Rules of Passion (5 page)

He cast up his eyes. “It had to happen one day,” he said. “Makes no difference, does it? You’re still my beautiful girl.”

Aphrodite laughed, pleased. Marietta watched the by-play between them. Clearly there was far more to the relationship of Aphrodite and Dobson than mistress and servant, but she didn’t have time to consider it, not now.

“May I wait for you, Aphrodite?” she pleaded. “I promise I won’t speak to any more gentlemen, and I’ll stay out of the way until you’re ready.” The journey to Berkley Square would be the ideal time to broach Aphrodite with her plans for the future.

The courtesan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You will not flirt with men like Lord Roseby?”

“Of course not,” she said innocently. “What an idea! I don’t like Lord Roseby very much, anyway.”

Aphrodite smiled. “He wasn’t very happy with you, was he, Marietta? You made him feel foolish, and gentlemen do not enjoy feeling like fools.”

“Why did he feel like that? Because he thought I was one of your protégés? That was his own fault. He didn’t ask me, he just presumed.”

Aphrodite shrugged noncommittally. “That and other reasons.” She glanced at Dobson, and some unspoken communication passed between them. “Very well, you may wait. Dobson, show my daughter into the smaller sitting room. And see that she stays there.”

Dismissed, Marietta followed Dobson to one of the doors leading into the vestibule. In a voice as artless as she could manage, she said, “Dobson, what is the scandal about Lord Roseby? Is he really a…a…”

“A bastard?” Dobson said with a matter-of-factness that was refreshing. “That’s what they say, miss. His father disinherited him, and as the estate and the title aren’t entailed, there was nothing he could do about it. Lord Roseby’s mother had been dead only a short while when his father came out and declared that Max had never been his son. Put it in all the newspapers and everything, refusing to allow the boy any further claim upon him, and acknowledging Max’s cousin, Harold, as the new heir.”

Marietta was genuinely shocked. “How cruel!”

“Maybe Lord Roseby’s Mama should have thought of that before she cuckolded the old man,”
Dobson retorted unsympathetically. “Now, you go in there, miss, and don’t you stir a whisker until Aphrodite comes for you. Got that?”

“Yes, Dobson,” Marietta replied meekly.

His mouth twitched as he closed the door.

Marietta settled down before the fire in the sitting room, and gazed into the flames. It seemed unfair that Max had been made to suffer for something that was not his fault. Such a misfortune was similar enough to her own situation to ensure her sympathy. She, too, had been looked down upon and socially ostracized by people who did not know her at all, just because of the circumstances of her birth. Why couldn’t it be as Vivianna was always saying it should be: that children ought to be loved for themselves and not reviled for the actions of their parents?

Sometimes life just wasn’t fair.

M
ax, Lord Roseby, would probably have agreed with her. Or maybe not. He was not presently inclined to agree with anything Marietta Greentree said. She was a confounded nuisance, not least because she had the bluest eyes he had ever seen and the most dazzling smile. He wanted to watch her face, especially when she was lying in his arms.

Well,
that
wasn’t going to happen now.

Max had been dreaming of an hour or two’s relaxation with one of Aphrodite’s more accomplished protégés, and instead he was left feeling tense and frustrated and more than a little foolish. He had wanted her.
Her
, Marietta, Aphrodite’s daughter.

He couldn’t have made a worse choice.

Despite her parentage, the girl was obviously an innocent playing with fire—he didn’t for a moment believe her claims that she was ruined—and that was the worst kind of complication for Max. As if he didn’t have enough problems, he would be accused
of tampering with a virgin. He could hear the gossips now…“Well, he wasn’t really a gentleman, was he, what can one expect?” Or, “He’s taken up with a drab’s daughter. Like will find like.”

Was Marietta really Aphrodite’s daughter?

Max swung his cane and strolled along the street. Now he set his mind to it, he recalled that there had been some scandal a few years ago. Something about the daughters of the famous courtesan being stolen as children and being found again when they were grown. The thing had been hushed up, though. He would have to ask around for the details, refresh his memory—Harold would be the obvious choice—Harold knew everything about everyone. Except that Harold was now, supposedly, his enemy. Harold, who had supplanted him as the heir to his father’s title, Duke of Barwon, and the sprawling Valland House in Surrey, where both Max and Harold had grown up. Not to mention the old man’s fortune.

“Ill-gotten gains,” Max muttered to himself. The old man had inherited the title when he was hardly more than a child, but the money had all been frittered away by his gambling addicted family. He had set off to the West Indies and made his own fortune, although there had always been a bit of a smell about the whole thing. Max had asked, but his father would never discuss it. “Money is money,” he’d say testily, “who cares where it’s come from?”

True enough, money was money, and it was money Max needed to keep himself afloat.

He would have to sell his mother’s house in Cornwall. The thought was a bleak one. Blackwood had been in her family since medieval times, but he could not see how he could hold on to it and remain in
London. Unless he left London altogether—why not, it was too painful here anyway, with so many reminders of his old life. Then he could retire to the isolation of Cornwall and live as a recluse.

