“When you are dreaming of kissing me, Marietta, remember…I’ll be dreaming of kissing you.”
She felt quite giddy when she got inside the townhouse, and was glad to get up to her room and loosen her stays. They really were too tight, she thought, taking shallow gulping breaths. Or maybe it was a combination of the stays and Max that made her dizzy and faint.
With a groan she flung herself back upon her bed and closed her eyes, and thought again of his kisses.
Why couldn’t it have been Max that night at the inn on the way to the Scottish border? Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with Max, and run away with him?
Her eyes sprang open. Instantly she was alert, like a wild animal scenting danger. No, no and no! She would not fall in love again, not with Max, or anybody else. Never again would a man break her heart and make her suffer. Max was well enough, in his way, but he was not a permanent fixture. A free and independent life, that was what Marietta would live, and there was no place in it for Lord Roseby.
Harold gazed down at his sleeping wife. Susannah’s brow creased slightly, as if her thoughts disturbed her. He could not help but think she would make the perfect Duchess of Barwon. Max obviously didn’t have a clue about such things—he probably believed Marietta Greentree was a suitable duchess. Just as well that he was no longer the heir.
He shifted guiltily, knowing he shouldn’t think such things about his cousin. All his life Harold had watched over Max, even now when Max clearly didn’t want him around. Perhaps it was time to stop and look to his own future.
Susannah murmured softly, speaking in the language of her childhood. She seemed distracted lately, probably blaming herself for what had happened to Max, feeling guilty for her own good fortune at his expense. Harold told himself that that would pass. Soon she would be too busy in her new role to worry about her brother.
They would go their separate ways.
“Papa!” Susannah gasped in her sleep, but whether she cried for her adopted father or the one left behind in Jamaica Harold didn’t know. She never spoke of the past, it was as if she had blotted it from her mind, but he always knew when she was remembering. She vanished into herself. Harold imagined her as a young girl, bare feet and tanned legs, her long dark hair tangled as she ran through the tropical forests, peeping through the shiny leaves and brilliant flowers. Wild. Free to be herself.
His Susannah…
Aphrodite’s Club had a deserted air, like a boarding school where all the children have gone home for the holidays. Except that Aphrodite’s residents hadn’t left—they were resting in their rooms, so that they could sparkle tonight when the guests began to arrive. But at least one of them was up and awaiting Marietta when she rapped on the door.
“Come, they are waiting.” Maeve, simply dressed in a white robe, her dark hair fastened at her nape in a smooth chignon, smiled over her shoulder as she led Marietta into a large, private sitting room.
Inside was Elena, Aphrodite’s modiste, gowns like resting butterflies scattered about the room, some with matching slippers and accessories. Marietta stared about her at the wealth of beauty, suddenly feeling dowdy in her neat blue wool with the braid trimmings.
Elena cast a critical eye over her and gave a thin smile. “You are very pretty, Miss Marietta,” she said in a very refined accent. “Good. That makes my job much easier.”
If Marietta had not been reading Aphrodite’s diary, she would never have realized that Elena had been brought up in the same Seven Dials streets as her mother. Aphrodite, she knew, had helped the modiste to make a success of her business by wearing her clothing and letting everyone know it.
Elena’s smile vanished and she clapped her hands imperiously, causing her assistant to rush forward. Between them they soon stripped Marietta down to her stays and drawers.
Standing about in her undergarments was not a situation she was comfortable with, particularly when the eyes of strangers were upon her. Marietta tried hard to pretend she didn’t care, but perhaps she didn’t do a very good job of it, because Maeve, sitting in a chair in the corner out of the way, called out sympathetically, “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. We all do.”
“I think the China silk,” Elena announced, circling Marietta like a shark. “That will display the bosom to best advantage, though it is a little heavy. You should practice lifting your elbows and pushing them back, Miss Marietta. It tightens the breasts.” Then again to her assistant, “The waist is nice and trim. Hips are a little plump, but he will like that. Hmm, legs are reasonable…maybe a little sturdy and short—”
“Your hair is very pretty,” Maeve said quickly. “Do you know, I always wanted to have fair hair.”
