Rules of Passion (Greentree Sisters 2)

His mouth twitched as he closed the door.

Marietta settled down before the fire in the sitting room, and gazed into the flames. It seemed unfair that Max had been made to suffer for something that was not his fault. Such a misfortune was similar enough to her own situation to ensure her sympathy. She, too, had been looked down upon and socially ostracized by people who did not know her at all, just because of the circumstances of her birth. Why couldn’t it be as Vivianna was always saying it should be: that children ought to be loved for themselves and not reviled for the actions of their parents?

Sometimes life just wasn’t fair.

Chapter 3

Max, Lord Roseby, would probably have agreed with her. Or maybe not. He was not presently inclined to agree with anything Marietta Greentree said. She was a confounded nuisance, not least because she had the bluest eyes he had ever seen and the most dazzling smile. He wanted to watch her face, especially when she was lying in his arms.

Well, that wasn’t going to happen now.

Max had been dreaming of an hour or two’s relaxation with one of Aphrodite’s more accomplished protégés, and instead he was left feeling tense and frustrated and more than a little foolish. He had wanted her. Her, Marietta, Aphrodite’s daughter.

He couldn’t have made a worse choice.

Despite her parentage, the girl was obviously an innocent playing with fire—he didn’t for a moment believe her claims that she was ruined—and that was the worst kind of complication for Max. As if he didn’t have enough problems, he would be accused of tampering with a virgin. He could hear the gossips now…“Well, he wasn’t really a gentleman, was he, what can one expect?” Or, “He’s taken up with a drab’s daughter. Like will find like.”

Was Marietta really Aphrodite’s daughter?

Max swung his cane and strolled along the street. Now he set his mind to it, he recalled that there had been some scandal a few years ago. Something about the daughters of the famous courtesan being stolen as children and being found again when they were grown. The thing had been hushed up, though. He would have to ask around for the details, refresh his memory—Harold would be the obvious choice—Harold knew everything about everyone. Except that Harold was now, supposedly, his enemy. Harold, who had supplanted him as the heir to his father’s title, Duke of Barwon, and the sprawling Valland House in Surrey, where both Max and Harold had grown up. Not to mention the old man’s fortune.

“Ill-gotten gains,” Max muttered to himself. The old man had inherited the title when he was hardly more than a child, but the money had all been frittered away by his gambling addicted family. He had set off to the West Indies and made his own fortune, although there had always been a bit of a smell about the whole thing. Max had asked, but his father would never discuss it. “Money is money,” he’d say testily, “who cares where it’s come from?”

True enough, money was money, and it was money Max needed to keep himself afloat.

He would have to sell his mother’s house in Cornwall. The thought was a bleak one. Blackwood had been in her family since medieval times, but he could not see how he could hold on to it and remain in London. Unless he left London altogether—why not, it was too painful here anyway, with so many reminders of his old life. Then he could retire to the isolation of Cornwall and live as a recluse.

The image suited his mood exactly, even though he knew it was awfully indulgent. And he’d probably get bored doing nothing but brooding. Max sighed.

“Perhaps something can be done,” Harold had said awkwardly, last time they met. “You know how rotten this makes me feel, old chap. Don’t do anything rash. I won’t let you go under.”

“I can’t rely on you for the rest of my life, Harold.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me, old boy.”

“It’s not your fault,” Max said, and it was true. It wasn’t Harold’s fault. Max’s mother had evidently been carrying him when she wed his father, and now the truth had come out. Max was disinherited, and as the eldest male issue of the duke’s brother, Harold was legally the next in line.

A tragic tale, yes, but then again Harold was not to blame. Just as Max wasn’t to blame. One day he had been Lord Roseby, heir to a dukedom and an estate in Surrey and a fortune in funds—the world had been at his feet. And the next…Everything, his prospects, his position in polite society, had disintegrated like ashes in the wind.

The deed had been done at Valland House, during a family supper to celebrate the new year. They had been chatting and laughing, his stepsister Susannah had been playing the piano, and then his father had risen to his feet and cleared his throat. He always made a toast at these gatherings, paying homage to the dying year and looking forward to the one to come. But this time he had not raised his glass, instead he had reached into his pocket and taken out a letter and begun to read. The letter had been written by the duchess some years ago, and Max did not want to believe that she ever expected it to be found and spoken aloud.

That letter had destroyed his life.

He hadn’t been able to remain in the room. His father hadn’t even looked at him as Max got to his feet and walked out, through the doorway and into the freezing night. He had walked in circles in the garden for hours, until Susannah and Harold found him and brought him in. But he had been numb, unable to speak or weep or rage. That had come later.

Max sighed, pushing aside the bad memories, and remembering instead Marietta’s soft hand in his. If he closed his eyes he could recall the scent of her hair, and the sight of her blue eyes staring up at him so boldly. Even now, standing still in the laneway, he felt his body tensing at the thought of her naked in his arms.

Blast it, he had been looking forward to spending the entire night with Marietta Greentree!

The blow came out of nowhere. A crashing thud to his temple. Max saw lights and then darkness washed over him. And then nothing at all.

Marietta’s head was nodding. It had been a very long day—Vivianna had begun her labor well before dawn and everyone had been in such a state of anxious anticipation they hadn’t been able to rest. Now, seated here in Aphrodite’s warm and comfortable parlor, she found herself slipping into sleep.

She was remembering the first time she met Aphrodite, at Greentree Manor, shortly after Vivianna married Oliver…

Beyond the windows in the drawing room the sun shone fitfully. Ominous clouds jostled on the horizon, where the moors rose bleakly to meet them. But here in the sitting room the fire was crackling in the fireplace and the lamps were lit, and the occupants were awaiting their visitor.

“It is such a long journey, and she did not arrive until very late last night,” Lady Greentree said calmly, making another stitch in her embroidery. “I know you haven’t seen her for fourteen years, my dear. Since you and your sisters were taken from her by the baby farmer Mrs. Slater. You may find it a little strange at first, but believe me when I tell you your mother is very eager to reestablish her relationship with you, as far as that will be possible…”