He gave her a ghost of a smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She nodded—hesitant. How to tell it truthfully? She wanted to tell it in such a way that he might see her charitably, but that wouldn’t be the exact truth. She did not want him to see her at what had been her lowest, but it was why she was the way she was. It was something he had to hear before there could be anything more between them.
He might very well decide he wanted nothing more to do with her.
Vienne took a deep, calming breath.
Courage
. “It happened when I was fifteen.”
T
rystan was very glad to be alive. He was also very glad that Vienne was there when he woke up. Despite his remark about her feeling guilty, he hoped there was more to it than a feeling of obligation.
He refused to think otherwise. It was foolhardy, perhaps, but his heart seized the notion and ran with it. Damn stubborn thing. But lying in that bed, looking at her—so tired and beautifully fragile in her appearance—he couldn’t help but love her. Couldn’t help but hope that she might release her fear and let him in.
“My name—the name I was born to—is Vienne Moreau.”
“I know.” He shifted on the bed, pushing himself up so he could recline on the mountain of pillows. Christ, it hurt—brought a light layer of sweat to his brow—but he did it. And he managed not to miss the expression of shock on her fair face.
“You were born in a small village just outside of Paris. Your father, he was a publisher, right?”
She nodded, disbelief softening her features. “How did you know?”
“I like to research the people I do business with. Actually it was extremely difficult to uncover that much of your past. You are very good at hiding, Vienne. Is that what you wanted to tell me?”
She stared at him for a moment, seemingly dumbfounded. Then she gave her head a shake, sending little copper wisps dancing around her face. “No. That was but a part of it. This . . . this is very difficult for me. I have never told another person what I am about to tell you. I hope that declaration tells you how much I trust you.”
But
not
with your heart, he thought rather uncharitably. His bitterness faded when he saw the trepidation in her eyes. Vienne afraid? Of him? This was not a good feeling, not at all.
She sighed and rubbed her fingers over her forehead as though trying to reach in and manually sort her thoughts. “My oldest sister, Marguerite, married a very handsome and well-known painter.”
“What’s his name? If I haven’t heard of him, he’s not that well known.”
She looked at him as though she didn’t understand why it mattered. To be honest, Trystan wasn’t certain himself, but there was something in how she held herself and refused to meet his gaze that told him the painter’s name was very important indeed.
“Marcel du Barrie.”
He shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
That put a faint smile on her lips. “Yes, well, he did quite well for himself.”
There was just the slightest hint of
something
in her tone to make him wish this painter was there so he could perhaps break his fingers. “Go on.”
If she noticed the edge in his voice, she ignored it. “Marcel was wonderful to we younger girls. He was always getting us to sit for him. He once painted me as Tatiana, the Faerie Queen.”
Trystan merely nodded. He was lucky if he could draw a reasonably straight line. He hated this Marcel du Pretentious Bastard.
“Marcel was very handsome and romantic. We all envied Marguerite for marrying him. I think we all—there are another four girls—had a bit of a crush on him.”
“I bet he loved that.”
Vienne’s head jerked up. Her hand came down on his, fingers squeezing. “Yes. I think he did. He certainly did nothing to discourage us. I’m not sure when my sister started to resent us, or when she perhaps stopped trusting in her husband’s love, but she became withdrawn, spiteful. We didn’t want to spend time with her because she was so unpleasant.”
“Let me guess . . . The more unpleasant your sister became, the more affable Monsieur du Barrie became?”
She nodded almost eagerly, as though she was trying to will him to understand. Trystan wanted to tell her that there was nothing wrong with his understanding. In fact, he perhaps understood too well. Regardless, this was her story, her confession, and he was going to let her tell it.
“I thought I was Marcel’s favorite. I never had a close relationship with my brothers; they were so much older. I was spoiled and indulged being the youngest. I sought Marcel’s attention and enjoyed his flattery. I suspect he enjoyed my adoration as well.”
Trystan turned his hand over so that his fingers could entwine with hers. A bitter taste coated his tongue. He didn’t know how to describe what he was feeling. He was angry and sad and cold all at the same time. “Vienne, did he seduce you?”
“No.” She pulled her hand free and used it to wring her other one. She turned her head, her expression anguished. “I seduced him.”
A huff of laughter escaped him, bitter and harsh. “You were what, fifteen? How old was he?”
