Eight
“A ball?” Vivien stared at Grant as if he had gone mad. They sat in the downstairs parlor, where he had told her of the plan he had devised with Sir Ross. Although Grant appeared sympathetic to her distress, he was obviously not giving her a choice in the matter.
“You’re asking me to appear in public,” Vivien continued uneasily, “not merely in public, but at a large formal ball, to let everyone in London know that I am alive. And then I’ll be in danger at least ten times worse than now.”
“You’ll be under my protection,” Grant replied quietly, coming to sit beside her on the gold damask-upholstered settee. He took her small, knotted fist in his hand and chafed it gently until her fingers relaxed in his. “Trust me,” he said, smiling faintly as he stared into her worried face. “I would never let anyone harm you.”
“I won’t know anyone there,” she said, clinging tightly to his hand. “I won’t know what to do or say.”
“You don’t have to do or say anything. All you have to do is make an appearance.”
“I don’t want to,” she pleaded, rubbing her forehead with her free hand to ease a throbbing ache.
“I understand,” he replied softly. “But it has to be done, Vivien. Now…I want to take you to your town house and find something for you to wear. You have at least two dozen ball gowns, and I would have the devil of a time picking one out for you. You’ve said you want to visit your home, and this is the perfect time to do it.”
Vivien frowned at their entwined fingers and took a deep breath, trying to settle her agitated nerves. Everyone would stare at her. How could she make small talk and smile and dance when she didn’t remember a single person from her former life? She didn’t want to mill among strangers who would undoubtedly think of her as odd or fraudulent, or something equally disagreeable. Most of all, she dreaded making herself a highly visible target. What if the man who had attacked her came back to finish the job he had started? And what if Morgan was hurt or even killed in the process?
“It doesn’t make sense,” she said. “Why must I go to a ball and reveal myself in such a dramatic fashion? Why can’t you leak the information in some other way? You have no idea who wants me dead, do you? This is a desperate attempt to draw him out because you can’t decide on a suspect.”
“I want the bastard caught,” Morgan said evenly. “This is the fastest way of accomplishing it.”
Drawing her from the settee, he guided her to the entrance hall and signaled the housekeeper to bring their coats. After fastening a cloak around Vivien’s shoulders, he settled a velvet bonnet on her head. A veil of lilac gauze hung from the front brim, concealing her face behind a pastel haze.
Vivien sent him a simmering glare from behind the veil. “This looks like a mourning bonnet,” she said. “As if I’m going to attend a funeral. I only hope it won’t be my own.”
He laughed softly. “It was the most concealing hat I could find. And I’m not going to let anything happen to you. The world would be a dull—albeit more peaceful—place without you.”
After Morgan donned his own coat, a footman accompanied them to a carriage waiting outside. Having expected that they would use a hired vehicle, Vivien was surprised to discover that the carriage was a handsome private curricle, painted with gleaming black lacquer and touches of matte gold, and pulled by two perfectly matched chestnuts. Vivien couldn’t help but be impressed by the elegance of the vehicle. “I wouldn’t have thought you possessed a carriage like this,” she remarked. “I thought the Runners went everywhere on foot.”
His green eyes danced with amusement. “We can, if you’d rather.”
Responding to the gentle teasing, she gave him a small smile. “No, thank you,” she said with an effort at lightness. “I’ll make do with this.”
The footman helped her into the curricle and tucked a thick, cushiony cashmere robe around her. Vivien thanked him and snuggled back into the soft leather seat with an exclamation of pleasure. The wind was pleasantly crisp and biting, refreshing on her face after the past days of confinement. Climbing into the space beside her, Morgan took the ribbons in an expert grip. He waited until the footman ascended to the seat behind the vehicle, then snapped the ribbons and clicked to the horses. They started with a smooth, synchronous gait, the well-sprung carriage moving easily over the cobblestoned street.
Vivien stared blankly at the array of sights spread before them, her gaze searching for any small detail that might strike her as familiar.
