“You’re trying to tell me that you’re not a hero,” Vivien said with a questioning lilt.
“Based on your acquaintance with me during the last twenty-four hours, wouldn’t you agree?”
She considered the question and answered thoughtfully. “Obviously you are not a perfect man—as if there could be such a thing—but you have done good for many people, sometimes at the risk of your own life. That makes you heroic, even if I don’t approve of you.”
“You don’t approve of me,” he repeated blankly.
“No. I think it very wrong of you to pay for the services of a woman like me.”
The comment seemed to simultaneously amuse and puzzle him. “Why, Vivien,” he mocked, “you don’t sound like yourself.”
“Don’t I?” She fiddled awkwardly with the edges of the bed linens. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to sound like, or what I should say. All I know is that the more you tell me about myself, the more I wonder why you or anyone else should desire my company. I’m not a very nice woman, am I?”
A stiff silence descended on them. Morgan’s stare was searching, critical, like that of a scientist examining the unexpected results of an experiment. Wordlessly he turned and headed toward the door, and Vivien thought he was leaving. However, he picked up a tray that had been set on a side table, and returned to the bed with it.
“Your supper,” he said, setting the tray on her lap, straightening a piece of silverware that had slid to the edge. “I was carrying this upstairs when I heard you fall.”
“You were bringing a supper tray to me?” Vivien asked, wondering why he had not had one of the servants do it.
Morgan read the unspoken question in her expression. “I intended to offer it with an apology.” His voice turned brusque as he added, “My manner with you earlier this evening was uncalled-for.”
Vivien was rather taken by his charming gruffness. Her instincts told her that he was sincere. Although he surely did not respect or esteem her, he was willing to apologize when he believed himself to be in the wrong. Perhaps he wasn’t quite the ogre she had thought him.
She tried to meet his honesty in equal measure. “You were only relating the truth.”
“I should have been far more gentle in the telling of it. I’m not what anyone would call a diplomat.”
“I shouldn’t have blamed you for what you said. After all, it’s not your fault that I’m a—”
“A beautiful and fascinating woman,” he finished for her.
Flushing, Vivien fumbled with the napkin and laid it over her midriff. She didn’t feel beautiful and fascinating, and she certainly didn’t feel like a worldly-wise courtesan. “Thank you,” she said with difficulty. “But I’m not the woman you think I am…at least, for the present I’m not. I don’t remember anything about myself. And I don’t know how to behave with you.”
“That’s all right,” Morgan interrupted, sitting in the bedside chair. He seemed relaxed and casual, but his gaze didn’t leave her for a moment. “Behave however you wish. No one is going to force you to do something you don’t want, least of all me.”
Difficult as it was, she took a deep breath and returned his gaze. “Then you won’t want me to—”
“No,” he said quietly. “I’ve already told you that I won’t bother you that way. Not until you desire it.”
“And if I never desire it?” she forced herself to ask in a mortified scrape of a whisper.
“The choice is entirely yours,” he assured her. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “But be forewarned. My attractions may grow on you.”
Abashed, Vivien swiftly dropped her gaze to the dainty meal before her. The plate contained slivers of chicken, a dab of pudding, a spoonful of vegetables in cream. She picked up a bread roll and bit into it. It seemed to take an unusual amount of effort to chew and swallow the morsel. “This is your room, isn’t it? I would like to move to the guest room as soon as it’s convenient. I don’t wish to deprive you of your own bed.”
“Stay here. I want you to be comfortable.”
“It’s very grand, but the bed is too large for me, and…” Vivien hesitated, unable to tell him that she felt surrounded by him in this room, even when he wasn’t here. His smell and his distinctly masculine aura seemed to linger in the air. “Have I been here before?” she asked suddenly. “In your house…in this room?”
“No. This is the first time you’ve been a guest in my home.”
On the occasions when they had been intimate, she guessed they had trysted in her bed, or some other place. She was too embarrassed to ask for details. “Mr. Morgan—Grant—there is something I want to ask…”
“Yes?”
“Promise you won’t laugh at me. Please.”
“All right.”
She picked up a silver fork and toyed with the prongs, focusing all her attention on the utensil. “Was there any love between us? Any affection? Or was it merely a sort of business arrangement?” She could hardly bear the thought that she might have sold her body only for money. Her face burned hot with shame as she waited for the answer. To her relief, he didn’t jeer or laugh.
“It wasn’t all business,” he said carefully. “I thought you would offer some ease and enjoyment I needed badly.”
“Then one could say we’re friends?” Vivien asked, grasping the fork so hard that the prongs left scarlet marks on the flesh of her palm.
“Yes, we’re—” Breaking off, Morgan took the fork from her and rubbed the sore spot on her palm with his thumb. He cradled her hand in his large one, frowning at the little red marks. “We’re friends, Vivien,” he muttered. “Don’t distress yourself. You’re hardly a cheap wh…prostitute. You’re an exclusive courtesan, and few people think the worse of you for it.”
“I do,” Vivien said painfully. “I think very much the worse of me for it. I wish I were anything else.”
“You’ll get used to the idea.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she whispered.
Something in her woeful gaze seemed to bother him. Letting go of her hand, he muttered an imprecation and left the room, while she stared morosely at the cooling food on her plate.
