Sara Bennett (5 page)

“You are headstrong.” Madame’s tones were clipped, as she half led, half tugged Vivianna toward the door. The room’s inhabitants turned to stare—someone laughed. The doorman in his red coat was waiting, his battered face stern. Suddenly Vivianna was glad she still had her riding crop.

Madame drew Vivianna’s attention back to herself. “You must learn to rein in your impetuosity,
mon
chou.
To give some thought to your actions. To come here was a grave mistake, Miss Greentree, because you have given him the upper hand now. Remember, a man like Oliver Montegomery cannot be bullied, he can only be led.
Persuaded.
”

Vivianna, about to object to being called “my cabbage,” turned her head to stare. “What
can
you mean?”

Madame met her eyes thoughtfully. “You are not a fool,” she said, “and neither do I think you are a prude. Most ladies would have fallen into a faint as soon as they set foot in here. You did not. Indeed, I think, Miss Greentree, it would take a good deal to make you faint! And you understand very well what I mean. Oliver is no more selfish than any other gentleman, and he can be got around. He finds you amusing and refreshing. Play upon that. Maybe he even desires you—it is clear that his tastes are jaded and he is looking for something new and different. Play upon
that,
if you dare. If you are skillful enough you can achieve your aim.”

Vivianna’s face had begun to burn long before Madame had finished. She pulled away from the older woman.

No matter how fascinating I find lovely, bossy women.

Oliver Montegomery’s voice mocked her.

She ignored it.

“I would rather give myself to a snake than try and please that man,” she said furiously, and strode past the doorman and out into the chilly night.

Behind her she heard Madame give a rich laugh, as if she could tell bluster from truth, and then the door closed with a thud. As promised, there was a hansom cab awaiting her.

“You for Queen’s Square?” the cabbie asked her.

“Yes, I am.” Vivianna climbed in.

“You just come from inside there?” She felt the driver’s eyes assessing her from his seat behind and above her compartment.

“Of course not,” Vivianna retorted, although he must have seen her hasty exit.

He gave as much credence to her answer as she had expected. “That’s Aphrodite’s, ain’t it? Best academy in London!”

Vivianna was suddenly very tired, too tired even to care that she had left her cloak behind. She leaned her head back against the squabs, ignored the talkative hansom driver, and closed her eyes.

Persuade Lord Montegomery? Use her feminine wiles on him? Her mouth quirked. That was assuming she had any wiles, which she had not. Vivianna told herself she was not the sort of woman to flirt, or to speak in other than a plain and direct fashion. She had never had the time or inclination to ponder the mysteries of desire and physical passion.

It was true she had once perused a booklet called
Mr. and Mrs. England,
which dealt with the ways in which married couples could consummate that passion without conceiving. Books on such matters were illegal in England, although there were those, like Vivianna, who thought that in the right hands they were important and necessary. At the time,
Mr. and Mrs. England
had not pertained to her; it had fallen into her hands by chance and she had read it through curiosity. But now the images in it came back to her with surprising and disturbing clarity.

Persuade him.

“No!” Her voice was unnaturally loud in the compartment. She would use reason and logic. That was
what was needed in this situation—reason and logic had worked before, and it would work this time.

Feminine wiles indeed!

But as the cab rocked her gently through London’s dark streets, Vivianna could not help but remember the intimate feel of his lips brushing against hers, the warm and expert touch of his long fingers on her skin, and the expression of unwilling fascination in his dark blue eyes.

O
liver didn’t stay at Aphrodite’s Club after all. Not long after Miss Vivianna Greentree left, he discovered that the desire to spend a few hours with one of Madame’s lovely protégées had fled. Their beautiful faces and scantily clad bodies were suddenly stale. Dull. Miss Vivianna Greentree, with her passionate belief in her cause and her honest hazel eyes and her soft sinful lips, had taken the shine off them.

