Rules of Passion (8 page)

The doctor would be coming this morning, and she was relieved to know it. Max was too hot, surely? A fever was to be expected, but how did she know what was acceptable and what was excessive?

“’Etta.”

“Yes, Max? What is it?” He seemed to know her, so
he must be reasonably lucid. Surely that meant he was all right? If he was in danger, wouldn’t he be rambling and half-conscious?

“Blue eyes. Big sparkling blue eyes. And pink lips. Pink lips ripe for kissing.”

Well, maybe he wasn’t quite as lucid as she’d thought.

“Hush, Max. Go to sleep now. You need to get well.”

She wasn’t sure whether he heard her or not, but he sighed and in a moment he had relaxed into sleep. Marietta sat and watched him, resisting the wicked little voice in her head that told her to touch him again.

Touch.

This was the part of her future profession to which she had not given much thought. She had brushed over it, believing that the physical aspects of being a courtesan would just come to her naturally—she
was
Aphrodite’s daughter. Surely it couldn’t be too difficult, and it wasn’t as if she hadn’t done
it
before. Still there had been a vague, niggling doubt, deep in her mind, that she may not like being touched or touching in return.

But just now, when she had touched Max, the sensation of exploring a naked man’s skin, even if it was in her role as nurse and more accidental than deliberate, had been…
exciting
. Was it because it
was
Max? Max, with whom she had no intention of becoming emotionally entangled? Max, who made her feel strangely safe? Possibly. Whatever the reason, Marietta told herself that it was a good thing. A courtesan must enjoy the physical aspect of her relation
ships, she must feel desire. Max could teach her that—she had a feeling he would be a very good teacher.

Max was still asleep, and when she tentatively touched him again he felt a little cooler. Marietta yawned and sat back down in her chair, trying to find a more comfortable position. She told herself that the doctor would be here soon, and wriggled around so that she could rest her cheek on her hand. That was better…In another moment she too was asleep.

Max’s head throbbed cruelly. He lay with his eyes shut, desperately trying not to be sick, until slowly, tick by tick of the mantel clock, the nausea began to pass and he could begin to remember. He had gone to Aphrodite’s Club, and after being inside had left and walked into the lane. He had closed his eyes for some inexplicable reason. He recalled the damp darkness, the sense that he was not alone, just before he was struck down.

Judging by the brutal pain in his head, his assailant had meant business. It felt personal, but Max supposed that was unlikely. He looked like a rich gentleman, and that was enough for some people to take exception to him.

A flash of image. Max concentrated and in his mind saw big blue eyes peering into his. Marietta Greentree? Yes, she had been here in the night. Now he recalled her hands, cool against his chest, and her voice, a balm for all his aches and pains. Or was it just a dream, after all? Had she really been playing with his foot?

Max opened his eyes.

Marietta Greentree was curled up in an armchair, her red and green skirts spread modestly about her. She was resting her flushed cheek on her folded hand, loose strands of fair hair falling forward over her face. She looked helpless and innocent.

And yet this was Aphrodite’s daughter. Max started to shake his head in disbelief, only to stop abruptly when the movement caused a pain to slice through his temples. The throbbing began again. Abominably.

He groaned aloud.

Marietta lifted her head slightly. She peered at him through the tangled strands of her fair hair, as if she was disoriented. Then she pushed it out of her eyes and sat up, stretching and yawning widely. Like a kitten after a refreshing nap, or an innocent with nothing to disturb its conscience.
That
was how he saw Marietta Greentree, Max realized uneasily. Innocent and needing his gentlemanly protection. He was certainly finding it difficult to imagine her as the daughter of an infamous courtesan.

He’d been staring at her for too long. Those big blue eyes were gazing back at him, a growing expression of uneasiness in their depths.

“My head hurts,” he said pitifully, and it was the honest truth.

“Poor you,” Marietta murmured sympathetically. She laid her hand upon his brow, and there was something so soothing in her touch that it instantly felt better. Or perhaps it was the scent of her skin and the curved swell of her breasts beneath her tight bodice that improved his mood.

