Sara Bennett

by Lessons in Seduction

  “Do you want to?”

  Vivianna blushed. “Yes.”

  Aphrodite smiled. “Good, then I think you should touch him. Rest your hand upon his arm, let your fingers trail across his sleeve. Brush them against his chest, lightly, innocently. Lean in close to him when you speak, so that he has your scent. When he touches the peak of your breast, touch his. Watch his face, learn what he likes best. Believe me, his brain will soon be boiling like a turnip in a pot.”

  Vivianna laughed.

  “And if he touches you again intimately, make him feel as if he has given you a most wonderful gift. Make him feel strong and important, Vivianna. Play upon his ego. Although it is you who will be controlling the moment, he must believe it is he.”

  Then, as if they had been discussing nothing more scandalous than the weather, Aphrodite rose and rang the bell for a servant, and they took tea and macaroons. Vivianna sipped and nibbled, but could not help but wonder what her family would think if they could see her now, taking tea in the home of a famous courtesan. Her mother would be shocked and appalled, probably, although her sisters would understand, particularly Marietta. Marietta was quite as daring as any young lady Vivianna knew.

  “Tell me a little of your family, Vivianna.” Aphrodite looked genuinely interested.

  “What will I tell you?”

  “Whatever you wish, mon chou.”

  Vivianna wondered whether she could tell Aphrodite not to call her “my cabbage,” but she supposed that would be impolite. Besides, she was growing used to it.

  So Vivianna spoke about Lady Greentree and their home, and the moors, and how Marietta was beautiful and daring but rather lacking in foresight—“Impulsive,” sighed Aphrodite—and how Francesca preferred the company of her dog and the moors and liked to see herself as a heroine of old—“Dramatic,” murmured Aphrodite.

  “While you, my dear Vivianna, you are passionate.”

  Vivianna laughed. “I fear so!”

  “All the more reason to protect your heart. When a heart like yours is broken, it will not mend so easily.”

  Vivianna nodded, accepting the warning and the kindness that went with it. Who would have thought she could feel such empathy with a courtesan? A woman who stood outside the ranks of respectable society? And yet, in light of how Vivianna herself felt, it made perfect sense.

  “Have you always lived in this house?” she asked suddenly, and then was embarrassed by her own curiosity. “I’m sorry, it is nothing to do with me.”

  “You may ask whatever you wish, Vivianna. No, I have not always lived here. I have lived in many places. Once I became famous”—with a smile—“I lived in Paris on the Boulevard de la Madeleine, and I lived in a house in Mayfair for many years, and there was another house in the country, which was very fine. All gone now. I was…ill for a time, and I did not want to please my friends anymore. I lost rather a lot of my wealth, but I retained enough to set myself up in this house. Now many gentlemen come to see my protégées.”

  “And they do not come to see you? I find that difficult to believe, Madame.”

  Aphrodite laughed in genuine amusement. “Well, maybe they come to talk to me and laugh with me and remember old times. I can still make a man look at me, even if I do not want him to share my bed. Ah, now I have been too frank with you, mon chou, I am sorry.”

  “No, no,” Vivianna insisted, though her cheeks were warm. “I like frankness. I prefer it. What did you do in Paris, apart from…from…”

  Aphrodite smiled at her clumsiness, but she answered readily enough. “I went to the opera and the theater and many, many saloons. I entertained the rich and famous, the artists and the writers, in my house on the Boulevard de la Madeleine. Once I held a dinner party there for ten special friends. There were many dishes, and when it came to dessert, I left the table and went myself to the kitchen to prepare it.”

  “It was special, then? A special dessert for your special friends?”

  “Yes, very special. It was me.” She laughed aloud at Vivianna’s expression. “Oh, mon chou, your face! No, no, they did not gobble me up. I had my chef cover me in flowers and rosettes made of cream, all in different colors, and decorate me like a pretty cake. Then I was placed on a very large platter and covered with a very large silver lid, and they carried me into the dining room and placed me upon the table. And then the lid was lifted and…voilà!”

  Vivianna knew her eyes were popping. “What did they do?”