The image suited his mood exactly, even though he knew it was awfully indulgent. And he’d probably get bored doing nothing but brooding. Max sighed.

“Perhaps something can be done,” Harold had said awkwardly, last time they met. “You know how rotten this makes me feel, old chap. Don’t do anything rash. I won’t let you go under.”

“I can’t rely on you for the rest of my life, Harold.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me, old boy.”

“It’s not your fault,” Max said, and it was true. It wasn’t Harold’s fault. Max’s mother had evidently been carrying him when she wed his father, and now the truth had come out. Max was disinherited, and as the eldest male issue of the duke’s brother, Harold was legally the next in line.

A tragic tale, yes, but then again Harold was not to blame. Just as Max wasn’t to blame. One day he had been Lord Roseby, heir to a dukedom and an estate in Surrey and a fortune in funds—the world had been at his feet. And the next…Everything, his prospects, his position in polite society, had disintegrated like ashes in the wind.

The deed had been done at Valland House, during a family supper to celebrate the new year. They had been chatting and laughing, his stepsister Susannah had been playing the piano, and then his father had risen to his feet and cleared his throat. He always made a toast at these gatherings, paying homage to the dying year and looking forward to the one to come. But this time he had not raised his glass, in
stead he had reached into his pocket and taken out a letter and begun to read. The letter had been written by the duchess some years ago, and Max did not want to believe that she ever expected it to be found and spoken aloud.

That letter had destroyed his life.

He hadn’t been able to remain in the room. His father hadn’t even looked at him as Max got to his feet and walked out, through the doorway and into the freezing night. He had walked in circles in the garden for hours, until Susannah and Harold found him and brought him in. But he had been numb, unable to speak or weep or rage. That had come later.

Max sighed, pushing aside the bad memories, and remembering instead Marietta’s soft hand in his. If he closed his eyes he could recall the scent of her hair, and the sight of her blue eyes staring up at him so boldly. Even now, standing still in the laneway, he felt his body tensing at the thought of her naked in his arms.

Blast it, he
had
been looking forward to spending the entire night with Marietta Greentree!

The blow came out of nowhere. A crashing thud to his temple. Max saw lights and then darkness washed over him. And then nothing at all.

Marietta’s head was nodding. It had been a very long day—Vivianna had begun her labor well before dawn and everyone had been in such a state of anxious anticipation they hadn’t been able to rest. Now, seated here in Aphrodite’s warm and comfortable parlor, she found herself slipping into sleep.

She was remembering the first time she met Aphrodite, at Greentree Manor, shortly after Vivianna married Oliver…

Beyond the windows in the drawing room the sun shone fitfully. Ominous clouds jostled on the horizon, where the moors rose bleakly to meet them. But here in the sitting room the fire was crackling in the fireplace and the lamps were lit, and the occupants were awaiting their visitor.

“It is such a long journey, and she did not arrive until very late last night,” Lady Greentree said calmly, making another stitch in her embroidery. “I know you haven’t seen her for fourteen years, my dear. Since you and your sisters were taken from her by the baby farmer Mrs. Slater. You may find it a little strange at first, but believe me when I tell you your mother is very eager to reestablish her relationship with you, as far as that will be possible…”

“Oh, but where is she!” cried Marietta, jumping to her feet and all but dancing in her impatience. “I cannot bear to wait another moment!”

Francesca rolled her eyes, but Marietta wasn’t deceived—her younger sister was rigid with nerves.

Just then the door opened and the woman they had all been anxiously awaiting entered the room.

Aphrodite stood for a heartbeat. Perhaps it was a habit learned in her younger days, when being noticed was so essential to making her living, or perhaps she was just overwhelmed by the moment. In her black silks and diamonds she was magnificent, a creature from a dark fairytale, and Marietta longed to be just like her.

“Marietta, Francesca, come and meet your mother,” Lady Greentree sounded as tranquil as usual, but even she had an edge of strain to her smile. Lady Greentree had been their “mother” since Marietta was two years old, and now she must give way to another. But it was ac
cepted by all, including Aphrodite, that nothing in their lives would change—all the courtesan was asking for was to be acknowledged by her daughters.

Suddenly shy now, Marietta moved toward Aphrodite. “Ma’am,” she said, and curtseyed.

Aphrodite held out her hands, and took those of Marietta warmly in her own. “Marietta, you are grown so beautiful! But then you were always a pretty child.”

“Ma’am.” Francesca stood well back, not as inclined as Marietta to welcome her mother.

“Francesca, my baby. It has been so long…”

But Francesca did not come forward, glancing sideways to the door and clearly wishing herself elsewhere. Marietta felt no such trepidation. As she looked into the face of the famous courtesan she saw that there were tears in her eyes. Tears, because she had found her daughters again! As much as she loved Lady Greentree, this woman was her mother, and suddenly Marietta knew she wanted to be just like her.

