Sara Bennett

by Lessons in Seduction

  Vivianna’s amusement at Lady Marsh’s description of Donizetti’s opera gave way to genuine surprise. The invitation was so unexpected. “I don’t know if I—” she began.

  “It would please me very much, and you will be able to speak to my nephew about your shelter. Surely such opportunities should not be missed, Miss Greentree, in the circumstances? How many days is it now, until your orphans must vacate?”

  She was right, of course she was. A rebellious tingle of excitement curled through her. Yes, she wanted to see him, to talk with him, and Lady Marsh—who seemed so supportive—would be there, so matters could not get out of hand. It would be a perfect opportunity.

  “I accept, ma’am.”

  Lady Marsh’s harsh face relaxed into a smile of approval. “Excellent. Now, if you would call my servant to help me, I will bid you farewell.”

  The servant—a burly man—was called, and Lady Marsh was helped, painfully, to her feet and assisted to her carriage. When she had gone, Vivianna wondered what it had all meant. Was Lady Marsh looking her over, in preparation to adding Vivianna to her list of possible wives? It seemed ridiculous and frightening—Oliver was the last man she wished to marry!—and yet…there had been speculation in the old woman’s gaze as it rested upon Vivianna.

  What, she wondered, would Oliver think of that?

  Vivianna smiled, and could not seem to stop. Oh yes, she admitted it with a little shiver, she was looking forward to seeing him again. And she was suddenly very happy that Lady Marsh had given her an excuse to do so.

  Chapter 12

  Oliver nodded at his aunt’s elderly butler as he stepped inside her Eaton Square house. “Is her ladyship ready, Bentling?”

  Bentling looked slightly to the left of Oliver’s eyes and straightened his stooping shoulders. “Her ladyship has become indisposed, my lord. I am afraid she will not be accompanying you to the opera after all.”

  Oliver frowned. “Oh?” But still Bentling would not meet his eyes.

  “Miss Greentree will be attending, however,” Bentling went on, showing signs of strain under Oliver’s steely stare, “and her ladyship says that you should call upon her at Queen’s Square and collect her forthwith. She wishes you to give Miss Greentree these”—he held out a pair of opera glasses—“with her good wishes.”

  “Does she, now?”

  Bentling swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”

  Oliver sighed. “Tell my aunt…I hope she is better soon, although I doubt she needs my good wishes for a speedy recovery.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Oliver knew the signs well enough, and knew he should be angry with his aunt for her obvious machinations. He wasn’t, though, he thought, as he went back down the steps to his coach. He and Miss Greentree would be alone together at the opera—not exactly proper, he supposed, but not exactly improper, either. The front of Lady Marsh’s box, at least, would be well within view of other patrons, and what was wrong in asking a woman to accompany him to the opera? Other men did it all the time. But Miss Greentree was young and attractive and unmarried; her reputation might suffer. Perhaps that was his aunt’s plan, that he be forced to propose to Miss Greentree?

  Oliver grinned to himself as he climbed back inside the coach.

  It would be a brave man who married an unwilling Vivianna. She would make his life a misery. And a joy. He closed his eyes at the sudden image of her, here in this very coach, in his arms. Perhaps being alone with her was not such a good idea after all—she was a complication and he didn’t need any more of those. He would call upon her and explain that his aunt was ill, and suggest another night.

  Regret filled him, but he ignored it. A few weeks ago he had never heard of Vivianna Greentree; how could he suddenly be feeling her loss? As if…as if she were a part of him, he thought suspiciously.

  The house in Queen’s Square was lit up and waiting for him. “Miss is just coming now, my lord,” the maid who answered the door informed him.

  “I am afraid that—”

  “Montegomery, how do you do?”

  He felt the skin at the back of his neck bristle. Toby Russell, the sort of man he despised and usually avoided. Toby’s handsome face was deeply lined, as though his vicious ways had caught up with him at last, and there was a calculating air to his smile.

  Oliver bowed politely. “Russell, I have come to collect your niece.”

  “I know, I know. Lovely girl, isn’t she?”