“Do you remember what happened?” She was
speaking to him again and he tried to concentrate, but before he had a chance to answer she was doing it for him. “You were attacked in a lane, and one of the errand boys found you. Dobson brought you back here to Aphrodite’s Club, and sent for the doctor, who stitched your wound and bandaged it. He promised to call again this morning and see how you are feeling.”

She seemed to read his next question in his eyes, so he didn’t even bother trying to ask it.

“The doctor thought that moving you might make you more unwell, and it was better for you to stay here overnight.”

“So you stayed too?” His voice was husky from disuse.

“Someone had to keep watch over you. I was the obvious choice.”

She sounded defensive. Did he make her uncomfortable, or was it their current intimate situation that did that? She had not seemed the type to be easily intimidated, but the way in which she clasped her hands in her lap now, as if she was waiting to be scolded, gave him pause.

Had he somehow given her the impression that he was a monster?

He supposed he had been a little out of sorts during the balloon ascent, and he may have slightly startled her with his behavior downstairs, when he tried to buy her services. Perhaps Marietta Greentree was right to be wary, Max admitted reluctantly. Perhaps he was not always as courteous and polite as his mother had brought him up to be. But his father had always impressed upon him that he was the heir to a dukedom and a certain arrogance was to be ex
pected. Even when the dukedom was no longer his, that arrogance was difficult to shake off—bred into him, he supposed.

“Thank you,” he said now, as courteously as he could manage, and closed his eyes.

She was leaning over him, so close that he could hear her breathing. He had surprised her. It was quite a feat to disconcert Marietta Greentree of the clear, fearless gaze and decided opinions. Despite the appalling pain in his head Max found himself struggling to keep his mouth from smiling.

“Are you thirsty again?” she asked anxiously. “Would you prefer water or broth?”

Broth?
Good God. “Thank you, but no,” he said, with feeling. “All I want is to go home. Ring for a servant to fetch me a cab and I will trouble you no further.”

Marietta gave a disbelieving laugh. Dear heavens, he expected her to bundle him into a hansom cab and send him home just because he told her to! What a bossy and abominable man he was.

“I will fetch Dobson,” she said in a voice that brooked no argument, and went off to do just that.

Dobson, looking tired and with his red jacket unbuttoned at the throat, was just closing the door on the last of the night’s guests. When Marietta explained the problem, he said, “You stay here, miss, and let me deal with Lord Roseby.” Then, as he headed upstairs, he called over his shoulder, “Better still, go and get something to eat in the kitchen. That’s where everyone else’ll be.”

Marietta, weary from lack of sleep and cramped from sitting upright all night, thought a hot breakfast
sounded most appealing. Now, if she could just find the kitchen…

In the end she followed her nose. The kitchen was by far the most comfortable part of Aphrodite’s Club that she had seen so far. With its enormous scrubbed-pine table and large range, as well as the shelving full of crockery, and the pots and pans dangling from hooks, it looked as a kitchen should look. The cook, a tubby gentleman with a pince-nez, was modestly accepting congratulations from his feminine admirers. They gathered around him in their bright and flimsy gowns, aprons hastily thrown on to save spills and stains, their mouths bulging with bacon and eggs and toast. The rich smell of coffee only added to the general sense of hominess and well-being.

Eagerly, Marietta moved to join them, but as she drew nearer and her presence was noticed, their lively chatter ceased. Now only the sizzle of the food still cooking on the stove broke the silence.

“Dobson said I should come and have some breakfast,” she said with a bright, forced smile that turned a little forlorn at the edges. “It smells delicious.”

The plump little cook looked delighted with her compliment, and the women—Marietta guessed they were Aphrodite’s protégés—began to tuck in once more. Only one of them, a girl with dark hair and eyes, who seemed a little older than Marietta, held out her hand.

“You must be Aphrodite’s daughter,” she said, with an accent as soft as Irish rain. “I’m Maeve, how do you do? Come and fill yourself a plate. Henri won’t mind, will you Henri? He’s Aphrodite’s chef and he’s been with her since…oh, since forever!”