She shook her head. “You do not understand.”
“Oh, I think I do. He was older, married to your sister, and the bastard should have known better than to take advantage of a young girl’s infatuation.”
“He tried,” she insisted. “I kissed him and he told me it was wrong, but I decided I wanted him and I conspired to be alone with him on several occasions.”
“He didn’t have to be alone with you. He could have sent you away, but he didn’t because he liked it. I suppose he told you that you were beautiful and that he cared so much for you, but it could never be.”
Her eyes widened. Shock and innocence was a strange expression to see on Vienne’s face. He was so accustomed to her being cool and composed, or furious. Passionate. This bewilderment unsettled him. “How did you know?” she asked.
He made a face. “Have you met my brothers? I grew up watching the two of them seduce housemaids, village girls. Christ, anything in a skirt. Grey’s favorite as heir was to tell girls how much he loved them, but he had duties as a duke, etcetera. So, the painter fanned the flames of your fascination for him while putting up the pretense of resistance. Then he seduced you.”
“You aren’t listening to me.
I
seduced
him
. One night when Marguerite was away, I snuck into the old green house he had converted into a studio. I disrobed in front of him and offered myself to him.”
“And he took what you offered.” His words forced their way out between his clenched teeth.
Vienne looked down. “Yes. We were lovers for six months before Marguerite found us together.”
Both of Trystan’s brows rose. “That must have been awkward, at the very least.”
She picked at a piece of lint on the quilt. “When she found out what I had done, she told the entire family. I was cast out in shame.”
“Wait a moment.” Surely he couldn’t have heard her correctly. “Your family tossed you out? What of the painter?”
She glanced up, and gave him a look that said it ought to be obvious. “He and Marguerite were man and wife. When he told her what happened, she couldn’t very well be angry with him.”
Perhaps he was dimwitted, but he wanted to make sure he understood perfectly. “What exactly did he tell her happened?”
An exasperated sigh slipped from her lips. “Haven’t you been listening? He told her how I seduced him.”
He couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing. When he saw the hurt look on her face, he stopped. “Vienne, surely you don’t believe you were actually the one to blame? Perhaps back then, when you were young. But now?”
She frowned. “But I did. I seduced him. I set out to do it and I did.”
“That’s what all great seducers want their victims to believe.”
“No.” She gave her head a fervent shake. “My family cast me out because of my sin. My sister despised me for it. It was me. My fault.”
“Your family is a bunch of sodding arses—and your sister obviously wanted someone to blame other than her husband. She was jealous of you, and pointing the finger at you made her feel better. If she blamed you then she didn’t have to blame her husband, who was the real villain of the affair.”
“No. It’s not true.”
“Vienne . . .” He reached for her, but she jerked away, stumbling to her feet.
“No! You are wrong! Because if you are not, that means they should have stood beside me. It means I shouldn’t have had to become a courtesan to survive!”
Her words struck him like a fist. Good lord, what had she suffered? So young to go from a man she thought loved her to another who paid to bed her. Probably more than one man, at that.
Christ.
“There!” She pointed a long finger at him. “There it is! I knew when I told you this you would judge me. How can you not?”
“Judge you?” He scowled. “Vienne, I once slept with a woman just to insure she bought into a scheme of mine. If either of us is going to be branded a whore, it should probably be me. I was the one with a choice.”
“As did I. There’s always a choice, Trystan.”
She looked so frail and . . . broken. He had accused her of being just that. If he could beat himself silly, he would. “And sometimes we make the wrong one, or one that’s hard to live with, but that only makes us human, sweetness.”
“Do you understand now why we cannot be together?”
“No,” he replied honestly. “I do not.”
“I gave Marcel my heart, and afterward it was easy to give those men my body. I’ve used so many people, you included. I am sorry for that.”
What was she trying to say? That she still loved the painter? Or was she saying good-bye? That’s what it felt like.
“I’m sorry you went through that, Vienne. I truly am. If I could turn back time, I would do that for you. But I cannot.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” She seemed surprised—angry even.
Sweet Christ. His side ached, he had to piss, and it tasted like something had died in his mouth. “What do you want from me, Vienne? Absolution? I don’t think I’m the one who can give you what you want.” She was the one who thought she had done something wrong. There would be no forgiveness until she realized that she had been a victim, and that she was strong enough to take care of herself in whatever way necessary.
