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 expected. 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 desperate, 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 s
peak 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—”
“Henri,” Aphrodite said softly, in warning. Her beringed hand came to rest on Marietta’s shoulder. “I have come to tell my daughter that Lord Roseby has expressed a wish to go home. The doctor has just examined him and he says it will be safe for him to do so, and right now Dobson is arranging for his coach to come and collect him—I think it will be more comfortable for him to be in familiar surroundings.”
“Oh.” Marietta glanced from one to the other, her head still reeling from Henri’s disclosures. “I am glad he is better.”
“You should go with him,” Aphrodite said levelly.
Marietta met her eyes, trying to read them, but there was no clue. Perhaps Aphrodite was genuinely concerned for Max’s well-being, or perhaps she was giving Marietta the chance to begin practicing on Max.
What would he say when she told him?
He’d say no, of course he would. Well, she would have to find some way to persuade him to say yes.
“Does he want me to go with him?” she asked tentatively.
“Psht! What Lord Roseby wants is of no importance, mon petit puce. You will insist upon it.”
Insist upon it. That sounded promising. Maybe she could bully Max into doing as she wished…or maybe not.
Max had no idea yet that he was to be the lock she must open to fulfill her goal. Marietta could not help but feel a little weak with dread when she imagined what he would say and do when he did.
Chapter 5
When Marietta and Aphrodite reached the vestibule, Max’s coach had already arrived and was waiting outside. It was, she thought, a very nice coach for a disinherited duke, with an insignia on the side to show who it had once belonged to, and a large coachman in uniform holding the horses. Just at that moment two burly footmen appeared in the gallery, carrying Lord Roseby between them. Dobson came up the rear, directing the awkward group as they descended the stairs. Max was dressed in the same torn and muddied clothing he had worn last night, his face was white and drawn, and he looked rather sick. But his mouth was set in those arrogant, stubborn lines that Marietta was coming to know so well.
The disinherited duke was clearly set on getting his way, whether it was good for him or not.
“Marietta is going to accompany Lord Roseby,” Aphrodite said to Dobson.
“Yes, Madame.” The only sign that Dobson was surprised by this revelation was a faint lift of his eyebrows.
Not so Max. There was no mistaking his feelings on the matter. “No, she is not,” he said emphatically.
“Yes, I am,” Marietta retorted, trying to reign in her impatience. “You look like you’re at death’s door, Max. What if you were to have a-a relapse on the journey home? You need me there to take care of you, and that is just what I mean to do.”
“Take care of me!” But clearly raising his voice hurt his head and he sensibly lowered it. “I don’t need help,” he said through clenched teeth.
“You do. What are you afraid of? I promise you I have no intention of ravishing you in your carriage.”
He laughed, and then groaned, but whether from pain or sheer frustration Marietta didn’t know. She pretended it was from the former, and murmured solicitously as she followed them outside to the coach, and helped to make him comfortable inside. There were an array of cushions and bolsters that someone had thoughtfully placed on the seats, and a travel rug, which she tucked around him fussily while he stared at her with haunted eyes.
“For pity’s sake,” he whimpered, “leave me alone.”
“You should have stayed in bed, Max. I did warn you but you wouldn’t listen.”
He fixed her with a look, his eyes bright through the screen of his dark lashes. Marietta had often heard the saying if looks could kill, but she had never really understood its true meaning—until now.
“You may not believe this, Miss Greentree, but knowing you were right does not alleviate my present condition,” he said. “Why couldn’t one of my servants have accompanied me home? Where is Pomeroy?”
“I don’t know where Pomeroy is. Perhaps he was busy.”
Max didn’t bother to answer that, instead he closed his eyes with grim determination, and kept them shut.
Marietta smiled to herself, and leaned back against the soft squabs as the coach set off. It was very selfish of her, but perhaps Max’s injury would work to her advantage. If she could win a promise from him while he was in a weakened state so much the better for her plans.
As they traversed the streets of London, Marietta realized that she had no idea where Max lived. The question had never come up. She opened her mouth to ask him, but he was lying so stiffly opposite her, and was so obviously in pain, that she did not speak after all.
