Rules of Passion (20 page)

When she told them that, though, Elena smirked
as if she knew better. It was Maeve who answered, “He’ll be gob-smacked,” she said bluntly.

Marietta raised an eyebrow. “Gob-smacked?”

“You’ll take his breath away,” Elena explained.

Marietta thought about that. “I can’t imagine it. He’ll probably give me one of his looks, as if he’s the duke and I’m his slave girl…
What
are you doing?”

This last was addressed to Elena’s assistant, who was kneeling at her feet, adjusting the hem of her trousers.

“Elena says they’re too long,” the woman said in a voice very like her mistress. “I’m to take them up an inch so that the gentleman can get a good look at your ankles.”

Marietta felt like resting her foot on the woman’s chest and giving her a hard push. She controlled herself. If Aphrodite heard she was being difficult then she might refuse to help her any more and her dreams would be quashed. So she smiled and nodded and waited passively while they finished. But in her heart she was dismayed that she had to pretend to be something other than herself.

“He will be here soon,” Maeve called out in warning, as Elena dabbed jasmine scented oil in places Marietta had never thought of. The time had flown—when Marietta glanced at the window she realized that it was growing dark.

“Am I ready?” She looked wildly around at them. Suddenly, instead of being a cross she had to bear, this little group of women had become a crutch she needed. She knew that her near-nakedness under the thin silken covering was making her feel vulnerable. Safety was in her voluminous skirts and petticoats, with the buttons to her throat, and the sleeves
tight to her wrists. The stays, chemises, drawers, and sometimes, at Greentree Manor, the warm flannel against her skin, had been a form of armor.

Now, she may as well be naked, she decided miserably.

“Miss Marietta?” It was Elena, and her face was no longer unfriendly—there was even a hint of kindness in her eyes. “You can be whatever you want to be. Remember that. The choice is entirely yours.”

While Marietta was still trying to work out exactly what she meant, Maeve took her hand and led her toward the door. “It’ll be all right, you’ll see, Miss Marietta. Now come upstairs. Madame’s put you and your gentleman in the Cupid Room.” She gave Marietta a conspiratorial wink. “Just wait until you see it.”

T
he room was beautiful.

Marietta swirled on her bare feet, head tilted back as she gazed up at the painted ceiling. The artist had made a blue sky awash with angels; they swooped and dived, their draperies tangled about their limbs, displaying daring amounts of flesh. Darting among the angels were cupids, small round creatures with wicked smiles, their bows and arrows aimed downwards, toward the occupants of the Cupid Room.

“It is an homage to love.” Aphrodite had come upon them quietly.

Marietta turned to face her, and her mother smiled at the bedazzled expression on her face.

“I do not think you will find it difficult in this room,
mon petit puce
, to play at being a courtesan. Think of this as your stage; you have only to act your part.”

Perhaps Marietta did understand what she meant,
and Elena, too. They wanted her to let go of her doubts and restrictions, all the things she had learned since she was a child, all the rules she had followed since she was a girl—well, most of the time. Let them go and be herself. Except that Marietta was having difficulty knowing who that was.

Her gaze slipped past her mother, moving over plum velvet curtains and upholstery, and the pièce de résistance, the four-poster bed swathed in apricot satin and weighed down with cushions. Feelings of uncertainty swamped her. Could she make Max forget he was a gentleman who didn’t want her to be a courtesan, even for a few moments? And could she forget she had been brought up a lady and she was edging dangerously closer to falling in love with him?

Aphrodite must have sensed her change of mood. “Maeve.” She did not take her eyes off Marietta. “Go and dress. You are required in the salon.”

Maeve left them alone, shooting an encouraging smile at Marietta as the door closed behind her.

“You have doubts?” Aphrodite spoke quietly.

She shook her head automatically. “No! That is…I do not doubt what I want to do, only my ability to do it.”

“You do not find Max attractive?”

“Yes, I do.” Max was like a storm, ready to pound her into compliance. And she must do everything in her power to stop him.

“You must not underestimate him, Marietta. He is a proper man, do you understand?”

“I-I think so.”

“Now, do not fret.” Aphrodite rested a cool hand on her shoulder. “You will see. Everything will sort
itself out. Perhaps you are thinking too hard. It is better in these situations if you don’t think. Take a deep breath and allow yourself to
feel
instead.”

Marietta took a deep breath but nothing happened. “I will try.”

“Good. Remember.” She held up her finger. “You are strangers. He is no longer Max, he is simply a man you desire.”

Her mother had been peering anxiously into her face, a little crease between her brows, and Marietta forced herself to smile as if everything was perfectly all right.

Aphrodite nodded and moved away, running a finger along the edge of a table as she went, checking that her servants were doing their job. “I will leave you to await Lord Roseby—he will be here very soon. Ring twice for the food when you want it sent up. Ring three times if you wish to bring the evening to a halt.” She turned and fixed Marietta with a dark, intent look. “You can stop this whole thing whenever you wish, Marietta. No one but you and I will ever know about it. You do realize that?”

