Sara Bennett (18 page)

Again his mouth was on her breast, and he ran his tongue over her nipple, making her flesh jump and squirm. His fingers brushed her inner thigh, stirring the desire he had only just sated, making her think of being in his bed for an entire night.

The image made her dizzy.

Ask him now, before it is too late….

“Oliver,” she managed. “How much do you want me?”

His hand cupped the hot moist core of her, and his mouth stilled against her skin. “More than life,” he said.

“More than Candlewood?”

It was said. The words hung between them, and she knew. As soon as they were said, she knew. This wasn’t the right moment, this wasn’t it at all.

Vivianna had just made a most dreadful mistake.

H
e looked up at her, his dark eyes blurred. He was stunned. His dark hair tangled and untidy, his necktie askew, his face flushed with passion. One hand was still upon her breast, the other cupping her between her legs. He blinked, slowly, regaining his composure.

“The shelter. Of course.” He shook his head. “Of course.”

And then he stepped back from her and left her cold.

The applause in the theater was growing, and she realized that Act Two must be over. With shaking hands she began to straighten her clothing. The hooks of her bodice were a problem, but she could use her shawl to cover herself. She may look somewhat less well turned out than she had before, but in the crush beyond the door, no one would notice.

Oliver stood a moment and watched her make her repairs, his hands loose by his sides, and then he laughed without humor, and began to jerk his coat back into shape and smooth his cravat.

“I thought…” He shook his head. “My mistake, Miss Greentree. I have long suspected where your real passions lay, now my suspicions have been confirmed.”

Vivianna licked lips that were suddenly very dry, but she had gone this far. It was too late to back out now. “You say you want me, and in return you will not reconsider extending the lease on Candlewood? You cannot want me very much.”

He smiled, a polite mask through which Oliver’s eyes glittered. “I am surprised you have stayed a virgin so long, Vivianna. Or perhaps you are not? Perhaps some Yorkshire worthy has got there before me?”

She slapped him.

The sound of the blow was hidden in the applause, but Vivianna saw his head swing to one side with the force of it, and the red mark bloom upon his cheek.

She had never struck another person in her life, and now she felt sick. Wretchedly sick with anger and hurt.
Protect your heart.
It was too late, too late….

Vivianna made her voice flat—if he could play a part, then so could she. “You’re just like Toby, aren’t you? A rake who cares nothing for anybody but himself.”

He looked at her, and then he smiled. That lazy, reckless smile that struck her to the soul. “And you are just like Aphrodite, aren’t you? Selling yourself for gain.”

“The shelter isn’t—”

“It may as well be an emerald or a ruby.”

“Believe what you like,” she hissed.

“Oh, I will,” he said grimly. “Believe me, I will.”

She marched toward the door and wrenched it open. Vivianna exited the box into the crowd.

The audience was spilling out from their boxes to chat and sip champagne. Supper was being served. Although the opera was finished, there was a ballet to be
performed for those in the crowd who wanted to maked the most of this “occasion.”

But Vivianna knew that, for her, the evening was over.

She felt as if her life were over, too, but it could not be that bad. No, she told herself bleakly, she would rally. A few weeks ago she had not even met Oliver Montegomery. He could not possibly mean so much to her in so short a time.

Oliver followed her down the staircase, not touching her, but never too far from her. Once she would have thought he was hovering protectively, but now she knew he hated her.

Perhaps some Yorkshire worthy has got there before me…

She had wounded him. Who would have thought her words would hurt him so much? And yet Vivianna understood now.
You are just like Aphrodite.
He had put her on a pedestal, and she had fallen off it with a bang.

Well, that was his mistake, surely, not hers? She could not help it if he had thought her an angel and she was mere flesh and blood!

Or was it not so simple?

Oliver was a mystery to her, all mazes and complications. He had secrets, too, and he had made mistakes. He felt responsible for the death of his own brother, and he refused to give in when it came to Candlewood. But those things did not stop her from liking him, being attracted to him.

Sometimes she thought she was attracted to him despite herself.

And now that was all over.

“Oliver!”

The loud deep voice startled Vivianna, but it shocked Oliver. For a moment his face was blank, and then in another moment he seemed to consciously relax, his eyelids lowering, his mouth curling in that lazy smile, his body turning fluid. He was like an actor taking on a role, she thought in amazement.

He turned and faced the man behind him. “Lord Lawson.”

Lord Lawson was a gentleman in his fifties, tall and lean, his hair more gray than brown, and with an energy about him that spoke of the ability to get things done. But his eyes were as cold a blue as Vivianna had ever seen.

“The worse for drink again I see,” Lawson said with a smile, but the note in his voice was not amused.

“Alas, yes.”

“You are leaving early?” he asked Oliver. His icy gaze slid to Vivianna and back again. He was still smiling, but it was a meaningless gesture—his eyes weren’t.

“Yes, a prior engagement,” Oliver said, blinking sleepily, in a manner she had seen before, as if he had drunk too much brandy. And yet she knew he had not drunk any at all.

“I see.” Lawson glanced at Vivianna again, clearly waiting to be introduced. When Oliver didn’t oblige, Vivianna assumed it was because he was still angry with her, and she stepped forward and held out her own hand.

