marietta had been wary about lacing herself too tightly and had been wearing her older dresses. The sensation of gasping like a fish at the Lustful Lady had cured her of starving herself of air.

Francesca’s gaze raked her impatiently—her sister was not interested in fashion. “You look perfectly all right, Marietta.” She leaned closer, so that Hodge couldn’t hear. “It’s about a man, isn’t it, ’Etta? I knew it the moment I set eyes on you. You have that
look
.”

Marietta blinked in surprise, for once not feigned. “What look?”

“That satisfied look.”

She gaped at Francesca, but before she could deny it, they were interrupted.

“Marietta?”

It was Vivianna, standing just outside the door to
the best sitting room. She looked flushed and happy, happier than she had looked in days. That was because Oliver was home, Marietta thought with relief, but her relief soon vanished when she noted the glitter of anger in her sister’s hazel eyes.

“Come here and speak with the duke,” she said, catching Marietta’s arm in ungentle fingers and giving her no time to protest. “I think after what you’ve been up to it’s the least you can do.”

The first thing Marietta saw as she entered the room was Oliver, standing by the window, his hands behind his back. He appeared tired, the strain evident in the dark shadows under his eyes, but when he looked at his wife his face lit up. Nearby, and standing in a similar pose, was a tall, thin man who was an older and less handsome version of Max. His dark hair was graying, but was still curly, and his thick brows were drawn down so low that she could hardly see the color of his eyes as he turned them on her.

For a moment he just stared rudely and Marietta stared back, and then Oliver stepped forward and said, “Your Grace, this is my sister-in-law, Miss Marietta Greentree. Marietta, this is His Grace, the Duke of Barwon.”

He did not hold out his hand, his expression did not alter from rigid disapproval, and Marietta felt her heart sink even further. But she refused to look away from that critical gaze. She had done nothing wrong, she reminded herself. What was between her and Max was their business and had nothing to do with the duke, or any of the Valland family. They had cast him off, after all.

But the duke did look very much like Max. It was absurd that he would not believe they were father and son.

“My nephew, Harold, tells me, Miss Greentree, that he has asked you to desist from visiting my son at his townhouse in Bedford Square.”

Vivianna made a hissing sound, but Marietta forestalled her. “That is correct, Your Grace, he has.”

“But you are still seeing my son.”

“Not at Bedford Square, however, Your Grace.”

“Do you think I am interested in the detail?” he demanded roughly, and turned away, stalking toward the mantel and back again. Marietta watched him with uneasy fascination. He was so like Max it was uncanny.

“Surely,” she swallowed. “Your Grace, surely whether or not I meet with your son is no longer any concern of yours. He tells me that he has severed all connection with his family.”

“My sister is very forthright,” Vivianna stepped in, casting Marietta a warning look, but the duke wasn’t listening to her.

“You’re quite correct,” he said to Marietta. “I have disinherited my son.” For a moment he looked lost, as if the enormity of what he had done was about to swallow him up, and then he straightened his already straight back and carried on. “Harold is concerned for my…for Max’s well-being. He tells me that you have an unsavory reputation, Miss Greentree.”

This time it was Oliver who stepped forward, and all the humor had gone from his startling blue eyes. “You overstep yourself, sir.”

“I am only repeating what I have been told,” the duke said, barely glancing at him. “I would like to
hear what your sister has to say on the matter. Max, so Harold tells me, is indifferent to the effect this will have on him and his family. He declares his intention of marrying her whatever her reputation. Ah!” he nodded his head as the shock flared in Marietta’s eyes. “You did not know this, did you, girl? Or have you refused him already? You should know better than to refuse a young man in the passionate throes of love—it only makes him more determined.”

“Max knows I am not going to marry,” she said at last, but her lips felt stiff and her loosened stays suddenly far too tight. “Not him nor anybody else. As you so rightly said, sir, my reputation precludes me from making any sort of respectable marriage. I am content to remain unwed.”

He smiled, and the resemblance to Max was even more striking. “I can see why he likes you,” he murmured to himself. Then, the glower back, “I will be frank with you, Miss Marietta, as you have been frank with me. My son…Max has been disinherited, yes, but even so the title of his wife is one that you can never aspire to.”

Marietta wondered why she suddenly felt so very, very angry. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes grew fiery. She had never aspired to be the duchess of anything, and yet she could not bear that this man was refusing to allow her to imagine herself in that role, however unlikely it might be.

“You have destroyed his life and now you think you can tell him what he can and can’t do? You underestimate your son, sir. He will not forgive you for your treatment of him, and he will certainly not follow your orders. Why should he? Max is his own man now.”

The duke’s expression darkened; if possible his brows came down even lower. “You know nothing of my son. You should remember, Miss Greentree, to whom you are speaking.”