“Dark hair is the fashion,” Marietta reminded her, glaring at Elena. She knew her legs were short—she was short! What did the woman want, an ostrich in a dress?
“You should take better care of your skin, Miss Marietta,” Elena said in her oh-so-refined voice. “Especially those parts which are hidden under your clothing. All of your body should be soft and inviting, not just your face and hands.”
“I am sure—”
“And when you bathe, make certain you add plenty of oil to the water. I see some dry patches here, and here.”
Marietta decided then that, for some reason, Elena did not like her and wanted her to fail, and she had a good mind to walk out, right now…Almost at once her indignation left her. She couldn’t walk out, whatever Elena thought of her. She had agreed to do this. She had wanted to do it. She could hardly give up at the first hurdle.
No, she would just have to grit her teeth and put up with the other woman’s barbs, and ignore the fact that she was standing before them in very little.
That was when Elena reclaimed her attention with an unapologetic, “Remove your undergarments, Miss Marietta.”
Speechlessly, Marietta met her gaze.
Whatever Elena saw in her eyes seemed to amuse her, but not enough to make her actually smile. “The costume we have chosen for you is not worn with undergarments,” she explained slowly, as if she was talking to an idiot. And then she crossed her arms over her scrawny chest and waited.
She was no doubt expecting Marietta to refuse, or to walk out—just as she had been planning to do a moment ago. But now that Marietta knew Elena wanted her to fail, she was determined not to. She would put up with the humiliation and the embarrassment, and even the comments about her legs, just to show the modiste that she wasn’t a meek, spoiled little girl who could be shattered with a few nasty glances and some unpleasant words. She was Aphrodite’s daughter, and that meant something.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. I must become accustomed to it. But it wasn’t easy and she wasn’t comfortable, and she knew her face was a telltale red as Elena’s assistant helped her remove her stays. The drawers needed no help, and hurriedly Marietta slipped them down. Naked, she felt more vulnerable than she could remember feeling for years.
“Why do you think we women wear so many clothes?” Elena asked her, as she turned and gathered one of the butterfly garments up in her arms—a pearl-colored silk. “Because we are afraid of our own bodies. Afraid of the power we have over men. And they are afraid, too. So we hide ourselves away, turn our shape into something it is not, become what we are not.”
Surely she is not going to try and cover me with that tiny piece of cloth? Marietta thought, eyeing it uneasily. Good heavens, she is!
“A glimpse of ankle beneath petticoats,” Elena went on, approaching steadily. “The pale turn of a wrist between glove and sleeve. These things are sensual and exciting, yes, but only because so much of us is covered up. To display a woman as she really is, the bosom unmolded by stays, the waist unpinched, the hips and legs exposed without the wide skirts…It is like unveiling a work of art.”
The fine silk was eased over Marietta’s head—it was a blouse without buttons or hooks. The color was a gleaming pearl, and yet against her skin it took on a more fleshy tone. It was so fine, so t
hin, it felt like a breath of air against her body. The silk clung to her bosom, and although it was not low cut, indeed the neckline was high, it was more daring than anything she had ever worn.
Elena helped her put on the drawers…no, they were really trousers. Wide, silken trousers like someone might wear in a harem. They hung low at her waist, leaving her stomach bare, and rested on the curve of her hips before flaring out over her thighs and calves to her ankles. It was a garment truly shocking to a woman used to five petticoats and stiffened skirts, all designed to hide her shape.
This did nothing to hide her shape. As Elena stepped away, Marietta was left facing herself in the mirror, and she was silenced. Was it really her, barefoot, her body draped in cloth as fine as web? She could see the pale shape of her legs as she moved, and most shocking of all, the dark shadow where the female hair grew between her thighs. With a gasp, she reached down to put her hand over herself, to preserve her modesty, and at the same time realized that the stretch of the cloth over her bosom exposed not only the shape and pale color of her breasts, but also the darker circles of her nipples.
