The room was beautiful.
Marietta swirled on her bare feet, head tilted back as she gazed up at the painted ceiling. The artist had made a blue sky awash with angels; they swooped and dived, their draperies tangled about their limbs, displaying daring amounts of flesh. Darting among the angels were cupids, small round creatures with wicked smiles, their bows and arrows aimed downwards, toward the occupants of the Cupid Room.
“It is an homage to love.” Aphrodite had come upon them quietly.
Marietta turned to face her, and her mother smiled at the bedazzled expression on her face.
“I do not think you will find it difficult in this room, mon petit puce, to play at being a courtesan. Think of this as your stage; you have only to act your part.”
Perhaps Marietta did understand what she meant, and Elena, too. They wanted her to let go of her doubts and restrictions, all the things she had learned since she was a child, all the rules she had followed since she was a girl—well, most of the time. Let them go and be herself. Except that Marietta was having difficulty knowing who that was.
Her gaze slipped past her mother, moving over plum velvet curtains and upholstery, and the pièce de résistance, the four-poster bed swathed in apricot satin and weighed down with cushions. Feelings of uncertainty swamped her. Could she make Max forget he was a gentleman who didn’t want her to be a courtesan, even for a few moments? And could she forget she had been brought up a lady and she was edging dangerously closer to falling in love with him?
Aphrodite must have sensed her change of mood. “Maeve.” She did not take her eyes off Marietta. “Go and dress. You are required in the salon.”
Maeve left them alone, shooting an encouraging smile at Marietta as the door closed behind her.
“You have doubts?” Aphrodite spoke quietly.
She shook her head automatically. “No! That is…I do not doubt what I want to do, only my ability to do it.”
“You do not find Max attractive?”
&nbs
p; “Yes, I do.” Max was like a storm, ready to pound her into compliance. And she must do everything in her power to stop him.
“You must not underestimate him, Marietta. He is a proper man, do you understand?”
“I-I think so.”
“Now, do not fret.” Aphrodite rested a cool hand on her shoulder. “You will see. Everything will sort itself out. Perhaps you are thinking too hard. It is better in these situations if you don’t think. Take a deep breath and allow yourself to feel instead.”
Marietta took a deep breath but nothing happened. “I will try.”
“Good. Remember.” She held up her finger. “You are strangers. He is no longer Max, he is simply a man you desire.”
Her mother had been peering anxiously into her face, a little crease between her brows, and Marietta forced herself to smile as if everything was perfectly all right.
Aphrodite nodded and moved away, running a finger along the edge of a table as she went, checking that her servants were doing their job. “I will leave you to await Lord Roseby—he will be here very soon. Ring twice for the food when you want it sent up. Ring three times if you wish to bring the evening to a halt.” She turned and fixed Marietta with a dark, intent look. “You can stop this whole thing whenever you wish, Marietta. No one but you and I will ever know about it. You do realize that?”
Marietta’s smile wavered at the corners. “Thank you, I will bear it in mind.”
“Then good luck, Marietta.” Aphrodite closed the door, leaving her alone at last.
Marietta, arms folded about her exposed midriff, feet bare on the exquisite carpet, wandered the beautiful room like a nymph in a fairytale. She avoided the bed and moved to where there was a painting hanging on the wall. A beautiful woman was lounging upon a grassy bank spiked with flowers, her dark hair flowing about her, her diaphanous gown displaying rather than hiding her charms—rather like Marietta’s. Cupid peeped from behind a bush, his pink cheeks bulging with mirth, his bow and arrow raised to pierce the heart of the maiden, or the man who knelt close by her. He was fully dressed, of course, his hand hovering above her breast but not quite touching, although from the expression on his face Marietta could tell he was thinking about it. Imagining it. Looking forward to it.
There was an intensity to the painting that held her spellbound. The man reaching out to touch the woman, the woman clearly wanting him to, and cupid ready with his arrow to once more confuse lust with love. Marietta was so intent upon it that she was oblivious to the door opening behind her, and Max stepping into the room.
Lord Roseby is invited to an Anonymous Evening of Pleasure at Aphrodite’s Club…
The invitation had been lavish with curlicues and written on fine paper. Max wasn’t surprised to receive it, but he pretended to deliberate over accepting it. His decision to distract Marietta from her ambition to be a courtesan by binding her to him was a desperate one—he had had time to consider the matter more carefully since their meeting in the coach, and he told himself that he only intended to go through with it if words failed to persuade her.
Tonight was the ideal opportunity to speak with her again. And he wanted to see her; he wanted to save her from herself.
So here he stood, stranded amongst a host of angels and a quiver of cupids. For a moment he thought the room was empty. The bed caught his eye, but he dragged his gaze away and instead inspected the draperies and the sofa with its velvet cushions and the lurid painting on the far wall. A nymph was about to be seduced, or molested, by a soulful courtier—he wasn’t certain which, and his wits left him before he had time to decide. Because there was a woman standing in front of the painting.
She was dressed in something pale and transparent that fell in folds about her and still managed to display her curves as if she were naked. Marietta Greentree, with her hair falling in blond waves down her back and gleaming like gold in the subdued lamplight.