Marietta knew to whom she was speaking, and she didn’t like him one bit. Mr. Jardine had told her that Barwon was a cold man who saw life’s twists and turns as straight lines, who did not allow the morality of a situation to prevent him from ploughing ahead through the feelings of others. Now he wanted to control Max’s life even though he no longer recognized him as his son. Max would never stand for that.

“Max is a grown man, sir, and you can’t—”

Barwon drew himself up taller so that he could stare down at her. Despite herself Marietta was intimidated, but she did not step back.

“Do not test my patience, Miss Greentree, by presuming to tell me what I can and can’t do! Only my wife has ever been able to order me and…” He seemed to remember then that his wife was lost to him by more than death, that she had hurt him beyond bearing, and his face twisted as he fought the pain. But evidently it was too much for him. His Grace, the Duke of Barwon, walked out of the room.

With a speaking look at his wife, Oliver followed. Marietta could feel Vivianna’s eyes on her, like little daggers in her back. She took a breath and turned to face her sister. What she saw frightened her. Vivianna had always protected her and looked after her. She loved Vivianna, and knew Vivianna loved her, but there was no love in her face now—just a hard, angry dislike.

“How could you?” she whispered. “You have put Oliver in an untenable position. What do you think you are doing, meeting Max Valland incognito? Do you think this is a game? The scandal last time was bad enough, but now you mean to embroil us in another one! I will never forgive you for this, Marietta. Never!”

Tears fell from her eyes and she fled from the room.

Marietta stood, shocked. She knew her own face was white, because when Oliver came back into the room he walked straight over to her, took her in his arms, and held her. She didn’t cry, although she felt like it.

“I didn’t mean to harm you or Vivianna,” she said in a little voice. “I would never do that, Oliver.”

“I know, ’Etta. Vivianna knows it too, she’s just upset.”

“She hates me.”

“The baby tires her, and with me being away…She’s worried about you—she thinks she’s failed you and her mother by neglecting you. You slipped beneath her watchful eye and she’s berating herself for that. Forgive her, Marietta.”

But Marietta wondered whether Vivianna would forgive
her
, especially when she learned her wayward sister had no intention of changing her mind. Hard to ask forgiveness and not alter one’s behavior one jot.

“What do you plan to do about Max Valland?” Oliver said softly, and held her away, his handsome face somber as he gazed down at her. “Has he asked you to marry you?”

“Yes, he’s asked me. And he’s asked me to go to
Cornwall with him,” she admitted, “but I’ve told him no. He knows I can’t, he knows I have other plans and that I won’t let my heart be broken again.”

Oliver shook his head at her. “But ’Etta,” he said gently, “you can’t guard your heart. It’s impossible. And if you do…well, you will never be properly alive if you don’t love. I know you’ve been hurt but you can’t go into hiding because of it. Your heart will shrivel and die if you don’t give it a chance to love again.”

“You just heard what Max’s father said,” she wailed. “He won’t let me marry Max anyway, I’m not good enough, so I’m right to refuse. I’m right to protect myself from being wounded all over again.”

Marietta turned and fled, following Vivianna up the stairs and slamming her door.

Max looked at his father and said nothing. The duke had arrived half an hour ago, and Max had kept him waiting while he finished the letter he was writing to the estate manager in Cornwall, explaining that he would be arriving in the not-too-distant future to take up permanent residence. That done, he had joined his father in the upstairs drawing room, where Pomeroy had served a tray of his wife’s excellent tea and scones.

“Come to see if I have vacated the townhouse yet?” he asked, sitting down, as if they had not been estranged for months.

The duke cast him a droll look, and sipped his tea. “As a matter of fact I have just been to see your…Miss Greentree.”

Max wondered if he looked as angry as he felt.
Perhaps he did, because his father stopped sipping and set his cup down as if he feared it might end up in his lap.

“You’re interfering in my private business, sir.”

“You are my son.”

“I am not your son, you’ve made that abundantly clear.”

Barwon cleared his throat, and suddenly he looked old and tired—a different man from the bitter and blindly furious one Max remembered. He asked himself what his father was doing here, prodding at the wounds. Was it possible…could it be that he was having regrets? If so it was too late and this was madness, painful madness, and it wasn’t doing either of them any good.

“I…I want to make you an allowance, Max. Of course Harold and Susannah must have the lion’s share of the estate, that’s only just, but I want you to remain a part of the family. I am going to formally adopt you as my son. There will be some legal details to sort out, but…well, soon everything will be settled, and…You’ll be my son again.”

He was smiling, looking pleased with himself, as if he thought that was all that needed to be said. It was unbelievable! Max was speechless and shaking with hurt and anger. Worse still, the duke seemed to take his silence for compliance, and reached out to grasp Max’s arm.