Marietta’s smile wavered at the corners. “Thank you, I will bear it in mind.”

“Then good luck, Marietta.” Aphrodite closed the door, leaving her alone at last.

Marietta, arms folded about her exposed midriff, feet bare on the exquisite carpet, wandered the beautiful room like a nymph in a fairytale. She avoided the bed and moved to where there was a painting hanging on the wall. A beautiful woman was lounging upon a grassy bank spiked with flowers, her dark hair flowing about her, her diaphanous gown displaying rather than hiding her charms—rather
like Marietta’s. Cupid peeped from behind a bush, his pink cheeks bulging with mirth, his bow and arrow raised to pierce the heart of the maiden, or the man who knelt close by her.
He
was fully dressed, of course, his hand hovering above her breast but not quite touching, although from the expression on his face Marietta could tell he was thinking about it. Imagining it. Looking forward to it.

There was an intensity to the painting that held her spellbound. The man reaching out to touch the woman, the woman clearly wanting him to, and cupid ready with his arrow to once more confuse lust with love. Marietta was so intent upon it that she was oblivious to the door opening behind her, and Max stepping into the room.

Lord Roseby is invited to an Anonymous Evening of Pleasure at Aphrodite’s Club…

The invitation had been lavish with curlicues and written on fine paper. Max wasn’t surprised to receive it, but he pretended to deliberate over accepting it. His decision to distract Marietta from her ambition to be a courtesan by binding her to him was a desperate one—he had had time to consider the matter more carefully since their meeting in the coach, and he told himself that he only intended to go through with it if words failed to persuade her.

Tonight was the ideal opportunity to speak with her again. And he wanted to see her; he wanted to save her from herself.

So here he stood, stranded amongst a host of angels and a quiver of cupids. For a moment he thought the room was empty. The bed caught his eye,
but he dragged his gaze away and instead inspected the draperies and the sofa with its velvet cushions and the lurid painting on the far wall. A nymph was about to be seduced, or molested, by a soulful courtier—he wasn’t certain which, and his wits left him before he had time to decide. Because there was a woman standing in front of the painting.

She was dressed in something pale and transparent that fell in folds about her and still managed to display her curves as if she were naked. Marietta Greentree, with her hair falling in blond waves down her back and gleaming like gold in the subdued lamplight.

Max felt his head spinning and his body hardening. It was something he had come to expect when he was near Marietta, but it wasn’t a good sign if he was to keep his mind sharp. He needed to retain some sort of control if he were to use his skills and experience in one final attempt to talk her out of her ridiculous plan.

“Marietta?”

She turned around like a startled angel, the silk floating about her, the edges of the robe she wore flipping back. Her fair curls tumbled about her shoulders and down over her breasts and…He realized he could see the pale globes through the paper-thin cloth, just before she pulled the robe back over her, holding it together as if it would somehow protect her.

From what, from him?

The idea gave him pause. He looked at her more carefully, and realized that at the moment she looked as if she was about to bolt from the room. Frightened.
Of him? Or of this whole scenario she had set in motion. Perhaps she was ready to forget about her wild plan, after all, and he wouldn’t have to seduce her.

Damn it!

Marietta narrowed those bright blue eyes at him. “Max, you’re scowling. And you’ve taken off your bandage!”

He had, although Mrs. Pomeroy had fixed a small covering over the healing wound on his forehead. In fact, Max had dressed very carefully for this meeting. Black coat and trousers, silk shirt and necktie, his pocketwatch tucked into his waistcoat. Disinherited he may be, but Max had been born and bred to be a duke, and tonight he looked every inch one.

She was eyeing him admiringly, her face open and without guile, as if they were the best of friends. As if there was no need to guard herself with him. He wished she didn’t trust him like that, because Max knew that he didn’t want to be her friend. How could he be, when he was planning to trick her out of her heart’s desire? She would hate him for it if she knew.

He made himself smile as if nothing was wrong. “So, what is the program for this evening, Marietta? Act One, the gentleman arrives. Act Two…?”

“The gentleman is seated and made comfortable. This way, Lord Roseby.” She curtseyed and beckoned him towards the fireplace.

Max followed her to the sofa bursting with cushions, trying not to watch the sway of her hips beneath the silken garment that wafted about her like a zephyr. Bloody hell, if he narrowed his eyes he could see the shape of her bottom! No underclothing then.
He sank down onto the overstuffed seat and resisted the urge to mop his brow.

“A drink, my lord?” she asked him sweetly, in a submissive tone completely unlike her usual bossy one.

“Brandy, thank you.” A drink might help to strengthen his resolve, and it would give her something to do other than what he feared she planned to do. Keep her busy, he thought, that was the thing.