Each street possessed its own character, one populated by printers and writers, another occupied by butchers and bakers, another featuring a stately row of churches. Gentlefolk cut through the meandering paths of prostitutes and beggars. Wealth and poverty were wedged together in sharp juxtaposition. The air was thick with the scents of animals, food, the brine of the river, sewage, dust…She soon lost the ability to distinguish smells as her nostrils were overwhelmed. They passed a group of urchins who were harassing a satin-clad fop…a libertine lurching drunkenly from a tavern with a trollop on each arm…peddlers carrying wooden boxes strapped around their necks and shoulders.
Soon Vivien’s attention transferred to Morgan, who deftly navigated the carriage among the carts, cattle, and pedestrians that clogged a section of the street. He was completely at ease amid the bustle of town life, familiar with every alley and corner. It occurred to her that Morgan was one of the few men in London who mingled with everyone from royalty down to the meanest pickpocket.
They reached a row of elegant town houses, and stopped before one with a large bronzed door. “Is that mine?” Vivien asked hesitantly, staring at the grand arched doorway bordered with columns.
Morgan gave her an inscrutable glance. “That is yours.”
The footman hurried to take charge of the horses, while Morgan helped Vivien from the carriage. He lowered her gently to the ground, bearing her weight until she gained her footing. Giving her his arm, he escorted her to the door and unlocked it.
Vivien entered the town house cautiously, standing still in the entrance hall while Morgan proceeded to light lamps and wall sconces. The place, with its flowered French fabric panels and dainty Louis XIV furniture, was beautiful, feminine…and crushingly unfamiliar. She removed her hat and placed it on the end of a stairway banister.
Light flooded the entrance hall. Slowly Vivien moved from a framed pier glass to a marble-topped giltwood table. Picking up a delicate piece of Staffordshire porcelain from the table, Vivien regarded it closely. Two figures, a gentleman and lady, were conversing while the lady reached forward to pluck wildflowers for a basket nestled in her lap. The scene was charming in its innocence. When Vivien turned the porcelain over, however, it showed the gentleman’s hand intruding far beneath the lady’s skirts. Frowning at the crude joke, Vivien set the figures down and glanced at Morgan. He was watching her with a strange mixture of amusement and resignation.
“Remember anything yet?” he asked.
She shook her head and went to the staircase. Morgan followed at once, his measured tread matched to hers as she made her way to the second floor. The lamp he carried threw misshapen shadows in their wake. Pausing at the top landing, Vivien wondered where to go.
“The bedroom is this way,” Morgan said. He took her elbow in a light grasp and led her to the last room on the right. They entered a room lined in dark green silk, with a richly carved bed set on top of a pavilion. It reminded her of a small stage, all prepared for a performance. Frowning in discomfort, Vivien stared at the bed while Morgan lit more lamps. Then she turned and saw the painting.
For a moment all she saw was a startling expanse of skin, the artful display of female flesh…and then she realized just who was depicted.
“It’s me,” she said in a strangled whisper. Hectic color surged in her face. She whirled around with a gasp, unable to look any longer.
“I gather you don’t recall posing for it.” There was a suspicious quiver of amusement in Morgan’s voice. However, Viv
ien couldn’t share his humor, or even berate him for it. She was too overcome with shame, and anger that was directed solely at herself. Until now there had always been some tiny corner of her mind in which she believed that she had not done the things he accused her of. But now the truth was there in a heavy gold frame, her past exposed and flaunted in florid detail.
“How could I…how could anyone pose for that?” she asked, covering her face with her hands.
“Artists frequently use nude models. You know that.”
“Obviously that painting was not intended as any sort of artistic statement,” she said scornfully. “Its only purpose is to…”
“Arouse,” he suggested softly.
She lowered her hands and clenched them at her sides, still facing away from him. It seemed almost impossible that she could feel such humiliation…It scorched the very insides of her veins. “Take it down, or cover it,” she said desperately.
The amusement left his voice, and he sounded faintly puzzled as he replied. “I’ve seen it before, Vivien.”
