Rules of Passion (Greentree Sisters 2)

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