She stiffened as though he’d torn the heart right out of her chest. Obviously he’d said something wrong, though for the life of him he didn’t know what.
“You are right,” she said softly. “Thank you, Trystan. If you will excuse me, I am needed at the site. Things are coming along brilliantly. I will have a progress report delivered to you first thing tomorrow morning. Good day.”
Before he could say another word she walked out of the room and shut the door behind her, leaving him sitting there, aching and bewildered. Frustrated as well. He had let himself believe she was there because she cared, but now he was left wondering what he’d done wrong. Maybe he was just wrong. Perhaps Vienne was looking for a man like her painter, whom she had obviously never gotten over.
The bastard.
That would teach him to get his hopes up. Where Vienne La Rieux née Moreau was concerned, that only led to heartache.
V
ienne held back the tears until she was in the carriage on her way home. Only then, when she was alone and hidden from view, did she let them come. She had bared her soul to Trystan and he had acted as though it was nothing special.
He said he couldn’t give her what she wanted. How could his feelings for her have changed so drastically? He had seemed like his usual self before she told her story. He hadn’t seemed to think ill of her for having an affair with Marcel, so what had changed his mind? Was it the knowledge that she had been a courtesan? No . . . He had likened himself to a prostitute.
Maybe he had decided that being with her was simply more trouble than she was worth. Maybe he hadn’t cared as much for her as he had claimed.
It had felt good to confess her past—like a heavy weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Half her tears were because of that release, the other because she had realized she loved Trystan too late. One thing the affair with Marcel had taught her was that love was not enough.
At least she knew she could love. She should be happy for that.
She cried all the harder.
O
ver the next six weeks, things came together quickly at Trystienne’s. Since Gibbs’s capture, it was easier to find workers; and those Vienne and Trystan already had were so glad they were no longer in danger,
and
were getting paid higher wages, that they worked all the harder to get the place ready for its grand opening, which was going to be held sooner than expected.
The grand opening was going to be a huge affair. Despite the lack of society in town, it could still attract a large crowd as there were all those who remained in London year-round. Vienne was insanely busy trying to plan the party and train the shopgirls she’d hired. They all put in extremely long days unpacking stock from all over the world, pressing wrinkles out of delicate ready-to-wear dresses and undergarments, and putting together elegant yet provocative displays to catch the eye.
Sadie often worked with her, and arranged the tearoom just the way she wanted it, making sure all the appliances were installed properly. The kitchen wasn’t large, so the pastries and cakes would be made off site and delivered, but it was big enough to brew tea, wash dishes, and store what was needed. The walls had been painted a delicate peach and decorated with beautiful watercolors.
Trystan put in his share of hours as well. One morning Vienne arrived to find him still wearing the clothes he had on the day before.
“You have to sleep,” she told him. “I need you rested.”
At one time such a remark would have prompted him to say something intimate and romantic, but now he merely nodded. “I’m going to head home soon. I promise.”
He seemed to be healing well, though he only mentioned it when she asked. The tension between them wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it wasn’t pleasant either. Hopefully, this would fade soon. If she couldn’t have him as a lover, she would gladly have him as her friend, even though it hurt to look at him. She missed his friendship most of all. She missed the breakfasts they shared, the animated conversations about plans for the store and other individual projects.
It seemed now that he could barely look her in the eye. He claimed not to be at all bothered by her former relationship with Marcel, so it had to be the fact that she had been a mistress that made him so cold. But was he disgusted by her . . . or did he pity her? It was hard to decipher without asking, and she had too much pride to do that.
But she hadn’t too much pride to entertain fantasies about him coming to her to tell her he couldn’t live without her. What if she did that to him? Could she find the courage to walk right up to him and tell him she was sorry and that she wanted to be with him? It went against everything she had lived these past years. Her number one rule was to never put herself in a position where she cared too much. It was not only self-preservation: in this case, it could prevent her from inevitably destroying what affection Trystan had for her.
Trystan had told her she was wrong to blame herself for what happened with Marcel. She had been so young and clung to that blame like a piece of flotsam. If she didn’t believe that she had been the villain, the one to blame, then she had to reconcile to the notion that her family had sided against her and wrongly cast her aside.