“I cannot possibly wear this,” she whispered, appalled. “I may as well be naked!”
Elena put her hands on her hips and met her eyes in the mirror. “And you want to be a courtesan like your mother? I told Madame you would be too prudish. I warned her that she could not expect you to be as brave as she.” Her eyes narrowed. “Maeve! Go and fetch Madame and tell her that her daughter refuses to wear the costume I have chosen.”
Maeve, with a quick, uncomfortable glance at Marietta, rose reluctantly to her feet.
Marietta knew then that this was a test. If she did not wear the costume, if she did not cooperate, then they would dismiss her hopes and dreams as the meaningless cries of a spoiled child. She could see it in their faces.
“Very well,” she said through gritted teeth.
Elena smiled, and gestured to her assistant. The girl picked up what looked like a robe made out of the same fine, pearl-colored silk and handed it reverently to the modiste. Elena carried it forward and held it up for Marietta to slide her arms into the sleeves. This coat, she realized, was made to go over the blouse and trousers. Elena had known that all along. She had simply been waiting to see what Marietta would do.
Evidently she had passed the test.
The coat was just as thin and fine as the rest of the costume, but it prevented anyone from seeing through to her skin—just. As she walked, it drifted out behind her, so that if she wasn’t careful the unsecured front opened up, and her body was displayed for whomever was watching.
Would Max be watching? Marietta sighed. It was hardly the sort of covering she was hoping for, but it would have to do. She would just have to move very, very carefully.
“Now,” Elena said in a rallying voice. “Your hair!”
Maeve was hovering near the door. “Should I still go and fetch Madame?” she asked tentatively.
Elena frowned. “Of course not, girl. We are managing perfectly well without her.”
Maeve flashed Marietta a little smile, and returned to her chair.
The hairdresser preferred to leave Marietta’s hair down, with the front and sides drawn back with combs of a similar color to the costume. “No shoes,” Elena said, when she tentatively asked about slippers. “We will paint your toenails,” she explained, as if there was nothing outlandish in that. When they were done, she looked at herself once more in the mirror, and she was a stranger. Seductive, definitely, submissive, maybe, desirable…that was for Max to decide, if she could persuade him to stay in the room with her.
When she told them that, though, Elena smirked as if she knew better. It was Maeve who answered, “He’ll be gob-smacked,” she said bluntly.
Marietta raised an eyebrow. “Gob-smacked?”
“You’ll take his breath away,” Elena explained.
Marietta thought about that. “I can’t imagine it. He’ll probably give me one of his looks, as if he’s the duke and I’m his slave girl…What are you doing?”
This last was addressed to Elena’s assistant, who was kneeling at her feet, adjusting the hem of her trousers.
“Elena says they’re too long,” the woman said in a voice very like her mistress. “I’m to take them up an inch so that the gentleman can get a good look at your ankles.”
Marietta felt like resting her foot on the woman’s chest and giving her a hard push. She controlled herself. If Aphrodite heard she was being difficult then she might refuse to help her any more and her dreams would be quashed. So she smiled and nodded and waited passively while they finished. But in her heart she was dismayed that she had to pretend to be something other than herself.
“He will be here soon,” Maeve called out in warning, as Elena dabbed jasmine scented oil in places Marietta had never thought of. The time had flown—when Marietta glanced at the window she realized that it was growing dark.
“Am I ready?” She looked wildly around at them. Suddenly, instead of being a cross she had to bear, this little group of women had become a crutch she needed. She knew that her near-nakedness under the thin silken covering was making her feel vulnerable. Safety was in her voluminous skirts and petticoats, with the buttons to her throat, and the sleeves tight to her wrists. The stays, chemises, drawers, and sometimes, at Greentree Manor, the warm flannel against her skin, had been a form of armor.
Now, she may as well be naked, she decided miserably.
“Miss Marietta?” It was Elena, and her face was no longer unfriendly—there was even a hint of kindness in her eyes. “You can be whatever you want to be. Remember that. The choice is entirely yours.”
