Lessons in Seduction (Greentree Sisters 1)

“I cannot promise miracles, but I think you will find it is not so painful as you expect, nor so complicated. You may even enjoy it.”

“I am most grateful.”

Aphrodite showed her out into the hall and accompanied her to the front door. “Tell me, Miss Greentree…” Her voice sounded a little husky now, as though she were tired. “Will you satisfy my curiosity a little further?”

Vivianna smiled. “If I can. What is it you wish to know?”

“Have you ever tried to discover who your mother was? Have you ever made attempts to contact her?”

Vivianna shook her head sadly. “My past is so shadowy now. With time memories have faded, and unfortunately I knew none of the necessarily details it would have taken to trace my family. Her name, or her home…I decided it was best to forget the past and make the most of what I had. My sister, Marietta, is more determined. She says she will find our mother one day. My younger sister, Francesca, says she has forgotten the past. For myself, when I decided to help other children, I realized how very fortunate I was in comparison to so many of them. I knew then that it would be selfish of me to continue to mourn my past. Who I am is no longer important to me; it is what I do with my life now that has meaning.”

Aphrodite was staring at her, and her face was completely white. She reached out a hand and clung to the bellpull. Far away, Vivianna heard it jangling for the servant.

“Are you unwell?” she asked, shaken by the blank, blind look in the woman’s eyes, the visible trembling of her lips in that chalky face. All her beauty had gone, and she was old.

Aphrodite shook her head—a ringlet fell lose against her shoulder. “What shall I call you?” she whispered. “Tell me, tell me, what is your name?”

There was an urgency in her voice that had not been there before. The careful French had faded. Suddenly Vivianna could hear the woman’s true origins clearly, a brash London accent fighting through the Parisian one. It seemed that this famous courtesan had come from humble beginnings, just like so many others.

Startled by this new knowledge, and by Aphrodite’s strangeness, she said, “My name is Vivianna.”

Aphrodite trembled violently. “Oh,” she whispered. “Oh.”

Just then Dobson came running and, seeing his mistress so fragile and close to collapse, he caught her up against him, just as she began to crumple to the floor. Vivianna, who was holding her arm to support her, now stood uncertain.

Dobson gave her a furious look. “What have you done?”

Aphrodite swallowed, shaking her head. “No, no, she’s done nothing. I need to lie down. I am unwell, that is all. I am unwell. Help me upstairs.”

“You have let yourself get overtired. You know the doctor said you have to take better care of yourself.” Dobson cast Vivianna another searing look, but his attention was all for Aphrodite. Concern filled his eyes, but also something warmer, deeper. Vivianna realized then that Dobson was not just Aphrodite’s servant. He loved her.

Still holding her in his arms, he strode quickly toward the staircase. Aphrodite rallied, lifting her head to look at Vivianna over his shoulder, where she stood irresolute by the door.

“Come tomorrow. Eleven. Do not fail, mon chou!”

“I will come, Madame, I promise. If you are well enough—”

“I will be. I will be. Do not fail!”

Vivianna watched as they reached the top of the stairs and vanished into the shadows there. Was she ill, and, as Dobson seemed to suggest, Vivianna had tired her? “Maybe I have made a mistake in coming here,” she murmured to herself. But no, despite what had happened, she did not think so. Aphrodite still wanted to help her, and Vivianna had found, as they spoke together, a trust in the other woman that was surprising. In many ways they were poles apart, and yet there was a similarity, too. As if, once, Aphrodite may have had the same questioning, passionate qualities as Vivianna.

Chapter 7

“Oliver? Have you had a chance yet to look over the names on the list?” Lady Marsh asked, and fanned herself leisurely. The early roses were blooming in her garden and she was enjoying being seated among them on this fine afternoon. Oliver had taken a turn about the lawn and had stood, gazing at nothing, until her question broke his reverie.

“I have, Aunt. I must say that none of them strikes me as a particularly riveting prospect. Maybe I could bear to stand up with them at a dance, but as for spending the rest of my life with any of them…” He shuddered dramatically.

“The rest of your life won’t be very long if you continue on as you are,” Lady Marsh said acerbically.

Oliver gave her his reckless smile. “Touché.”

“Besides, no discerning woman would marry a man who wears a waistcoat like yours, Oliver.”

Oliver glanced down at the offending item. A yellow waistcoat embroidered in a particularly repellent green, with red embellishments. The buttons were turquoise and large and shiny, their brass surrounds catching the sun. He smiled wickedly at his aunt. “What’s wrong with it? You won’t see many of these about London.”

Lady Marsh shuddered. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

Bentling, Lady Marsh’s butler, was picking his stately way across the grounds toward them, a silver salver in one hand.