  Oliver did not allow the other man to see what he was feeling. “My aunt thinks so. It was her invitation.”

  “Ah, nice to know she is looked upon favorably in that quarter, eh?”

  Oliver wondered whether it would be very rude of him not to answer at all. “My aunt is an invalid and does not get out much,” he said neutrally.

  “Of course, of course.” Toby eyed him cautiously, as if he were a firework that had fizzled out and yet still might go off.

  Oliver heard the sound of steps on the stairs. Vivianna’s. He knew her step. He knew the rhythm of her movements. He could smell her soap and the scented water she used in her hair. It took all his willpower not to hurry to meet her.

  “Here she is!” Toby said unnecessarily.

  Vivianna came down the last flight of stairs. She was wearing a cream shot-silk dress that caught the lamplight and gleamed and shimmered as she moved. The full skirts rustled about her and the fitted bodice was lower than any he had yet seen her wear, disclosing the opulent swell of her breasts—he remembered those breasts, naked in his hands…. He blinked, took in the dark green lace-trimmed shawl that was arranged to display rather than hide her charms, and the cream lace mittens that reached almost to where her short sleeves ended. Her hair was simply dressed in long, loose ringlets at the sides, the remainder fastened in a heavy knot at her nape.

  She gave him her beautiful smile, as if she were truly pleased to see him. And then she saw her uncle. Vivianna’s eyes turned wary, and the smile less brilliant. “Lord Montegomery,” she said politely. “Your aunt said eight o’clock.”

  “Eight o’clock, eh? Well, it’s near enough to it, isn’t it, Niece? Why make a fuss over a few minutes?” Toby asked her testily, thinking he was being amusing.

  Vivianna fiddled with her shawl, enduring him until he had finished, and then she glanced to Oliver for her answer.

  “The opera starts at eight. My aunt does not mind being late—she finds missing the first act a blessing, I think. But in actual fact I—”

  She was watching him inquiringly, her hazel eyes honest and warm, that smile curving her mouth. He had been about to tell her that they were not going after all—that his aunt had tricked them into a situation he did not feel comfortable with—but suddenly he knew he didn’t want to say that. Toby Russell was standing listening, so smug and awful, and Oliver wanted to take her away from the man. More than that, though. He wanted her company, he wanted to be with her, even for a short while.

  “Are you ready, Miss Greentree?” Oliver said quietly. “The coach is waiting outside.”

  She glanced away, again fiddling with her shawl, and he knew she was remembering what they had done in that same coach. And all the while Toby’s eyes were flicking between them, watching, while he came to his own conclusions. Ignoring him, Oliver held out his hand. Gratefully, without a moment’s hesitation, Vivianna rested her fingers upon it.

  The maid at the door hurried to open it, and Vivianna thanked her by name and with a proper smile. Then, with a cool nod to her uncle, she allowed Oliver to accompany her outside. He helped her into the coach, arranging her skirts about her so that they would not be crushed, and then climbed in opposite her, instructing the driver to drive on.

  “Your uncle watches over you very particularly,” Oliver said.

  “Yes.” Her voice was restrained. “He does.”

  “You do not like him.”

  “Is it that obvious?” Vivianna glanced at him and sighed. “I admit he is my least favorite relation. I love Aunt Helen dear
ly, of course, and feel very sorry for her. I have another uncle, my mother’s brother William, and he is always very kind to me. But I cannot like Toby.”

  “He is a blackguard,” Oliver said seriously. “Never trust him, Vivianna. He would do you harm if it was in his own interest.”

  She was quiet, and he watched her, wondering what she was thinking. At last she said softly, “I have just realized. Lady Marsh is not here. Are we going to collect her now?”

  “No, I am afraid not. My aunt is unwell, and she has asked that we go to the opera without her.”

  Silence again. Now, he thought, she would ask to be returned to her home. But she said nothing and, as the wheels of the coach rumbled on over the cobbles, he began to relax a little. Gas lamps glowed against the night mist, making little haloes along the street, and people strolled in the evening air. Everybody seemed to be out enjoying themselves.

