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.”
“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.
Her heart thumped harder.
She had picked up the glass of sherry, and now she lifted it to her lips and drank the lot. The sweet, strong taste with the burn of the underlying alcohol momentarily took her breath away, and then she choked, pressing her hand to her throat.
He was on his feet and with her in a moment, one hand on her back ready to thump out whatever was choking her. She turned to peer up at him with streaming eyes.
“Marietta? What is it? What—” But then he must have caught the smell of the sherry on her breath, because his expression changed from concern to amazement.
“Marietta?”
She gulped, managed to catch her breath. “Well, you didn’t want it, did you?”
He shook his head at her. “Marietta,” he said quite gently, “if you need to drink sherry for courage then you should not be doing this. You should not be here. We can stop, right now. Do you hear me?”
She drew back from him, although he did not remove his palm from her back. “You don’t understand. I have made up my mind and you can’t change it.”
“No,” he said angrily, “I don’t understand. Do you really want strange men doing this to you?” he demanded, pulling her suddenly into his arms.
Marietta landed against his chest with a whoof, and found herself staring up into his dark eyes.
“Doing this?” he demanded, still angry, and bent his head.
And kissed her.
Marietta was surprised, but only for a moment. The feel of his body against her sent a shiver of excitement through her like no other. And she really could feel him this time, almost as if she were naked. The broad strength of his chest and his arms, the narrow power of his hips. His mouth might be hot and desperate, but it was also passionate and needy, and she reached up and wrapped her arms about his neck and held on.
This kiss was different from any of their previous ones. Max’s anger and passion were burning bright, and he had forgotten he was a gentleman who needed to retain control—he had forgotten he was the teacher. He kissed her as if he wanted to, as if he wanted her, and he no longer cared why they were doing this.
Her mouth was so sweet, so willing. Max felt as if he were drowning in the touch of her, the taste of her. He felt the swell of her breasts pressed to his chest, so soft and pliable without the hard shell of her stays. Everywhere his hands touched, he felt her. The fine curve of her waist, and the outward flare of her hips—whoever had dressed her knew what they were about. In a moment she’d be on the floor with him on top of her, and any chance he had to turn her mind to his way of thinking, to stop them both from doing something irrevocable, would be gone.
For a dangerous second he teetered on the edge, and then somehow he reeled them both back to safer ground.
Max lifted his mouth from hers. He was breathing quickly and so was she, her eyes closed, a hectic flush across her cheeks, her mouth swollen from his kisses. In her silk clothing that was hardly clothing at all, she looked wanton and accessible, but he knew the truth. Despite what she thought, Max knew she was no more cut out to be a courtesan than he.
“Ah Max…” she whispered, then swallowed, and tried again. “Max, would you say that you lost control then? Just a little bit?”
He frowned down at her. “Nonsense. I was fully in control.”
She smiled, her pink lips tilting up. “No, you weren’t.”
It was as if she was pleased that he had almost hoisted her onto the drinks table and plundered her. He wasn’t putting her off being a courtesan; he was feeding her delusions.
“Would you say I seduced you just then?” she went on, running a fingertip up his chest to his throat and smoothing the tanned skin.
He laughed angrily. “No, I would not.”
Disappointment flickered in her eyes, but the next moment she shrugged. “Oh. Well I think I did, a little. You kissed me then like you meant it, Max.”
He swore under his breath, just as there came a polite tap on the door, and Marietta gave him another secretive little smile as she called sweetly, “Come in.”
A procession of blank-faced servants carried in several trays of food and arranged the plates upon the table under the window, along with bottles in iced buckets. It was a meal for several, not just two, but he supposed the whole point of Aphrodite’s was excess. Excess in eating and drinking, and making love to beautiful and experienced women.
With a brief bow from the one in charge, the servants filed out again and closed the door behind them.
There was a silence, and then Marietta strolled over to the table. “Mmm,” she said, bending to take a sample from one of the dishes with her finger. “This looks delicious. I didn’t realize I was so hungry. All this looking seductive and being submissive, I suppose.”
He grunted. “Submissive! You’re hardly that.”
She ignored him, and instead slipped her finger between her lips to taste the food. Watching her, Max had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Arrogantly he had believed he was strong enough to do what was necessary tonight—either to talk some sense into her, or trap her with her desire for him. He had no doubt when he set out for Aphrodite’s that he was to be the eventual winner in this contest, that he would bend her to his will and she would finally see sense.
Marietta was no courtesan. She was made to be loved by one man, and he was beginning to think that he was that man. But he was being severely tested. What if it was Marietta who bowed him to her will, instead of the other way around? What if he ended up following her around like a lovestruck puppy?
What was it about this girl? Despite all the arguments to be made against what he was doing, he knew he would not stop. She had become an obsession. He wanted to save her, but the feelings driving him were deeper than that, darker than that. He knew he had little to offer her—his man of business had made it abundantly clear that his plans to reopen the mining venture on his Cornish property were shaky at best—but his need for her overr
ode good sense. It was visceral, meshed within him as if it were a part of him. All those years as the next Duke of Barwon, when he had been rich and handsome and fêted, no woman had caused more than a brief flutter of interest in his heart. And now he had found the woman in Marietta, but he no longer had anything with which to tempt her; no money and no position, no jewelry or fine things. Only himself, and their growing passion for each other.
Was it enough?
The food really was delicious. There was chicken vol-au-vent and roast pigeons and lobster, as well as a number of other meats, served with a heavily buttered dish of asparagus. There were lemon tarts, an orange soufflé, and ices in special glasses. Marietta saw to it that his plate was kept piled, offering him a taste of this and that, gazing at him expectantly as he sampled each dish and commented upon it, and trying not to argue with him over his choices. He appreciated that she was working very hard at being the perfect hostess, but it was difficult to concentrate on what he was eating when she was flitting backwards and forwards in a costume that fired his imagination. When she began to insist on removing his jacket and shoes he put a stop to it.
“Sit down, Marietta,” he said sharply. “You’re giving me indigestion.”
She sat down, looking dismayed. “I was only trying to make you comfortable,” she offered. “A good courtesan would make certain that her gentleman was comfortable.”
“No doubt, but as I’m as comfortable as I’m going to be, you can desist.”
She was silent for a little while. “You really are ungrateful, Max,” she said at last.
Max sighed and swallowed his mouthful.
“I need your help, and you did promise to give it. And it’s not as if you have to put yourself out much, is it? You just have to sit there and be pampered. I’m sure there are plenty of other men who would jump at the chance.”
Rules of Passion Page 20