It made no sense, but she couldn’t bear the painting hanging there before them both—it was like being naked in front of him in person. “I don’t like it,” she said sharply. “I can’t stay in this room with that hanging there. Do something with it, please.”
She stiffened as he approached her from behind, his hands closing over her narrow shoulders. “You’re trembling,” he murmured in surprise. “There’s no reason to be upset.”
“You wouldn’t say that if it were a nude painting of you hanging up there.”
He snickered suddenly. “I doubt there’s an artist alive who would agree to paint me in the nude, sweetheart. I’m not exactly the right material.”
An arguable point, she thought privately. From what she had seen of him, Morgan was as attractive as any masculine form ever committed to canvas…but she was hardly going to tell him that.
Gently he tried to turn her to face him. “Come, it’s not so bad. Take a deep breath.”
She resisted, stubbornly ducking her head and fixing her gaze on the floor. “I’m not going to move until you take away that painting.”
A brief, warm huff of laughter fanned her ear. “All right, blast you.” Releasing her, he crossed the room to the painting. A scraping noise, a faint creak of the heavy frame, and then Morgan’s dry voice cut the tense silence. “You can open your eyes now.”
Vivien turned to see that he had taken the painting down and propped it against the wall, back facing outward. “Thank you,” she said, heaving a sigh. “I want to have that dreadful object burned.”
“You may change your mind, once you recover your memory.”
“I don’t care what happens after my memory returns,” she retorted sharply. “As I’ve told you before, I won’t be a courtesan any longer.”
Morgan regarded her with a frank skepticism that annoyed her beyond reason. “We’ll see,” he muttered.
Another painting caught her eye, a small oil with a delicate gilded frame. It was hung on the wall next to the dressing table, as if she had wanted to look at it while applying perfumes and powders and brushing her hair. Moving closer, she stared at the painting with growing curiosity. It didn’t seem at all in keeping with the rest of the house. Obviously done by an amateur, the picture had been painted in bright, cheerful colors. The scene was of a little country cottage, timber-framed and painted white, with a carpet of lavender heather all around, and silver birch trees behind it. A profusion of rosebushes bearing dainty white blossoms covered the front of the cottage.
Vivien couldn’t seem to take her eyes from the painting. She felt certain it was a place she had once visited, a place where she had been happy. “How strange,” she murmured. “I think…I think this picture was given to me by someone who…” She stopped in confusion. “Oh, if only we knew where this cottage was!”
“It could be practically anyplace in England,” Grant said sardonically.
Vivien touched the signature in the corner of the canvas. “Devane,” she read aloud. “How familiar that sounds. Devane. I wonder if he is a friend or perhaps even a…”
“Lover?” Grant suggested quietly.
She drew her hand back and frowned. “I suppose he might be.” Memories strained behind the impenetrable wall in her mind. Frustrated, Vivien went to a massive breakfront wardrobe, fitted with huge pieces of silvered glass and flanked with cabinets of linen trays on either side. Opening one of the two sets of doors, she beheld a long row of gowns in every imaginable shade of silk, velvet, and satin, the skirts fluttering like butterfly wings. Many of the garments held a faint note of perfume, a combination of roses and spicy wood that mingled with sweet crispness in her nostrils.
“There seems to be a range of styles,” she remarked, conscious of Morgan’s gaze on her. “Everything from sedate to shocking. What effect are we hoping to achieve?”
“Vivien Duvall in all her glory,” he said.
She looked back over her shoulder at him. “What was I wearing when we first met?”
“A mermaid gown. Green silk with little gauze sleeves.”
Busily she combed through the collection until she found a gown that matched the description. “This one?” she asked, holding it up for his inspection.
He nodded, looking unaccountably grim.
Vivien held the gown up against her front and glanced down at it. The garment was beautifully made, shimmering green with little ruches of white satin at the neckline that reminded her of foam on the waves. A mermaid gown indeed. She had excellent taste in clothes, evidently…and why not? A courtesan’s primary concern would be the art of displaying herself to the best advantage.
“I could wear this one to the ball,” she said. “What do you think? Shall we give it another outing?”