He didn’t like to admit it, and he certainly didn’t understand it. He had realized who she was almost at once, but had pretended to mistake her for one of Madame’s girls. He had set out to embarrass her, to frighten her with his attentions into catching the very next stagecoach northward. The last thing he needed now was this added complication. But he had seriously misread her character. Instead of putting her off with his mauling, it seemed he had lain down a gauntlet, and he had little doubt that she would eagerly pick it up. In hindsight, he should have allowed Hodge to send for the constables.

The encounter had left him feeling baffled and irritable. Not least because what had begun as an attempt to frighten her had turned into something else entirely. One moment he had been playing the rake, and the next he had forgotten everything in the need to have her beneath him on Aphrodite’s chaise lounge. That loss of control wasn’t something that had happened to him recently, in fact not since he was a randy lad first discovering how different girls could be.

He sent his carriage on ahead of him and waved off the offer of a link boy to light his way. Tonight he preferred to walk through the quiet streets of London, alone with his own thoughts. For the last year it seemed to Oliver that he had been on a journey to nowhere—a hellfire journey through the stews of London. He had let it be known that his life had ceased to matter, that he did not care what happened to him, and that he was a threat to no one.

The truth was, since his brother Anthony’s death, he had stopped feeling anything much, apart from the single-minded determination that drove him toward a goal that was yet to be achieved. Pleasure, well yes, sometimes there was that, and sometimes it helped. The heat of passion in a woman’s arms, the rush of gratification when he won at cards, the sharp excitement when his horse came first in a race. There was some pleasure to be found in those things, but it never lasted long. Strangely, before Anthony died, he had believed the life of a rake might be quite nice, but now he longed to draw a halt to the charade. Perhaps he was growing old, because he found himself dreaming of quieter, more mundane pursuits.

But for now Oliver must carry on existing in this barren winter landscape.

“So, what did you expect?” he asked himself savagely. “That this would be easy?”

Of course not, but he hadn’t thought he would feel so alone.

Although that wasn’t quite true; he wasn’t entirely alone. Lady Marsh, his only living relative, was aware of the plot. Oliver had a feeling that she would have stood by him whatever he did.

Lady Marsh, widowed and with no children of her own, had never made a secret of the fact that she wanted Oliver to marry and create an heir as soon as possible. Without an heir there would be no one left to carry on the Montegomery name, and no one to whom to leave her considerable fortune. Lady Marsh, with her stern eyes and ramrod-straight back, believed a young man of birth and breeding should make his mark upon the world in ways other than drinking and gambling and pleasuring himself on unsuitable women.

She wanted Oliver to marry and have a son and to make a proper life for himself. It was a rare month that passed by without her reminding him of it, and lately it had been twice or thrice a month that she had harangued him. The last time remained fresh in his mind.

“Your father, my brother, was a rascal, Oliver,” she had said, her eyes so like his, boring into him. “And yet for all that he had a brain. He could have used that brain to make something of himself, to do
something
. He didn’t. Such a waste. He was dead at forty, killed when his horse took a jump and he didn’t. And for what? For a ridiculous wager. Don’t let the same thing happen to you.”

“Anthony was the one who grew up expecting to
marry and produce an heir,” he had reminded her. “Anthony was groomed to head the family from the day he was born. They are rather large shoes to step into, Aunt. I’m not certain they fit me at all well.”

“Oliver, you are not your brother, of course not. You are not Anthony; he was solid rock and you are quicksilver. The two cannot be compared. That does not mean you will not fit his shoes admirably.” Then, her eyes still delving into his, she had said, “When do you think this business with Lawson will all be over?”

“I don’t know.”

“I know I said I would support you, but it has been a year now and nothing has come of it.” She had waved her hand with all the arrogance of her age, position in society, and wealth. “Let it go.”

“No.”

Lady Marsh had sighed. “You are a very stubborn young man. I don’t know why I bother with you.”

“I don’t know why you bother with me either, Aunt.”