That idea gave made her heart ache. She didn’t want to consider it. Unfortunately, she had to. If she was ever going to be fine and right—whole—she had to take a good, hard look at herself.
She was not going to like everything she saw.
Vienne put in hours just as long as Trystan did during the day, then returned to the club at night, where she now was open for limited hours. Still, Saint’s Row was open to the public, and it did good business. It was mostly just the gaming rooms and dining area, but people with money in London seemed to love risking it on games of chance or spending it on food that hadn’t had the essence boiled out of it. English food made her French soul cringe.
The few hours a week she had to herself she often spent in the stables, caring for her sweet little mare. Unfortunately the sight of the gorgeous creature reminded her of Trystan.
One afternoon she accepted an invitation to luncheon from Lady Gosling—Theone. She was bored, grumpy, and in need of some companionship that would distract her from feeling sorry for herself.
Unfortunately, her new friend wanted to discuss the very things Vienne wished to avoid.
“Gossip has it that the ardor between yourself and Lord Trystan Kane has cooled.”
Vienne took a sip of tea. “I suppose the gossips would know. Honestly, I do not know where these people get their shameless fodder.”
“Can you not?” The dark-haired beauty asked with blatantly false innocence. There would be no concealing her true feelings from Theone. The woman had the instincts of a hawk. “You know, Lord Trystan is the only Kane male I haven’t sampled. Should I rectify that, do you think?”
Vienne was so surprised by the question that she sent the other woman a murderous gaze that would have cowed a person of lesser resolve. Theone merely chuckled. “I will take that as a no.”
She shrugged. “It is none of my business who you take to your bed.”
Theone set her delicate bone china cup on its saucer. Her teasing expression was tempered by the slightest degree of hurt. “Come now, Vienne. I was of the impression that we had become better friends than that.”
Vienne met her forest green gaze. “Good enough friends that you would ask me if you should crawl into bed with my former lover?”
“So, it is over.” Theone’s tone was sympathetic. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“Are you?” Vienne asked bitterly.
“I am, and if you’re going to have that sort of attitude all afternoon, you can go the hell home.”
The two of them stared at each other for what felt like eternity, then Vienne felt the beginning of a smile. She fought it, but when she saw Theone’s wide lips twitch as well, she gave in. They shared a chuckle.
After their laughter faded, Theone poured more tea. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“There’s very little to talk about. Trystan and I were lovers a long time ago. We were lovers again a few weeks ago. Now we are nothing. Business associates.” She couldn’t even refer to him as her partner because he made it clear he didn’t want to be that either.
A delicate silver spoon, held by her long slender fingers, stirred the tea. “You are unhappy with this change in circumstances?”
“I am,” Vienne admitted. It felt so good to say it aloud. “Very unhappy, but unfortunately I am at a loss as to how to change them again.”
Theone set the spoon aside. “Strange as it may seem coming from me, I find honesty works best in this case. I’ve yet to meet a man who can refuse a genuine admission of lust from a woman.”
“It’s much more complicated than lust.”
Dark green eyes lit with understanding. “You love him.”
Vienne nodded, anxiety unfurling in her stomach. The other woman had ammunition to use against her now.
“Then you had better do something about it. It is my belief that precious few of us are fortunate to find someone to love and hopefully love us in return. You get your claws into that man, Vienne, and don’t you dare let go.”
It was such a passionate speech that Vienne startled at it. “You did not love your husband, did you?”
Her friend’s smile turned a combination of bitter and sad. “I imagine I did once. He seemed like my knight in shining armor when he first started sniffing around. I knew what he was when I married him, and went into the union willingly. But am I sad that he is dead? No. I’m glad for it. God help me, but I laughed when I found him at the bottom of the stairs. I laughed with the sheer joy of a slave tasting freedom.”
Vienne could not imagine the feeling, but she didn’t judge Theone for feeling as she had. She had no idea what the woman’s marriage had been like. She had met women in her life whose husbands used them in the most awful ways, and Theone had the same look in her eyes as they—a haunted flatness.
“But he was nice in the beginning?”
Her friend paused in thought, then nodded. “He was, yes. He was married when I first met him. Now I shudder to think of how that first wife might have died; her passing was rather convenient. He would come to the theater with gifts, saying pretty words. Before his wife died, he used to tell me how he wished we could be together, but that it could never be.”