  “They applauded a great deal, and then they…” Her eyes grew sly, and her smile more so. “Well, that is enough for now, Vivianna. Later, perhaps.”

  “I’d like to hear of it,” Vivianna retorted, and meant it.

  Aphrodite laughed, delighted, and then her face grew solemn, almost sad. She spoke again, this time in French, and so softly Vivianna hardly heard her. But it sounded as if she had said, “I knew I would love you, but I did not expect to like you….”

  “Madame?”

  Aphrodite waved her hand impatiently. “It was nothing. Nothing. Now, one more thing before you go. I have much spare time these days and I am writing the story of my life. Many courtesans write their life stories, you know. Respectable English people love to read about courtesans, even though they do not like to have them in their drawing rooms. I wondered if you would read what I have written, Vivianna, and give me your opinion.”

  “Oh, that would be…it would be a privilege, Madame.”

  Aphrodite smiled, as if Vivianna’s wholehearted sentiments amused her. She went to an armoire on the other side of the room and took from it something rather like a diary, bound in red leather. She placed it in Vivianna’s hands.

  “There is no hurry,” she said. “Take your time. And read it when you are alone.”

  “Thank you.”

  Aphrodite waved a hand again, dismissively. “I will send you word when you can come and see me next time.”

  “Thank you, I have very much enjoyed—”

  But it seemed that Aphrodite was bored with her now, for she cut through her words quite abruptly. “Dobson will show you out, mon chou. Do not forget what I have said.”

  “No, I won’t forget. Goodbye, Madame.”

  Dobson was waiting in the hall, dressed in his red coat and ready for the evening trade.

  “I’m to see you safely into a cab,” he said with a wink. “Miss Aphrodite’s instructions. She is very particular where your safety is concerned, miss.”

  Vivianna had sensed that, too, and it puzzled her. Just as many other things about Aphrodite puzzled her. Perhaps the red leather book she now held in her hands would answer some of those questions.

  “Have you been long in her employ?” she asked Dobson as they waited for one of the street errand boys to fetch a hansom cab from the stand.

  “Nearly eight years now, miss. I knew her afore all this, but I did not find her again until eight years ago.” He looked at Vivianna, suddenly solemn, and she saw the love in his eyes. Love and devotion, the giving of one’s heart. All the things that Aphrodite had warned her against just now, over tea and macaroons.

  “Ah, here comes the cab, miss.” He handed the errand boy a copper and opened the cab door for Vivianna. “Take care, now.”

  “Thank you, Dobson.”

  Her throat was unaccountably tight, and her eyes unaccountably full, as Vivianna left Aphrodite’s behind her.

  Sergeant Ackroyd fell into step with Oliver as he was strolling home from an evening of drinking and gambling and visiting loose women. Well, not the latter. Loose women did not seem to attract him since he had met Vivianna. He kept hearing her voice in his head, telling him to behave himself. Unfortunately, she then spoiled it all by kissing him and sitting on his lap.

  Nice fantasy, though.

  “I ’eard our friend has been makin’ inquiries about Candlewood. Whether tearin’ it down is legal.”

  Oliver turned to look at Sergeant Ackroyd’s profile, but could hardly make him out. The alley was very dark, and p
robably unsafe, but the policeman seemed to blend into it.

  “He’ll find it is entirely legal,” he said.

  Sergeant Ackroyd nodded. “So ’e was told.

  “There was somethin’ else, yer lordship, you might ’ave an interest in. Yer know the name Celia Maclean?”

  Oliver stiffened. Sergeant Ackroyd obviously knew every sordid detail of his life. “Yes?”

  Celia had been ruined because of him. Oliver had spoken to her after Anthony died, he had offered to marry her, but she had refused. She had told him then that she hadn’t wanted to marry Anthony, either. Celia wasn’t the usual sort of girl. Her loss of reputation hadn’t seemed to bother her much. She had once told Anthony that her father kept trying to marry her to men she didn’t love—but Anthony being Anthony, he hadn’t thought the comment applied to him.

