Evening Star (Star Quartet 1)

“Shall I offer the child a glass of lemonade?” she said in rapid Italian, laughter sounding in her voice.

Daniele quelled a frown. He had brought Giana to this world, and it was ridiculous of him to go stiff and disapproving. “Would you like a glass of sherry, Giana?”

“No, Uncle,” she replied in her starchy Italian, a legacy from her Swiss seminary, “I am not thirsty.”

When Lucienne handed him his sherry, Daniele performed the introductions. “Giana, Madame Lucienne runs the most exclusive brothel in all of Rome.”

“It is impressive,” Giana said. She ogled the statues of plaster and marble men and women, stark white and stark naked, and bent in most unusual positions. She didn’t know precisely what she had expected, perhaps an overabundance of crimson, for that was vulgar, she knew. The huge drawing room was furnished opulently, with many sofas and high-backed chairs, all in delicate shades of blue and white. Even the thick Axminster carpets were light blue swirls against pure white. There was no crimson. The heavy draperies were of royal-blue brocade with heavy gold tassels. She looked for a moment at Madame Lucienne, as opulent as the vast room, her flaming auburn hair piled high atop her head, her rich apricot silk gown cut fashionably, snug at the waist with billowing petticoats beneath, and draped off her sloping white shoulders. She could not begin to tell her age. Uncertain of what she should do, Giana tentatively held out her hand.

Lucienne laughed heartily, and shook the small mittened fingers. “A pleasure to meet you, Georgiana Van Cleve.”

“Giana.”

“Yes, well, Giana. A charming name. When you have looked your fill, my girl, we will get on with it.”

Get on with what? She sat stiffly on the edge of a delicate gilt-armed chair.

“I have looked my fill, madame,” Giana said, her chin up.

“Ah, so there is something beneath those starchy petticoats. Very well, girl, this is a brothel. Wrapped up in clean linen, to be sure, but a brothel nonetheless. Our clients are all wealthy, the cream of Roman and European society. But, of course, they are still men, and the variety of their needs remains the same.”

Variety of needs?

Daniele intervened. “Giana, Madame Lucienne will be your mentor, so to speak. You will spend some of your evenings here, watching and learning.”

“Watching exactly what, Uncle Daniele?” Giana asked.

Lucienne dissolved once again into laughter. “Why, my girl, watching the wealthy gentlemen plow my girls, of course.” She downed the remainder of her sherry and thwacked the glass down upon a lace-covered side table. “Enough talk. It’s time the girl began to learn.” Lucienne rose to her full height, shook out her apricot skirts, and said in an imperious voice, “To be a successful wife, you must appear pretty and helpless and appealing to men, and of course be able to bear children until your breasts sag to your waist. To be a successful whore, you must be equally appealing, both in face and body, and learn what pleases men, not in the drawing room, but in the bedroom. Your uncle tells me that you have a handsome, virile young man awaiting you in London. If you wish to have the slightest chance of keeping him out of brothels like mine, my girl, you have to be both the lady and the whore. Now, stand up and let me have a look at you.”

Giana sent a confused glance toward Daniele, and he nodded at her, his face impassive. She stood up awkwardly.

Lucienne walked majestically over to her and closed her fingers about Giana’s chin, lifting her face upward. “A lovely face, no doubt about that. The sea-blue eyes and the black hair are a striking combination. And the creamy white skin, quite unusual here in Italy.” She ran her fingertip lightly over Giana’s cheek. “No need to be shy, girl.” She stood back, her

full lips pursed, and swept her green eyes over Giana’s body. “My dear Daniele, she looks like a little girl on her way to church in that ridiculous white frock.” She turned back to Giana, not waiting for a reply from Daniele. “Take off the gown, girl, and let us see if your body is as lovely as your face.”

“What?” Giana stood frozen, gaping at the woman.

“Take off your clothes,” Lucienne repeated, more imperiously this time.

“But I—” She turned frantic eyes to Daniele. “Sir, I don’t understand—”

Daniele said gently, “I told you, Giana, that some things required of you would not be particularly pleasant. You will please do as Lucienne says.”

“Unrobe in front of you?”

He ignored the horror in her voice, and nodded.

“Of course, my girl. Daniele is a man of exquisite taste, and it is a man’s judgment I need to assure myself that you are lovely enough for my gentlemen.”

“This is ridiculous. I will do no such thing. I have never taken off my clothes in front of anyone, even Mother.” Giana turned on her heel, gathered up her skirt, and raced toward the door.

She drew to a halt at Daniele’s harsh voice. “Giana. So this is how you treat our agreement? I knew that you would grow pale and sputter like a little girl. But remember our wager, Giana, for I will hold you to it. If you do not come back here and do as you’re bid, you will return tomorrow to London, and the agreement with your mother will be null.”

Giana suddenly remembered standing in front of her mother, listening to her in childish excitement when she mentioned prostitutes, remembered all her confidence and disdain such a short time before when Daniele had told her what he would do. Her face drained of color. She had not imagined this. But if she ran, it would be all over, and she would be returned to London to face her mother and Randall again.

“Whores, like wives,” Lucienne said, “do as men wish them to, my fine little lady. If they balk, the gentlemen complain. The primary difference is that whores can grow rich, wives do not. That is the way of the world, and it is time you realized that.”

Giana stood as still as the marble statues. Randall would not want her to be so demeaned, so humiliated. If he but knew what she was being asked to do, surely he would take back all his appeals to her to appease her mother. But she remembered the intensity of his gaze and the urgency of his voice when she saw him last.