  “When I first arrived in London,” she said, “I thought it crowded and noisy and smelly. A ghastly place. A sprawl of humanity with no heart or soul. Now I am growing used to it. In fact I quite like it.”

  “Not like Yorkshire, then.”

  “Not like Yorkshire, no.”

  “I did not intentionally deceive you, Vivianna. I meant to tell you that my aunt was unwell, but your uncle—”

  “Put your back up.”

  He laughed at the droll note in her voice. “We understand each other, then, do we?”

  She met his gaze and held it. “Yes, I think perhaps we do.”

  Her Majesty’s Theatre had been renamed when Queen Victoria ascended to the throne, and it was a venue where only the queen’s favorite Italian operas or French ballets were performed. Most nights the magnificent building was full to capacity. Outside, flower sellers held up their neat and fragrant bunches, while the crowd streamed by. Vivianna admired Nash’s elegant colonnade, and inside, the gas chandeliers that lit their way. Lady Marsh, explained Oliver, hired a private box for the entire year, despite the fact that she rarely attended the opera.

  “Because she is an invalid?”

  “Because she loathes it.”

  Vivianna smiled, enjoying herself and the feel of his hand lightly brushing her waist as he led her through the door to their box. His touch was enough to set her body tingling. He was very handsome tonight in his black and white evening dress, his trousers tapered to black shoes, his tailored black jacket and his white frilled shirt and white cravat. His silk top hat he carried in one gloved hand. He was probably the most handsome man here, she decided seriously.

  The chairs were padded brocade, and when they were seated, Vivianna admired their view of the theater. It was overflowing with patrons, from the colorful occupants of the stalls to the tier upon tier of boxes full of gentlemen in evening dress and ladies beautifully gowned, to the noisy and unseen gallery far above, where there were cheaper seats to be had. Some dandies in the stalls had turned their backs on the curtained stage and were eyeing the new arrivals through their monocles.

  Vivianna ignored them when they focused en masse upon her. An officer in a red coat covered in medals and ribbons was speaking in a loud voice to a smallish plump lady with dark ringlets, wearing a wide-skirted white satin gown, a sash about her tiny waist, and a necklace of diamonds about her white throat.

  She didn’t look to be much older than Vivianna, but when she noticed Vivianna staring, gave her a reproving frown.

  “She doesn’t like to be watched,” Oliver murmured at her side. Then, meeting her blank gaze, “The queen, Vivianna. Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.”

  “Oh!” Vivianna felt horribly embarrassed, but still she gave the box another glance. “Is her new husband there? Prince Albert?”

  “Yes, there he is, in evening dress. Tall with dark hair, very serious—the ladies think him very handsome.”

  Vivianna saw him. He was much taller than the queen, and Oliver was correct, very handsome and very serious. As she watched, Victoria rested her gloved fingers upon her husband’s arm, as if she could not resist touching him, even in public. They were in love, then, just as Vivianna had heard.

  “Vivianna.”

  “I’m sorry. Am I staring again? It is all so exciting. I do not go to the theater very often. And I have only been to an opera once, although I read as much as I can about such things. I believe this one is by Donizetti.”

  “L’elisir d’amore. Rather sentimental, but some of the melodies are quite bearable. The tenor is Rubini, and Madame Grisi is playing the part of Adina.”

  Some of the dandies were calling out, and Vivianna saw that a woman with bright red hair had seated herself in one of the boxes. Her gown was very low cut, her bosom almost spilling over, and she was wearing more jewels than the queen.

  “Who is that?” she whispered, leaning closer to Oliver.

  “Someone you shouldn’t have heard of,” he retorted.

  Vivianna examined the redhead closely. “You mean like Aphrodite?” she said.

  He smiled. “Yes, like Aphrodite.”

  “But you know her?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Is it?”

  His eyes were dark, intense, and very close to hers. She felt his breath upon her skin, and despite her determination not to, her lashes fluttered down, hiding her feelings from him. She could feel the pulse in her neck, hear the rush of blood in her ears. For a moment the noise of the theater was washed away beneath the tide of her desire.