In her sleep Marietta smiled. Had she really been so young? The image of herself then seemed as far removed from her present self as the moon. Gradually her memories gave way to dreams. She was floating high above London. Only this time she didn’t have a gas balloon to support her. She was riding in a carriage pulled by four horses, and the horses had wings. This was unlikely enough, but even more bizarre was the fact that she was seated beside Max, Lord Roseby, and he was sucking on her fingers. “We’re going to Mount Venus,” he said, “you’ll like it there.”

Marietta was enjoying this unusual but rather nice
fantasy, when a sound catapulted her back to her chair in the parlor. There were voices in the vestibule, and they were getting louder. And then a shout, and footsteps, running. Startled, Marietta sat up, quickly returning to full wakefulness. She left her comfortable chair and hurried towards the door.

Dobson had told her not to leave the room, but Marietta didn’t think his instructions would apply in the case of an emergency. And, she thought, as she opened the door and her eyes widened at the sight that confronted her, an emergency was just what was happening.

Dobson was kneeling on the marble floor, supporting a man’s upper torso against his red-coated chest with one arm, while he pressed a large cloth to the wound on the man’s head with the other. There was blood, lots of blood. A servant was standing, her face very white, holding more cloths, while another was clutching a wiry boy by the arm. The door to the street was wide open and cold air blew in, bringing with it the wet smell of a spring shower.

Marietta went to the door and shut it. Then she came and stooped over the injured man, intending to ask Dobson if there was anything she could do to help. She froze. The leather shoes, the fine dark trousers, the buttoned jacket now dirtied and torn. They were all familiar.

It was Max!

She seemed to turn icy and then hot. The room shimmered briefly before it righted itself. The man in Dobson’s arms was Max! His face, beneath the bloodied cloth, was pallid, his hair matted. Marietta’s hand hovered, and then she snatched it back, for suddenly she did not dare to touch him.

“What happened?” she whispered.

“This errand boy here found him in the lane,” Dobson said without looking up from his task. “He came and got me.”

Only a short time ago Max had been holding her hand in his, his mouth against her skin, his dark eyes promising her all sorts of things. And now he was lying, hurt, unconscious.

“Was he in an accident? A fight?” she said.

Dobson reached for a clean cloth, and Marietta saw the gash on Max’s temple bleeding sluggishly, and shivered. “Weren’t no accident, and he’s not been robbed. And take a look at his hands,” he suggested. “That’s the way to tell if a man’s been in a stoush.”

Tentatively Marietta touched one of Max’s large hands where it lay, fingers curled, on the floor beside her. He felt cold, and instinctively she tried to warm his flesh with hers.

“Are his knuckles bruised?” Dobson asked.

She turned his hand, inspecting the long fingers with their square, capable-looking nails. “No.”

“Then he wasn’t in a fight. I reckon he was set upon while he was walking, and knocked down with no warning.”

“Who could have done such a brutal thing?”

“Could have been any number of coves.”

“Let me go,” the boy suddenly whined. “I done you a good turn, ain’t I? I need to get back to the bonesetters. There’ll be gen’lemen wantin’ fares.”

“Bonesetters?” Marietta said.

“Hackney coaches,” Dobson explained.

“Oh.”

Dobson looked at the boy, his face grim. “You didn’t see nothing?”

“Not a thing,” the boy said quickly, meeting his eyes. “Just the gen’leman, lyin’ on the ground. I recognized him, from fetching him a bonesetter a couple o’ times before. Knew he’d come from the club.”

Dobson nodded. “You did a good deed. Good deeds are rewarded, remember that.” He glanced at the servant who still held the errand boy. “Take him to Madame and tell her I said he was to have a crown.”

The servant’s eyes popped. “A crown, Mr. Dobson!”

“Yes. He’s saved a life tonight. I reckon he deserves a crown.”

The boy crowed as he was led off.

“Any sign of the leech yet?” This to the servant with the cloths.

“Not yet, Mr. Dobson.”

“Right then, we’d better get the gen’leman upstairs and into a bed. No point in leaving him down here in the cold.”

“What can I do?” Marietta asked instantly.

Dobson turned to her with warm gray eyes. “What are you like at bandaging, Miss Marietta? I’ve done some of that on the battlefield in me time, but I don’t have a woman’s gentle touch, if you get my meaning.”

“I-I’m certain I can manage,” Marietta said, because he seemed to expect it of her.

“Goodo. Then follow me.”

With the help of a burly footman, Max was carried upstairs and into a bedroom at the far end of the gallery. The room was neat and clean and plainly decorated. There was nothing suggestive in the cream quilt or the pale chintz curtains or the white
porcelain jug and bowl—not at all what Marietta had expected from a house of ill repute.

Was that another flutter of disappointment she felt? Had she really expected it to be so shocking?

While the servant lit a fire, Max’s boots were removed by Dobson and the footman, and Marietta was sent for warm water and more cloths. By the time she returned Max had been put to bed. She set about gently cleaning the wound on his head—beginning at his temple where the gash ran up into his hair and the thick curls were stiff and matted with dried blood. She hadn’t realized before how curly his hair was, or how long—it hung in dark twists over his brow and kissed his nape. It seemed a shame she had to cut some of it to get at the wound.