“Lord Lawson, how do you do?” she said briskly, ignoring the surprised lift of his brows at her forwardness. “I am Miss Greentree, patron of the Shelter for Poor Orphans.”

“Ah.” Lawson took her hand firmly. “I have heard of you, Miss Greentree. But I am a little surprised you
would accompany Oliver here to the opera, not when he is being so stubborn about Candlewood.”

Oliver laughed idiotically. “She’s a glutton for punishment,” he said. “Now, Lawson, you’ll have to let us by. Things to do, you know.”

Lord Lawson bowed, but his gaze remained on Vivianna. “Goodbye, Miss Greentree. If I can ever be of any assistance…”

“Thank you,” Vivianna managed, but Oliver’s hand on her arm was like iron, and he was pulling her steadily away. “Will you stop it!” she hissed. “What is the matter with you? Why did you pretend like that?”

“None of your business, Vivianna.”

“Oh yes, I forgot, I mustn’t ask questions. You prefer me with my mouth closed.”

“Unless I want to put my tongue in it,” he answered in that droll, hateful way.

Vivianna said nothing. He was beyond reaching with logic, and besides, she was still reeling from what had happened between them during the opera.

By the time they reached the street, the coach was waiting and he followed her to the door. His hand was still strong on her arm, helping her in, but when she had been seated, she saw that Oliver had stayed outside. He was looking in at her, his face a shadow against the gaslights on the street, his expression unseen. But Vivianna heard the coldness in his voice.

“I will leave you here.”

“Leave me?” There was an anxious note in her voice, but she swallowed it back, and with it the sense of panic. There would be no journey home with him, no chance to right the wrong, no time to apologize.

“My coachman will take you home, Miss Greentree. I prefer to walk.”

“Walk to Aphrodite’s?” she said bitterly, and then wished she hadn’t.

He did smile now; she saw the gleam of his eyes. “No, I think not. I have had enough of love for profit for one night.”

Her heart lurched a little, but she held it in check. She told herself it did not matter to her. “Then I will say goodnight, Lord Montegomery. Thank Lady Marsh for the chance to see an Italian opera, and I hope she is well again soon.”

He stepped back and bowed. His voice had a grave finality. “Goodbye, Vivianna.”

“Oh, and Oliver…” She managed a smile, though her face hurt with the effort. “I think I will be taking Lord Lawson up on his offer to help.”

Just as she thought, he did not like that. Something in his eyes flickered, but it was gone as quickly. “Drive on!” The coach jolted forward, and her last view of Oliver was of him turning away and walking into the crowd outside the theater—the flower sellers and link boys, the street women, the hungry and the homeless.

This was not as she had envisaged the evening ending. No wonder she felt bereft.
Protect your heart.
Easier said than done. Would she ever see him again?

Of course she would! There was still the matter of Candlewood, and she must continue to try and save it for the children, and Lord Lawson had offered her his services. But she admitted to herself that inexperience had caused her to make a dreadful mistake. She had thought it was the right moment to speak of Candlewood, but it wasn’t. Maybe it had all been a mistake; maybe she had confused her passion to save the shelter with her passion for Oliver.

Vivianna groaned and put her face in her hands.

When she reached Bloomsbury, Helen was abed and
Toby was out. She was glad to climb into her bed and be left alone.

For a time she lay in the candlelight and listened to the stillness. Queen’s Square was not one of the busy areas of London. It was old and out of fashion, but what it lacked in
savoir-faire
it made up for in quiet. The people who lived here were those, like Helen and Toby, struggling with their finances, or those who were on the fringes of polite society, or seeking to make their ways into it.

Queen’s Square was not like Mayfair, or the Boulevard de la Madeleine.

That was when she remembered the red leather-bound book that Aphrodite had given to her. Her life story, or the beginnings of it.

She had not had a chance to look at it before—she wanted to be certain she would not be interrupted. Now she rose again from her bed and searched in her trunk, finding the book tucked away among her plain woolen Yorkshire gowns.

For a moment Vivianna felt strangely wary of opening it. What if it was dreadful? Maybe she would be better off not knowing? And yet curiosity won her over, and Vivianna finally opened the book and, moving the candle nearer, settled herself to reading at least a part of it.

Vivianna found herself intrigued. The young girl, never named but obviously Aphrodite, observed the lives of those about her with quiet despair. She didn’t want to be one of them. Soon she had turned her eyes, instead, toward the ladies and gents she saw on her
way to one of the slop-shops, or sewing rooms, on Monmouth Street, where she now worked. The slop-shops made clothing for some of the top modistes, who then sold them to the wealthy for far more than the girls could imagine.

Elena was there, young and full of hope. But whereas Elena gazed upon the clothing worn by the rich, and dreamed of one day having her own shop, or of being a modiste with a list of aristocratic clientele, Aphrodite looked at the ladies and gentlemen themselves.

And longed to be one of them.

Soon Aphrodite was carrying clothing from the slop-shop to the different modistes. She was pretty and personable, and generally liked. She would stay and chat, and make even the most sour-faced person smile. There were always plenty of ladies and gentlemen about such places. One gentleman, whom she called Henry, was particularly attentive. He had come to pay for some clothes for his mistress.

But even as he spoke of her, his eyes were all for Aphrodite.