  “I want you,” he said, his voice a whisper in her ear. “And I think you want me, too. Don’t you?”

  Vivianna drew back a little and looked again into his eyes.

  “Don’t you?” he insisted, and there was something naked and vulnerable in his face.

  She should lie, she supposed. Tease him. Play at indifference. But she could not. This was too important for teasing or lying. The passion and desire between them lay heavy, so that she was finding it difficult to breathe.

  “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

  The opera had started. Vivianna did not speak again, and neither did Oliver. It was as if, now the truth had been stated between them, they had to consider their next words very carefully. Perhaps, she thought, he wanted to draw back. Perhaps he had not expected her to say what she did.

  Doubts gripped her, making her feel faintly queasy.

  What would Aphrodite think, when she learned what Vivianna had done? Would she approve or shake her head with displeasure?

  Rubini’s voice soared, along with that of the beautiful Madame Grisi. The audience was spellbound. Someone called, “Brava!” Someone else cried, “Hush!”

  “Do you speak Italian?” Oliver asked her softly. His hand reached over and covered hers, where they were clenched together in her lap.

  She jumped. “I…no, I don’t. Mama could not find an Italian instructor who would make the journey across the moors.”

  “Ah.” He had taken off his gloves, and his fingers were strong and warm, and they held hers firmly, possessively.

  “I understand the story despite the Italian, I think. The woman…”

  “Adina.”

  “Yes, she will not marry the man…”

  “Nemorino.”

  “He has bought a love elixir, but it does not work, and now Adina is going to marry someone else…the soldier.”

  Oliver’s breath warmed her cheek. “Very good.”

  “Will the ending be a happy one? Or is someone going to die?”

  His eyes clouded, as if he were thinking of his own circumstances, his brother and the woman he had been meant to marry. “You will have to wait and see, Vivianna,” he said, but his voice had lost its lightness.

  “Tell me about Celia Maclean.”

  She had asked the question on impulse, and she could see that she had surprised him. He drew back a little and removed his hand. Vivianna supposed she was setting him a test. A chance to tell her the truth about himself, to be frank with her, to answer some of the questions that puzzled her about him. The
re was always the likelihood that he would refuse, and she must not be disappointed if he did not answer…

  “Celia and Anthony were not officially engaged,” he said, his voice low and level, and she felt a frisson of relief. “But it was understood they would marry. Her father wanted it, and Anthony was in love with her. Celia…she was reserved, but she did not protest the match, not aloud, anyway. She came to my house in the evening—late. I was…I had been to a dinner, and I had drunk far more than normal. I was surprised to see her.”

  “But you let her in.”

  “Of course. She was…upset, and she was Anthony’s fiancée, nearly. She said she needed to talk to me urgently.”

  “And then?” She glanced at him now. He was staring unseeing at the stage, handsome and somber.

  Act One was over. All around them the applause thundered out. Patrons began to move about. The dandies in the stalls had their monocles up again.

  “And then?” Vivianna repeated.

  “I can only think she knew Anthony was coming to see me; he must have told her so. She had timed her own visit so well.”

  “She compromised herself,” Vivianna said, surprised. She had not expected this. The bad man, the rake, had not been as much at fault as rumor would have everyone believe. Vivianna didn’t know what to think.

  “Yes.” He looked at her now, his dark eyes full of so much pain and regret, she felt an ache of empathy. “She didn’t want to marry Anthony. I didn’t realize at the time, but I have heard since that her father was forcing her to make the match. She was in love with someone else, someone totally unsuitable. The only way out was to ruin herself and drive Anthony away.”

  Vivianna nodded. “Did you kiss her?” she demanded, determined to hear the worst.

  Oliver’s eyebrows rose. “She kissed me first.”

  “But you did kiss her back?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course.”

  “Did you touch her?”

  “Vivianna,” he groaned, and bowed his head. Clearly he was ashamed and embarrassed, but she would not let him avoid the truth just because he did not like it.