“No.” A shadow flitted across his face, and he regarded the gown with obvious dislike.
Lost in thought, Vivien replaced the gown in the wardrobe. “We didn’t get on well that first meeting, did we?” she asked, riffling through the row of clothes.
His voice was subtly serrated with tension. “Do you remember?”
“No…but the look on your face…Anyone could see that it wasn’t a pleasant memory.”
“It wasn’t,” he agreed curtly.
“Was it I who disliked you, or have I got it backward?”
“The dislike was mutual, I believe.”
“Then how did we…that is, why did you ever enter into an arrangement with me?”
“You have a way of sticking in a man’s craw.”
“Like a fish bone,” she said ruefully, and laughed. She pulled out a white gown, a bronze, and a lavender, and brought them to the bed in a colorful heap. Carefully she began to fold the delicate garments while Morgan watched her. “One of these will do nicely,” she said.
“Aren’t you going to try them on?” he asked.
“Why bother? They’re all mine. Why shouldn’t they fit?”
“You’ve lost a bit of weight since your dunking in the Thames.” He came to measure her waist experimentally, his large hands nearly spanning the neat circumference. Vivien started at his touch, at the solid feel of him behind her back. The dual proximity of Grant Morgan and a silk-covered bed was enough to rattle her nerves. Remembering his hands, so wickedly gentle as they searched her body, and his mouth imprinting warm, delicious kisses on hers, she tried to suppress a hard shiver. He must have felt the involuntary movement, for his hands tightened at her waist, and his lips moved close to her ear until she felt the caress of his breath.
“There’s no need for me to try anything on,” she managed to say. “Besides, I can’t fasten and unfasten rows of buttons all by myself.”
“I would be willing to help.”
“I’m certain you would,” she replied with a smile that turned wobbly. Sensation, or the exquisite promise of it, raced through her body and pooled low in her stomach making her knees weak. For a breathless moment she thought of leaning back, arching her th
roat in invitation, pulling his hands up to her breasts.
However, just before her eyes closed, she caught sight of the ostentatious bed reflected in a looking glass…this room, where she had entertained so many men…The idea suddenly sickened her. It was possible Morgan had a few private fantasies that she would be expected to satisfy. Even if she wanted to sleep with him, how in the world could she live up to her own reputation? She didn’t remember a single thing about how to please a man. But shouldn’t she? She certainly recalled any number of things she had read in books…why had she not retained some of her vast knowledge of the sexual arts? Confused, she jerked away from him.
“Grant,” she said, flustered, “there is something I must know. When you and I had…that is, when we…” She cast a miserable glance at the bed, and then looked back into his alert green eyes. “How did you find the experience? I mean…how was I? Did I justify my reputation? Did I…oh, you know what I mean!” Face reddening, she kept her gaze trained on his.
Strangely, Morgan seemed as discomfited as she by the questions. “I can’t compare you to any other woman I’ve slept with,” he said evasively.
“Yes?” she prompted, wanting him to continue.
Grant was still and tense, feeling cornered, while the memory of Lord Gerard’s rapturous descriptions of Vivien’s lovemaking skills buzzed in his ears. He heard himself repeating a few of Gerard’s words, in a flat tone that betrayed none of his own agitation. “You have no shame in bed. It makes you an entertaining partner, to say the least.”
“How strange,” she muttered, her face still scarlet. “Because I have more than an ample amount of shame outside of bed.”
They regarded each other with an almost identical wariness, as if they were each protecting secrets that the other must never discover.
Nine
As the veteran of countless balls and soirees, Grant had come to view such events with a jaded eye. One was the same as any other; the parade of dark formal wear for the gentlemen, revealing gowns for the ladies…the elderly guests playing whist in the cardroom while the younger crowd danced in the drawing room and amorous couples gathered in the sitting rooms. The music played by pianist, violinist, and cellist…the ladies seated in small chairs at the side of the room, awaiting invitations to dance…the busy hum of guests in the refreshments room…the large, lukewarm supper.