Rules of Passion (Greentree Sisters 2)

“So you stayed too?” His voice was husky from disuse.

“Someone had to keep watch over you. I was the obvious choice.”

She sounded defensive. Did he make her uncomfortable, or was it their current intimate situation that did that? She had not seemed the type to be easily intimidated, but the way in which she clasped her hands in her lap now, as if she was waiting to be scolded, gave him pause.

Had he somehow given her the impression that he was a monster?

He supposed he had been a little out of sorts during the balloon ascent, and he may have slightly startled her with his behavior downstairs, when he tried to buy her services. Perhaps Marietta Greentree was right to be wary, Max admitted reluctantly. Perhaps he was not always as courteous and polite as his mother had brought him up to be. But his father had always impressed upon him that he was the heir to a dukedom and a certain arrogance was to be expected. Even when the dukedom was no longer his, that arrogance was difficult to shake off—bred into him, he supposed.

“Thank you,” he said now, as courteously as he could manage, and closed his eyes.

She was leaning over him, so close that he could hear her breathing. He had surprised her. It was quite a feat to disconcert Marietta Greentree of the clear, fearless gaze and decided opinions. Despite the appalling pain in his head Max found himself struggling to keep his mouth from smiling.

“Are you thirsty again?” she asked anxiously. “Would you prefer water or broth?”

Broth? Good God. “Thank you, but no,” he said, with feeling. “All I want is to go home. Ring for a servant to fetch me a cab and I will trouble you no further.”

Marietta gave a disbelieving laugh. Dear heavens, he expected her to bundle him into a hansom cab and send him home just because he told her to! What a bossy and abominable man he was.

“I will fetch Dobson,” she said in a voice that brooked no argument, and went off to do just that.

Dobson, looking tired and with his red jacket unbuttoned at the throat, was just closing the door on the last of the night’s guests. When Marietta explained the problem, he said, “You stay here, miss, and let me deal with Lord Roseby.” Then, as he headed upstairs, he called over his shoulder, “Better still, go and get something to eat in the kitchen. That’s where everyone else’ll be.”

Marietta, weary from lack of sleep and cramped from sitting upright all night, thought a hot breakfast sounded most appealing. Now, if she could just find the kitchen…

In the end she followed her nose. The kitchen was by far the most comfortable part of Aphrodite’s Club that she had seen so far. With its enormous scrubbed-pine table and large range, as well as the shelving full of crockery, and the pots and pans dangling from hooks, it looked as a kitchen should look. The cook, a tubby gentleman with a pince-nez, was modestly accepting congratulations from his feminine admirers. They gathered around him in their bright and flimsy gowns, aprons hastily thrown on to save spills and stains, their mouths bulging with bacon and eggs and toast. The rich smell of coffee only added to the general sense of hominess and well-being.

Eagerly, Marietta moved to join them, but as she drew nearer and her presence was noticed, their lively chatter ceased. Now only the sizzle of the food still cooking on the stove broke the silence.

“Dobson said I should come and have some breakfast,” she said with a bright, forced smile that turned a little forlorn at the edges. “It smells delicious.”

The plump little cook looked delighted with her compliment, and the women—Marietta guessed they were Aphrodite’s protégés—began to tuck in once more. Only one of them, a girl with dark hair and eyes, who seemed a little older than Marietta, held out her hand.

“You must be Aphrodite’s daughter,” she said, with an accent as soft as Irish rain. “I’m Maeve, how do you do? Come and fill yourself a plate. Henri won’t mind, will you Henri? He’s Aphrodite’s chef and he’s been with her since…oh, since forever!”

Marietta smiled back, relieved to have found a friend. Maeve handed her a plate and Henri proceeded to load it with food until Marietta cried a laughing halt. Seated among the others, she too tucked in, only then realizing how very hungry she was. When had she last eaten? At lunchtime yesterday, before Vivianna had her son, before she came to tell Aphrodite the good news. Before Max. Was that how she would date things from now on? Before and after Max?

“How is he then?” Maeve said, munching on a slice of toast dripping with butter. “Lord Roseby, I mean,” she added, as Marietta swallowed her mouthful.

“He’s awake and he wants to go home. Dobson has gone upstairs to talk to him.”

“Poor man,” Maeve said, and shook her head for emphasis.

“Yes, it was a nasty blow.”

“No, no, not the hit to his poor head. I meant him being disinherited by his da like that, and after growing from a child in the belief that he would one day be the Duke of Barwon. How must he feel? I think it’s awfully sad.”

One of the other women gave an inelegant snort. “Serves him right, I say,” she pronounced in a voice that had once been cockney but was learning to be refined. “You can’t inherit if you’re another man’s bastard. Everyone knows that.”

“But that’s not his fault, is it?” someone else piped up, and this brought forth more cries of agreement or disagreement. Marietta, unable to get a word in, gazed about her wide-eyed and realized that these beautiful women were enjoying themselves. Like rowdy schoolgirls let out of class, they were intent on throwing off the airs and graces they were learning so painfully, along with the good manners and languid smiles to please the gentlemen, and just being themselves. Perhaps here, in Henri’s kitchen, was the only place in Aphrodite’s Club where they could be themselves.

Just then a chilly voice spoke from the doorway.

“Are you all still here? Laura, surely you have French lessons? And Donna, you too. And what of you, Maeve, isn’t dancing instruction in a few minutes? Ladies, you have much to learn before you can go to bed and sleep. Allevouz!”

Cutlery clattered on china, chairs grated as they were pushed back, and the girls scattered. Maeve gave Marietta a grin as she left, but everyone else was too intent on obedience. In a moment the kitchen was empty, apart from Henri, who was conspicuously busy over the stove. Aphrodite came up behind him, almost silent in her silk slippers. “Henri,” she said in a voice more weary than it had been a moment before, “why do you encourage them to be bad?”

Henri shot her a mock-innocent look over his pince-nez. “Ah, but they do not need much encouragement, Madame. And besides, it does them good to be bad sometimes—to disobey their maman.”