He watched her as she trotted off to a table full of glass decanters. Her hand hovered uncertainly over one and then another. Finally she lifted a stopper and poured a glass, and carried it carefully back to him, a sycophantic smile plastered on her face.

Max laughed, he couldn’t help it. “You look as if you’re about to have a tooth pulled, Marietta.”

Her smile gave way to a scowl. “Be quiet. I’m meant to be submissive and you’re not helping, Max.”

“Good,” he retorted, and took a sip of the brandy. Only it wasn’t brandy, it was sherry, and he nearly spat it out, only just remembering in time that he was a gentleman. He swallowed with a violent shudder, and handed the glass back.

Marietta was watching him in amazement.

“That was sherry,” he said.

She frowned, sniffed the liquor remaining in the glass. “It looks the same color as brandy. I don’t drink spirits, Max, so how am I supposed to know?”

Max groaned.

“Something to eat then?” she asked him helpfully. “There is a…a succulent repast awaiting us.”

“Is there indeed?” His gaze slid down over her; he couldn’t seem to help it. She was wearing trousers under the robe, transparent silken trousers, like a
harem girl, and above that a tight little blouse that didn’t quite cover her smooth stomach. There were no petticoats or stays to mold and hide her true shape. All those delightfully opulent curves belonged to Marietta Greentree.

She became aware of his inspection, and pulled the robe together again, eyeing him suspiciously. “They made me wear this,” she said. “Do you like it?”

“Do I like it?” he managed, his voice a little hoarse. “Why wouldn’t I like it?”

“I don’t know. Because it’s very daring and you’re a gentleman, or so you keep telling me.”

“Well I do like it, Marietta. Very much.”

“Are you going to kiss me again?” she whispered, her eyes darkening.

“Probably,” he admitted. “Yes, I am going to kiss you.”

She was staring back at him, and glancing down he realized that her feet were bare, the toenails painted pink. He felt as if the ground rocked beneath him. Somehow he kept himself on the sofa, kept his hands off her…

“Aphrodite says that you can touch me, but only from the waist up,” she said, and then looked as if she wished she hadn’t.

“Not your feet then?” he made a joke of it, but now he was really in trouble. Why in God’s name had she told him that? Didn’t she know, didn’t she understand? But then he looked into Marietta’s dazzling blue eyes and knew that that was the thing. She didn’t.

Max had a very odd look on his face, Marietta decided. As if he shouldn’t be out of his bed yet. Perhaps his wound was bad again, perhaps he had a
headache? And then she remembered. This was where he had been attacked—how could she have been so silly as to bring him back to the scene of his pain and suffering? Of course he was upset!

“I’m so sorry, Max,” she breathed, coming forward to stand before him. She reached to take his hand in hers, holding it tightly, and rested her other hand against his brow.

His eyes were a little glazed. “Sorry?” he managed. Clearly he was in the throes of remembering the suffering he had undergone.

“I forgot, how could I have forgotten! It was here that you were attacked. I should never have let you come back so soon.”

Max blinked, and seemed to regain his senses a little. “Not here. In the laneway,” he reminded her.

“Yes, but it’s close by. Do you want to go home? Perhaps we should call it off.”

“No.” He swallowed. He couldn’t go through this again. Get it over with, he thought. And then his eyes dropped down and he realized that he could see her breasts, clearly outlined, and the darker rosy circles at their tips, and he closed his eyes and lay back on the sofa.

“Max!” she was fluttering around him like a moth, but he didn’t move or make a sound. He couldn’t. He kept thinking one thought, and there wasn’t room enough for another one in his head. He had permission to touch her from the waist up. He had
permission
…

“Max!” She was frantic. In a moment she’d be calling for the servants, for Dobson, and the whole nightmare would begin again.

Max pulled himself together. “I’m all right,” he
said. “I…perhaps I need some of that succulent repast now, Marietta.”

She eyed him uneasily, but he straightened his cuffs and crossed his legs, and even managed a little smile. He didn’t look normal, though—he knew his eyes were wild.

“Very well then,” she said. “If you’re sure. Don’t get up, just stay right there. I’ll…I’ll feed you.”

He whimpered, and she glanced at him anxiously over her shoulder as she went to ring the bell—as if she expected him to fall over.

“Are you certain you are well enough…?”

He sighed. The truth wasn’t always a good thing, but perhaps in this case she deserved to hear it. “Marietta, I am alone in a room with a beautiful girl, and she has hardly any clothes on. No, I am not well. I am trying to stop myself from being extremely ungentlemanlike.
Now
do you understand?”

Marietta opened her mouth, then closed it again. Then she said, “Oh.”

“Yes,” Max replied grimly. “Oh.”

Marietta hurried to ring the bell, but her heart was pounding. Max had been staring at her, his eyes running over her in a way that she found quite disturbing. Of course he wasn’t used to seeing her like this, but his gaze was like a touch, and in fact she had begun to imagine how his hands would feel, curling about her waist and then sliding up, to cup the weight of her breasts.