  “Word is ’er Italian teacher made ’er an offer, and ’er father, thinking ’e’d never get ’er off ’is hands, said yes.”

  “Good God.” Oliver tried to think. Did that mean Celia had been plotting to marry the Italian all along? Poor Anthony. He had loved the girl, and she hadn’t loved him. She had wanted to be ruined—he should have known it at the time, but she had caught him at a weak moment. He’d arrived home, the worse for drink, and she had taken him by surprise. Oliver wasn’t making excuses for himself—he would always blame himself for what happened—but this new piece of information at least relieved him of the guilt for Celia’s ruined reputation.

  “Looks like yer off the hook, then, yer lordship,” Sergeant Ackroyd said, looking pleased.

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  He thought again of Vivianna. She wasn’t like Celia, not really, but there were similarities. That same unconcern with society’s rules, that infernal curiosity, that determination to have her own way. But whereas Celia seemed to have landed on her feet very nicely, would Vivianna?

  Of course, there was the question of her real motives. She had been more than willing in the coach, but now, in the chill of evening, he had to ask himself if she was just a very good actress. She certainly wanted Candlewood. Would she give herself to him, bargain with her body, to have it?

  The idea was unpleasant, but he must consider it. Oliver might want her—but he should not trust her, no matter how much he was tempted.

  Chapter 11

  The meeting was held at the Mayfair home of the widowed Lady Chapman, an advocate for the London poor who had, according to the Beatty sisters, done much good in that area. Vivianna had promised to attend on their behalf, and although it was exciting to meet Lady Chapman and many other London reformers, she sat through the first part of the evening—which consisted of a lecture by a worthy gentleman on the workings of the workhouse—with her mind on other things.

  Ever since her “lesson” with Aphrodite she had felt as if there really was a seductive stranger inside her, looking out on the world through her eyes. Her body had been more alive, more receptive to sensation than ever before. Tonight, when Lil had helped her to dress, she had felt the slip and slide of her clothing as if for the first time, and the hairbrush against her scalp had made her want to wriggle in her chair.

  Her body appeared to be more attuned, on the brink of new experiences, and it frightened her, but at the same time she found herself tingling with anticipation.

  She had sent Oliver an invitation, with Lady Chapman’s permission. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, but she told herself it was the good and sensible thing to do. Possibly his implacable heart might be softened by being surrounded by people who put the welfare of children, such as those at the shelter, to the forefront. He would not come, of course not, but simply receiving the invitation might sway him a little bit, force him to rethink his position.

  “Wasn’t it Lord Montegomery who wished to demolish Candlewood,” Lady Chapman had asked quizzically.

  “Yes, but I hope to change his mind.”

  Lady Chapman had surveyed her with a cool, curious stare, and then she had smiled. “I think,” she said, “that you could do anything you put your mind to, Miss Greentree.”

  Now Vivianna hoped she was right.

  The gentleman finished his lecture on workhouses. As he bowed in response to the polite applause, Vivianna had the oddest sensation. As if someone behind her were watching her. For a moment she did nothing, telling herself she was imagining it, but the feeling persisted, and at last, unable to resist it, she turned her head to look.

  Her breath caught, her heart began to pound.

  Oliver Montegomery, elegant in a black evening jacket and white shirt, the effect rather overpowered by an aquamarine satin waistcoat, was staring at her. Unsmiling, unmoving, he was standing near the back wall.

  For a moment their gazes tangled and locked, and Vivianna felt a blush warming her cheeks. That he was here was a good thing, wasn’t it? And yet she had a strong feeling that, as their eyes had met, he, too, had been thinking of their time together in the coach.

  Vivianna took a breath, steadying herself. Mrs. St. Claire, seated on her right, made some innocuous comment and she replied, but she could not later have recalled what she said. Oliver was here. He had accepted her invitation. Why had he come? Had he realized the error of his ways? Well, of course, that must be it….

  But she knew that wasn’t it at all. Oliver had come here because of her. Aphrodite was correct. He was attracted to her. He had her scent, and he was hunting her like a wolf hunted its prey.