I know hardly anything about him.
The thought gave her pause. Although she felt a strange sense of recognition for Max, a feeling of familiarity, the truth was she and he were near strangers. When she acknowledged it, she felt afraid. Aphrodite had put Max forward as the man to practice upon, and it had seemed a simple task, but now…Marietta took a steadying breath, reminding herself that she didn’t have to do this. She could change her mind.
Well, couldn’t she?
And what then? Live her life in the shadows? Marietta knew she couldn’t bear that—it would not be living at all. As a courtesan she would have a full life, and yet be free of the fear of being emotionally hurt again. Her heart would be protected. Safe. The men who would be her companions would give her a chance to enjoy herself in ways that were material and physical, but she would not love them. Max might be a stranger, but he was no more so than the men she must learn to please if she became a courtesan.
Satisfied by her self-persuasion, at least for the moment, Marietta relaxed. Only to be shaken by a sudden crash outside the coach. Their driver shouted and swerved, and the wheels lurched violently. Marietta gripped the leather strap and looked out of the window in time to see an overturned timber cart, with lengths of wood spread across the roadway. Their coach driver must have run over the timber, but he was luckier, or cleverer, than some of those following.
A glance across at Max told her that he would not be impressed by her description of the scene. He had his eyes tight shut and his teeth gritted as agony lanced through the wound in his head. He would have been better off staying at Aphrodite’s, but Marietta could sympathize with his need to get home to familiar surroundings.
“Do you want me to—” she began.
“No.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to say yet,” she told him mildly.
“I don’t care.”
“I was going to ask if you wished to rest your head on my lap. It might be softer, and I could shield you from some of the worst bumps.”
Max glared at her, his eyes narrow slits gleaming with bad temper. “You wish me to rest my head on your lap? Would you like to stroke my brow, too?”
“Do you want me to?” Marietta asked, making her eyes wide and innocent.
He snorted, and then groaned as his headache stabbed sheer agony into the echoing vault that was his skull. Although Max had his share of illnesses and accidents—some would say more than his fair share of the latter—such pain was new to him. He’d never suffered from headaches—an innocuous name for what was currently going on in his head. Why on earth had he declined the doctor’s offer of a hefty dose of laudanum? What had he been
trying to prove? Sheer pigheaded pride and stubbornness he supposed, the same stubborn pride that was preventing him from resting his head on Marietta Greentree’s delightful lap.
Without warning the coach rattled over some uneven cobbles, and suddenly his pride dissolved. “Do it then,” he said between white lips. “Please.”
Looking concerned rather than triumphant, Marietta slipped into the seat beside him, and settled herself carefully among the cushions. She lifted his head, gently, and Max raised himself up with a muttered curse. After a brief, painful period of shuffling about, Max’s head was resting on her lap, Marietta was bracing one arm over his shoulders to help steady him, while her other hand lay upon his brow. Her fingers seemed naturally to curl in the threads of his dark hair, as she stroked it back from the bandage.
“How is that, Lord Roseby?” she said sweetly.
Was she teasing him? Mocking his arrogance? Max didn’t care. His pain was still excruciating but somehow it didn’t matter as much now that Marietta’s scent was all around him, and he was enveloped by her soft body. Max sighed as she brushed her fingertips lightly over his skin, almost a caress. Turning his face towards her, he snuggled closer. The swell of her breast was heavy against his cheek. As Marietta held him against the roll and jolt of the coach, he wanted to press even closer. He wanted to…to unbutton her bodice and put his lips on her bare skin. To run his tongue over the lush curves of her breasts.
The hot rush of desire surprised him, but at least it helped him to forget his headache.
“Your coach needs new springs,” she said in that know-it-all voice he hated.
“Can’t afford ’em,” he murmured against the stiff cloth of her bodice, and the soft swell of her breast. He had never felt anything quite so tantalizing, being this close and yet knowing that he was unable, incapable, of taking advantage of it.
Take advantage? Max blinked and tried to clear his mind. No, no, he didn’t take advantage, he was a gentleman. Wasn’t he? Yes, he was, despite his new scandalous status.
Rules of Passion Page 8