While Marietta was still trying to work out exactly what she meant, Maeve took her hand and led her toward the door. “It’ll be all right, you’ll see, Miss Marietta. Now come upstairs. Madame’s put you and your gentleman in the Cupid Room.” She gave Marietta a conspiratorial wink. “Just wait until you see it.”
Chapter 12
The room was beautiful.
Marietta swirled on her bare feet, head tilted back as she gazed up at the painted ceiling. The artist had made a blue sky awash with angels; they swooped and dived, their draperies tangled about their limbs, displaying daring amounts of flesh. Darting among the angels were cupids, small round creatures with wicked smiles, their bows and arrows aimed downwards, toward the occupants of the Cupid Room.
“It is an homage to love.” Aphrodite had come upon them quietly.
Marietta turned to face her, and her mother smiled at the bedazzled expression on her face.
“I do not think you will find it difficult in this room, mon petit puce, to play at being a courtesan. Think of this as your stage; you have only to act your part.”
Perhaps Marietta did understand what she meant, and Elena, too. They wanted her to let go of her doubts and restrictions, all the things she had learned since she was a child, all the rules she had followed since she was a girl—well, most of the time. Let them go and be herself. Except that Marietta was having difficulty knowing who that was.
Her gaze slipped past her mother, moving over plum velvet curtains and upholstery, and the pièce de résistance, the four-poster bed swathed in apricot satin and weighed down with cushions. Feelings of uncertainty swamped her. Could she make Max forget he was a gentleman who didn’t want her to be a courtesan, even for a few moments? And could she forget she had been brought up a lady and she was edging dangerously closer to falling in love with him?
Aphrodite must have sensed her change of mood. “Maeve.” She did not take her eyes off Marietta. “Go and dress. You are required in the salon.”
Maeve left them alone, shooting an encouraging smile at Marietta as the door closed behind her.
“You have doubts?” Aphrodite spoke quietly.
She shook her head automatically. “No! That is…I do not doubt what I want to do, only my ability to do it.”
“You do not find Max attractive?”
&nbs
p; “Yes, I do.” Max was like a storm, ready to pound her into compliance. And she must do everything in her power to stop him.
“You must not underestimate him, Marietta. He is a proper man, do you understand?”
“I-I think so.”
“Now, do not fret.” Aphrodite rested a cool hand on her shoulder. “You will see. Everything will sort itself out. Perhaps you are thinking too hard. It is better in these situations if you don’t think. Take a deep breath and allow yourself to feel instead.”
Marietta took a deep breath but nothing happened. “I will try.”
“Good. Remember.” She held up her finger. “You are strangers. He is no longer Max, he is simply a man you desire.”
Her mother had been peering anxiously into her face, a little crease between her brows, and Marietta forced herself to smile as if everything was perfectly all right.
Aphrodite nodded and moved away, running a finger along the edge of a table as she went, checking that her servants were doing their job. “I will leave you to await Lord Roseby—he will be here very soon. Ring twice for the food when you want it sent up. Ring three times if you wish to bring the evening to a halt.” She turned and fixed Marietta with a dark, intent look. “You can stop this whole thing whenever you wish, Marietta. No one but you and I will ever know about it. You do realize that?”
Marietta’s smile wavered at the corners. “Thank you, I will bear it in mind.”
“Then good luck, Marietta.” Aphrodite closed the door, leaving her alone at last.
Marietta, arms folded about her exposed midriff, feet bare on the exquisite carpet, wandered the beautiful room like a nymph in a fairytale. She avoided the bed and moved to where there was a painting hanging on the wall. A beautiful woman was lounging upon a grassy bank spiked with flowers, her dark hair flowing about her, her diaphanous gown displaying rather than hiding her charms—rather like Marietta’s. Cupid peeped from behind a bush, his pink cheeks bulging with mirth, his bow and arrow raised to pierce the heart of the maiden, or the man who knelt close by her. He was fully dressed, of course, his hand hovering above her breast but not quite touching, although from the expression on his face Marietta could tell he was thinking about it. Imagining it. Looking forward to it.
Rules of Passion Page 19