Marietta smiled back, relieved to have found a friend. Maeve handed her a plate and Henri proceeded to load it with food until Marietta cried a laughing halt. Seated among the others, she too tucked in, only then realizing how very hungry she was. When had she last eaten? At lunchtime yesterday, before Vivianna had her son, before she came to tell Aphrodite the good news. Before Max. Was that how she would date things from now on? Before and after Max?

“How is he then?” Maeve said, munching on a slice of toast dripping with butter. “Lord Roseby, I mean,” she added, as Marietta swallowed her mouthful.

“He’s awake and he wants to go home. Dobson has gone upstairs to talk to him.”

“Poor man,” Maeve said, and shook her head for emphasis.

“Yes, it was a nasty blow.”

“No, no, not the hit to his poor head. I meant him being disinherited by his da like that, and after growing from a child in the belief that he would one day be the Duke of Barwon. How must he feel? I think it’s awfully sad.”

One of the other women gave an inelegant snort. “Serves him right, I say,” she pronounced in a voice that had once been cockney but was learning to be refined. “You can’t inherit if you’re another man’s bastard. Everyone knows that.”

“But that’s not his fault, is it?” someone else piped up, and this brought forth more cries of agreement or disagreement. Marietta, unable to get a word in, gazed about her wide-eyed and realized that these beautiful women were enjoying themselves. Like
rowdy schoolgirls let out of class, they were intent on throwing off the airs and graces they were learning so painfully, along with the good manners and languid smiles to please the gentlemen, and just being themselves. Perhaps here, in Henri’s kitchen, was the only place in Aphrodite’s Club where they
could
be themselves.

Just then a chilly voice spoke from the doorway.

“Are you all still here? Laura, surely you have French lessons? And Donna, you too. And what of you, Maeve, isn’t dancing instruction in a few minutes? Ladies, you have much to learn before you can go to bed and sleep.
Allevouz!
”

Cutlery clattered on china, chairs grated as they were pushed back, and the girls scattered. Maeve gave Marietta a grin as she left, but everyone else was too intent on obedience. In a moment the kitchen was empty, apart from Henri, who was conspicuously busy over the stove. Aphrodite came up behind him, almost silent in her silk slippers. “Henri,” she said in a voice more weary than it had been a moment before, “why do you encourage them to be bad?”

Henri shot her a mock-innocent look over his pince-nez. “Ah, but they do not need much encouragement, Madame. And besides, it does them good to be bad sometimes—to disobey their maman.”

Aphrodite shook her head, her diamond earrings glittering like stars against the black night of her hair. “I am not their maman, Henri, and nor am I an ogre. I am trying to make them what they want to be. Most of them have come from nothing, or worse. They know what it is to be poor and alone, to be des
perate, and they do not want to go back to it. I am only trying to make their dreams come true.”

Henri smiled at her with gentle affection. “
I
know that, Madame, but they do not all have your aptitude or strength of character. Sometimes they grow weary and cannot see an end to all that you make them do. It is when they cannot see their destination clearly that the journey becomes too onerous for them.”

Marietta glanced between the two of them. Obviously Henri had been with Aphrodite for many years and knew her well, and she respected and liked him, because she did not rebuke him for his comments, even if her expression showed she did not agree.

“They do not have to stay with me,” she said coolly.

Henri grimaced, as if to say, Where else would they go?

“I do not run a charitable organization.”

Henri clanged his pots and pans. “No, Madame, of course not. You only take in girls who are friendless and without hope and give them a chance at a better life. How could that be charity?”

“Others would say I corrupt them,” Aphrodite said frankly. “That they are no longer fit for respectable society once I have had them here.”

“Then I think those ‘others’ should speak with the girls,” Henri replied levelly, “and ask them what they think, and whether their lives now are not much better than they would have been otherwise. Some people wear their morals like chains around their necks—they would prefer a girl to die of starvation, or suffer in a bitter home, than live the sort of
independent life you can teach her. There is a risk,
oui
, but there is risk in everything we do.”

Aphrodite smiled. “You put it very well,
mon ami
.”

Henri pushed his pince-nez back up his nose. “Do you think this attack on Lord Roseby is aimed at you, Madame? Does someone wish harm on Aphrodite’s Club? Or is it
you
they wish to harm—”