Those words sent a chill down Vienne’s spine. Marcel had said the same thing to her.
“He was so charming and attentive. I truly believed he might care for me. Perhaps he did in his twisted, debauched way. Men will say anything to get what they want, I’ve learned. But they show their true colors when it comes down to making a choice. A man who is only in it for his own pleasure will simply walk away when things begin to disintegrate.”
Like Marcel turned his back on her. She hadn’t truly believed it when Trystan said as much, but hearing it from Theone . . . well, it was different hearing such truth from a woman so similar to herself, who had been through so much.
“Your husband came to my club on occasion. He seemed very charming.”
Theone’s mouth twisted as though she tasted something bitter. “Yes, he was good at that. Charming and flirtatious with everyone but me.”
Had Marcel mistreated Marguerite? Was that why she acted as she had? Her mind couldn’t wrap around that just yet, she was still trying to work through the facts that he might not have been the one in the wrong. Her family had sided with Marcel over her. What sort of people did that?
But if she was honest—no one forced her to leave home. They were angry and things were said in that anger, but her mother hadn’t told her to leave, only that it would be easier if she went away. Her other sisters had been upset with her—very much so—but they had been upset with Marcel as well. Only Marguerite had been enraged enough to say she wished Vienne had never been born.
She had forgiven her sister those words because she had hurt her, and now she realized the older woman had only reacted to the discovery that not only had her husband betrayed her, but her sister as well. It must have been heartbreaking.
Marguerite had told her to get out of her sight, to stay away from her and from Marcel. Perhaps it hadn’t been solely a punishment. Perhaps Marguerite was trying to protect her.
These assumptions were too much. She couldn’t entertain them anymore. She had no way of knowing what her sister had tried to do, or how she felt. The only thing she could cling to was the realization that she was not the sole owner of the blame. That was enough for now.
“Vienne?”
She blinked and lifted her head. For a moment she forgot where she was, then she saw Theone’s concerned face. “You knew someone like my husband, didn’t you?”
She frowned and gave her head a shake to clear it. “Somewhat. A man I thought hung the moon and stars. Now I’m not so certain.”
“In my experience, uncertainty is the same as no, but women such as we tend to say yes anyway. It’s only when we are certain that we freeze or run in the opposite direction, because we’re so very afraid someone might love us and then see how very unlovable we are.”
“Yes,” she agreed a little breathlessly. “Exactly.”
A coy smile curved her new friend’s lips. “May I let you in on a little secret, Vienne?”
“Of course.”
“You and I are not awful people. Selfish at times, but not terrible. We are all about self-preservation and protecting ourselves, but we deserve love, Vienne. Don’t you ever doubt that. Regardless of how much it terrifies me to think of someone depending on me, trusting in me, I truly want to find it someday. You’re an intelligent woman—don’t let fear keep you alone. This world is so much more pleasant when you have someone to share it with.”
Good Lord, how many people were going to give her advice in the arena of love? Was it a conspiracy or a sign from the Almighty? Surely it could not be a coincidence. She didn’t believe in coincidence.
But if it wasn’t coincidence, that meant she had to take the advice and consider it carefully. It meant letting her guard down and trusting not only someone else but herself. She could do that in business, but wasn’t so good at it in her personal life.
Still, she had let Trystan get away once. She would not do it again. The only question now was if he would be willing to give her another chance.
T
rystienne’s was close enough to completion that Trystan went ahead and took care of selling a large portion of his shares to Grey and Archer. Since he handled their investments, it was a simple procedure. He decided to keep some for himself, since he wasn’t foolish enough to let his emotions cheat him out of a good investment. After all the work and planning, all the effort he put into becoming Vienne’s partner, it felt oddly sad—wrong somehow—to just give it away. All right, so he sold it and made a bit of a profit, but that wasn’t the point. It was as though he had just sold a piece of himself—his soul.
He had fully expected Vienne to offer to buy him out. It was obvious she wanted nothing to do with him. Even though they often worked on site at the same time, he rarely saw her and spoke to her even less. One day she told him that she needed him rested, and his heart had given a painful thump. He almost made a ribald joke, but then he remembered that wouldn’t be appreciated. They were nothing to each other now—only associates, and that was it.