Evening Star (Star Quartet 1)

“You mean mistresses?” Giana’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “You want me to become acquainted with loose women?”

“No, not mistresses, for they are with just one man, usually for a period of time. The women I speak of are prostitutes. You will not, of course, become like them, but you will see both sides of life, Giana, and when you return in September, and if you still want to wed—”

“You mean, Mother,” Giana said quietly, “when I return and still wish to wed Randall, not if.”

“It will be your decision entirely, Giana. I swear that I will not interfere. But you must do exactly as Daniele tells you to do, else our agreement is null.”

“What a marvelously unusual summer. I have never before met a bad woman,” she added naively.

But you have certainly met a very bad man. “You do understand what I am asking of you?”

“Yes, Mother. You wish me to become intimate with both ladies and harlots.” Giana giggled. “But think of all the dreadfully wicked things I shall learn.”

“It will not be a summer holiday, Giana, I can promise you that.” She saw that Giana had little notion of what it would mean to be confronted with the women who sold their bodies to men, and for a moment she doubted the wisdom of Daniele’s idea, and she doubted herself. The picture she had painted of men and women was, she knew, strongly tempered by her own wretched life with Morton Van Cleve and the stream of fortune hunters who had flocked about her after his death. There were men, she knew, who loved their wives, who were good and loyal, but Randall Bennett was not one of them.

Aurora looked up to see Giana gazing at her oddly, unaware that her thoughts had danced across her face, creating grim shadows.

“Have you always hated men?”

Aurora started at the pity in Giana’s voice, and it needled her. “I do not hate men, Giana. But they have power, physical power far greater than ours, and the power of the laws that they created for themselves. I am wary of them.”

“But you wield power, Mother, and you are not a man.”

The truth, Aurora. Tell her at least some of it. “It was never your father’s intention that it would happen thus. If your brother had not died, I would be relegated to my embroidery, and endless days of emptiness.”

“You hated Father.”

“Without him, I could have never had you, child. And I love you more than anything or anyone else in this world.”

“I cannot force you to answer me directly, Mother. I would that you begin to realize that I am no longer a little girl.”

Aurora expelled her breath slowly. She said finally, very quietly, “Morton Van Cleve was a man such as I have described to you.”

“So you wish to punish me for your own bitterness, your own disappointment.”

“No, I wish merely to protect you. I realize, Giana, that Randall Bennett has so filled your head with visions of romance and eternal devotion that you will not heed me. But, daughter, I know that if you were not an heiress, he would never have concerned himself with you. My wealth—our wealth—is both a blessing and a curse, for people, men and women, will try to cloak their true intentions in hope of gain. It is for that reason that you must learn to see the world as it actually is, so that when you finally find a man who truly cares for you, you will know it and be content.”

“I have found such a man, Mother. It is you who refuse to be content. Randall cares not a rap for my money. Surely you cannot truly believe that this charade you have planned for me will change my mind or my feelings for him.”

Aurora forced herself to swallow the knot of frustration that rose in her throat like bitter bile.

“If that is so, Giana, I will bow to your judgment in September. I know that you will wish to see Randall Bennett before you leave.” And I know that I can not stop you. “You must promise me that you will tell him only that you have agreed to spend the summer with your uncle in Italy in order to prove to your mother that your affection for him will endure for three months. Do you agree?”

“Of course, Mother. I cannot believe that Randall would approve of his future wife enjoying comfortable cozes with harlots, no matter what the gain.” She gave her mother a sunny smile and left the library.

Chapter 4

Rome, 1847

Daniele Cippolo’s driver turned the open carriage about in the huge Piazza San Pietro, careful of the nasty-looking bay drawing the carriage to his left, and directed his gray in a wide arc out of the bright sunlight of the square into the shade cast by Bernini’s imposing colonnades.

Giana drew a delighted breath and waved her hand toward Alexander VII’s fountain in the center of the square. “I had forgotten, Uncle Daniele, how very impressive everything is. The fountain is truly lovely. May we ride down the Via della Conciliazione to the Tiber?”

Daniele smiled at her excitement. To him, the square was simply a place that was filled with too many tourists during the summer.

“Certainly, Giana.” He gave rapid instructions to his driver, Marco, and the carriage skirted the vast colonnades and drew back into the harrowing traffic.

“I had also forgotten how very warm it is here in the summer, and so many people,” Giana said, fanning herself. “I even had trouble sleeping last night.”