Oliver had never imagined Anthony would die before him—it was as unthinkable as the sun failing to rise each morning. Fifteen years older than Oliver, Anthony was a man who took his responsibilities to his family, class, and country very seriously. He was a little dull and occasionally pompous, something which Oliver delighted in pointing out to him. But Anthony was a good and honest man, and until he set his heart and mind upon Celia Maclean, his only interest had been in the family and the Tory party. Once Anthony met Celia, however, his thoughts turned to marriage and fatherhood, and Oliver had been relieved to think that soon there would be lots of little Montegomeries to carry on the family name. That would leave Oliver
free to continue in his role as the disreputable younger brother, with no responsibilities but to please himself.

Instead, tragedy had stuck. A little over a year ago Anthony had died, and the fate of the Montegomery family now rested upon Oliver’s unprepared shoulders.

Lady Marsh did not, nor ever would, blame him for his brother’s death. Others did. Oliver certainly blamed himself. In the still darkness of the night, Oliver often lay awake, sick with regrets. There were ways of sending a man to his end that did not involve a bullet or a blade, and he knew that although he had not fired the fatal shot, he had been an unwitting accessory to Anthony’s death.

The guilt weighed heavily upon him tonight, and the determination to have revenge on the one who had held the gun to his brother’s head—the man Anthony had loved and trusted and believed to be his friend. Perhaps Miss Vivianna Greentree had caused his black mood. She had been so very enthusiastic and sure of herself and her damned cause. She had shimmered with life, and she had wrung emotions from him he had thought firmly tamped down. Indeed, if he had been a sulky fire she would have had him burst into roaring flames in no time at all.

Oliver snorted at the image—she had made parts of him hot, that was certain!—and swung his cane. But it was true, the woman had stirred sensations in him he had almost forgotten. When had he last felt so alive? Probably not since long before Anthony’s death. His brother had often chastised him for wasting his youth and vigor on less admirable pursuits. Of drifting without any real goals.

Oliver’s reaction to Vivianna Greentree puzzled him. She wasn’t beautiful in the classical sense. Her
hair had russet tones, and although it was knotted quite severely at her nape, there was a thickness to it, a sensual richness, that made him want to slip his fingers through the strands and press his face into it. Her skin was so fine that he wanted to smooth it with his hands and taste it with his tongue. Her lips were full and when he had kissed her, they had reddened, grown swollen, while her hazel eyes, so passionate and bright, had grown sleepy and dark. She had let him touch her, kiss her, as if she could not help herself.

If he was really the unprincipled rake he was playing, he would have had her instead of wasting his breath arguing with her. He remembered now the manner in which she had responded to his kisses. Not fainting or wailing or running for her life. No, she had relished wholeheartedly his every attention—at least at first.

Oliver’s steps slowed. He found himself wondering how she would look beneath him as he plundered her in his bed. All creamy limbs and heaving breasts. Would she cry out his name as she climaxed, or demand he hand over Candlewood in payment for her virginity? He shook his head in disgust at his own thoughts. If he had been lusting after only her body he could understand himself—beneath her dull and sensible clothing she was curved and soft in all the right places, with breasts just the size he liked them. But her hair? Her skin? Her
eyes
?

Oliver realized then he had stopped and was standing in the dimly lit street. As if he were lost. With an impatient sound, he began to walk again. She was a certain type of gentlewoman, he reminded himself, whom he particularly despised. A narrow-minded, crusading do-gooder. From Yorkshire, of all godforsaken places! And she wanted to prevent him from do
ing something he had every intention of doing. Did she imagine she could instill him with a social conscience by earnestly coming all this way to see him? Oliver shuddered.

But remembering now her fervent expression when she spoke of Candlewood, and then her pain as he deliberately destroyed her hopes, Oliver grimaced. He did not like hurting things smaller and more feeble than himself, although he was dubious that label applied to Vivianna Greentree. Well, it had had to be done. Pointless letting her believe she could persuade him to change his mind. And yet he couldn’t say he had enjoyed that part of their encounter.

Damn the woman!