  Or its mate.

  Vivianna felt the nerves in her stomach jump and her hands tremble before she remembered. Oliver wasn’t hunting her; she was hunting him. She wasn’t his prey; she was a she-wolf, as fierce and determined as he. The seductress inside her began to stir.

  The next speaker’s voice droned on, and Vivianna tried to listen. But now that she knew Oliver was there, it was as if she could physically feel him. Her sense of him heightened, and she allowed herself to feel with her body rather than her mind. On impulse, she allowed her Norwich shawl to slip a little, disclosing more white flesh, and wondered whether from where he stood he could see the rise of her breasts above the line of lace upon the neckline of her plum-colored dress, and the way in which her breathing had quickened.

  Her mouth curved into a smile, and she lifted a gloved hand and brushed it across her cheek, smoothing a truant curl behind her ear. She was wearing earrings that bobbed when she moved, pearls set in gold, and she touched one, playing with it.

  Oh yes, she could not see him but she knew he was there. Her body felt him—the seductress inside felt him, and called out her soft, winsome song.

  Oliver knew he was tense. He shifted a little, and observed that he could now see more of Vivianna Greentree—the delicate curve of her cheek, the plump rise of her breasts, the way her chestnut hair tickled her nape in feathery ringlets. It wasn’t enough, of course. He should have known that coming here would only be an exercise in frustration for him. And she seemed to know she was safely out of his reach. He could have sworn she was teasing him—the way her fingers were playing with her fleshy earlobe—but it seemed so unlikely that he dismissed it.

  She was probably just concentrating on the lecture. The meeting. Damn her, she had managed to get him to one of her damned meetings after all! Not that he had heard a word of it. He’d been far too engrossed in Vivianna.

  More applause, and then their hostess was announcing that supper would be served and after that another lecture from another worthy gentleman. Oliver tried not to groan aloud. He could leave, he supposed, but that would mean missing out on speaking to Vivianna.

  Look at her, he thought crossly. She was already surrounded by gentlemen who knew more about soup kitchens than they had any right to. Were they really interested in her conversation or were they just there to gaze into her hazel eyes? Oliver felt disgust at himself for the thought, but he couldn’t help it, just as he couldn’t help a great many of his thoughts and actions since he had met Vivianna Greentree.

  He
moved closer, until he was near enough, if he had wanted to, to reach out and touch her. Her scent filled his nostrils—lavender and woman. The pulse in her neck was beating beneath the skin, and he had the urge to bend his head and suck upon it. Put his mark upon her, just so that everyone in the room knew she was his. She knew he was standing behind her, didn’t she? She must know. Then why was she continuing her damned conversation with the bore in the blue jacket? Did she enjoy the company of such men? Oliver, his irritation growing with every second, was on the point of rudely interrupting when she finally turned.

  Her hazel eyes lifted to his and she regarded him quizzically, but her lips were curved in a little smile that told him she was pleased to see him. “Lord Montegomery,” she said, and lifted her hand to rest it upon his bicep. And left it there, lightly, so that he barely felt it through his clothing. But that butterfly touch was enough to heat every part of him. Oliver forced his eyes from her delicate, gloved fingers and met her bright gaze.

  “Are these things always so tedious?” he said grumpily.

  Vivianna raised her dark eyebrows. She leaned forward, so close he could see down her cleavage where the shadows promised him a rare treat, and whispered, “Shhh, it is for a good cause.”

  His body was rigid with lust. He wanted to throw her over his shoulder, carry her into a dark corner, and do what he should have done in the coach. Why had he allowed himself to be upset by memories of Anthony and Vivianna’s damned lecturing? He had had his opportunity on the way back from Candlewood, and he should have taken it. She wouldn’t have resisted. He could have had her up against the squabs and forgotten her by the time they reached Bloomsbury.

  Oliver swallowed. He was fooling himself. He doubted he would ever forget Vivianna; his body, his mind had never been more alive. She had offered him redemption but he did not think she had meant through the enjoyment of her body. Still, a lost soul had to find his salvation where he could.