What would she think if she knew the full extent of his sins? Would a determined social reformer such as herself rise to the challenge? Or would she consider him beyond redemption? He hoped it was the latter, for her own sake he really did. He had been playing the rake for so long now that the role came easily to him, too easily. And Miss Vivianna Greentree was such a sweet armful…. With any luck he had frightened her off, and she was even now on her way back to Yorkshire.

With any luck.

Mrs. Helen Russell was waiting for Vivianna, and she was in a state. Lil, hovering anxiously behind her, grimaced a warning.

“You went out alone, Vivianna! I’ve been worried sick! What would I have told your mother if something had happened to you? Oh, I feel quite ill.”

Vivianna and Lil between them supported her to a chair against the wall. Mrs. Russell waved a hand in front of her face, looking even more ravaged and ex
hausted than usual. She turned big blue accusing eyes upon Vivianna and shook her head.

“I had thought better of you, Vivianna, really I had. I did not know where you had gone, and neither did your maid here. We thought you had been kidnapped by some foul persons seeking ransom.”

Lil caught Vivianna’s eye and bit her lip.

“Not that I expect we would have been able to pay it,” Mrs. Russell went on, setting aside her attack of the vapors as other, more practical concerns took root. “We can barely pay Cook or the grocer, so I imagine a ransom is out of the question. And Toby wagers so much on the cards that I sometimes wonder—” She stopped, sighed, and attempted a smile. “Well, I suppose my sister would pay it anyway. Amy is quite well off, is she not? Yes, if there was a ransom, then Amy would pay it.”

“Of course she would,” Vivianna soothed. “But there is no ransom, Aunt. I am sorry if worried you, but I simply had to speak with…a person about the shelter. I did not expect to be so long. Forgive me.”

Mrs. Russell eyed her a moment more and then rose to her feet. “Very well, dear, I will put this down to your unfamiliarity with London and the stricter code of behavior here, but don’t do it again. Or if you do go out, take Lil with you. A young lady does not go about London on her own, and she certainly does not go about alone at night!”

“Yes, Aunt, I’m sorry. I will know better in the future.”

“What’s this, what’s this?” A deep, attractive voice drifted from the direction of the front door.

Vivianna only just managed not to groan aloud as Toby Russell strolled toward them. He was decked out in a coat severely pinched in at the waist and grossly
padded at the shoulders—she was certain he was wearing a corset—and his waistcoat was even more garish than Oliver’s had been. Toby’s face was still handsome, though deeply lined about the mouth, and his eyes were as watchful of opportunity as always. Vivianna had never liked him, and she knew from Lady Greentree that Helen had lived a miserable life with him. If there was the perfect example of a charming wastrel, then it was Toby Russell. He treated Helen abominably, he was vicious when cornered, and he was never, never to be trusted.

He served as her caution, Vivianna thought, if she were ever tempted to marry a handsome rake herself.

Toby strolled by Lil, and the little maid stepped back abruptly.

“Vivianna has been very naughty,” Helen said, “but I have spoken to her and she has promised not to do it again.”

“Sounds intriguing,” Toby said, with a leer masquerading as a smile. “Do tell, Niece.”

“Actually, Uncle Toby, I am rather tired. If you don’t mind, I think I will retire now. Come, Lil.”

Vivianna preceded her maid up the stairs to her room, trying not to listen as Helen asked her husband, in a plaintive voice, why he had not come home to supper.

“That Mr. Russell tried to pinch my bum,” Lil said furiously when the bedroom door closed.

Vivianna’s gaze narrowed. “Did he? Lil, I’m so sorry. Stay well clear of him, he’s not a nice man.”

Lil cast up her eyes at Vivianna’s words. “You don’t have to tell me
that,
miss. I can see it at a glance. Don’t worry, I can handle meself.”

Vivianna smiled. Lil was small and skinny and fair, with brown eyes; a lively girl. Vivianna had found her,
starving, in York, when she was little more than a child. The young girl had touched her heart with her plight, and Vivianna had persuaded Lady Greentree to employ her. Her loyalty and intelligence were beyond dispute, and Vivianna had never once regretted her impetuous action.