“Oh, I couldn’t wear that,” Vivien said, staring at the gown that had been laid out for her. It was one of four that Mr. Morgan had brought from her town house, and while she had no doubt that the gown was hers, she very much doubted its tastefulness. Although the garment was beautifully designed and well made, the color, a dark velvet that captured the intense tones of a ripe plum or black cherries, would prove a jarring clash with her hair. She added ruefully, “Not with this carrot top. I’ll look a fright.”
Mrs. Buttons surveyed her critically as Mary helped her from the bath and began to dry her off with a thick length of white toweling. “I think you might be pleasantly surprised, Miss Duvall. Won’t you try it on and see?”
“Yes, I’ll try,” Vivien said, shivering as the cool air chased over her exposed skin, raising gooseflesh from head to toe. “But there’s every chance I’ll look ridiculous.”
“I assure you, such a thing isn’t possible,” Mrs. Buttons replied. Over the last three days, the housekeeper’s manner with Vivien had changed from distant politeness to warm kindness, and the rest of the household staff had promptly followed suit. Sincerely grateful for the help they offered her, Vivien praised and thanked the servants whenever the opportunity presented itself.
Had Vivien been a high-ranking noblewoman, she supposed she would have accepted their service as her due, and taken care not to become familiar with them. However, she was far from an aristocrat, and in light of what she knew about her own dissolute past, she thought the servants of the Morgan household were more than kind. There was no doubt they all knew what she was, and what she had been, and still they treated her with the deference they would have accorded a duchess. When she remarked on this fact to Mrs. Buttons, the housekeeper had explained with a wry smile.
“For one thing, Mr. Morgan has made it
clear that he values you, and wishes you to be treated as a respected guest. But more than that, Miss Duvall, your character speaks for itself. No matter what is said about you, the servants can see that you are a kind and decent young woman.”
“But I’m not,” Vivien said. Unable to look into the housekeeper’s face, she bent her head. There had been a long silence, and then she had felt Mrs. Button’s gentle hand on her shoulder.
“We all have mistakes to overcome,” the housekeeper said quietly. “And yours aren’t the worst I’ve heard of. Thanks to Mr. Morgan’s profession, I have seen and known some of the more wretched characters imaginable, who have no bit of goodness or hope left in them. You are far from that desperate state.”
“Thank you,” Vivien had whispered, utterly humble. “I’ll try to justify your kindness to me.” Ever since that moment, Mrs. Buttons had assumed an almost motherly protectiveness toward her.
As for Grant, Vivien had seen little of him, as he occupied himself with investigating her case and one or two others. He checked on her in the mornings, talked for five minutes or so, and then was gone for the rest of the day. In the evenings he returned for a spartan and solitary supper and read books in the library.
Morgan was a mysterious figure to Vivien. The ha-penny novels that the maid, Mary, had loaned to her had shed little light on his character. The novels emphasized the adventurous side of Morgan’s nature, detailing the crimes he had solved and his famous pursuit of a murderer across two continents. However, it was clear the author knew nothing of him personally. Vivien suspected that few people desired to know the real nature of the man, preferring the outsized tales of a legend. It was usually that way with famous men—people wanted to know about their accomplishments and strengths, not their vulnerabilities.
But it was precisely Morgan’s weaknesses that interested Vivien. He appeared to have so few of them. He was a private, seemingly invulnerable man who did not like to talk about his past. Vivien couldn’t help wondering what secrets and memories were contained in his carefully guarded heart. One thing was certain…Morgan would never trust her in that way.
Vivien was well aware of Morgan’s contempt for the life she had led before her “accident.” It was obvious that he did not like or approve of the woman she had been, and she could hardly blame him, as she felt exactly the same. Unfortunately, in the course of his investigation, Morgan seemed to be uncovering more unsavory facts about her. He had admitted that he had been questioning the people who knew her. It appeared that whatever they had told him had been neither especially helpful nor particularly pleasant.
Frowning, Vivien tried to push the depressing thoughts to the back of her mind. She held on to the back of a nearby chair to preserve her balance as Mary fastened the velvet gown. Her ankle had healed rapidly, until it was almost as good as new, except for an ache that occurred when she stood on it for too long.
“There,” Mrs. Buttons said in satisfaction, standing back to view Vivien with a smile. “The gown is lovely, and the color couldn’t be more perfect.”
Carefully Vivien made her way to the dressing table mirror, which afforded a three-quarters view. To her surprise, the housekeeper was right. The deep black-cherry velvet made her skin look like porcelain, and brought out the ruby fire of her hair. Black silk braiding trimmed the modestly high neckline. More lengths of silk braiding defined the vertical slash that went from neck to collarbone, affording a subtle glimpse of white skin. No other adornment marred the simple lines of the gown, except for the puffs of black silk that edged the hem of the flowing skirt. It was an elegant garment, suitable for any lady of quality. Vivien was relieved to discover that she owned some clothes that did not proclaim “courtesan” to everyone who saw her.
“Thank goodness,” she murmured, giving Mary and Mrs. Buttons a self-deprecating smile. “I feel nearly respectable.”
“If you please, Miss Duvall,” Mary said, “I should like to brush out your hair and pin it up proper. You’ll look every inch the fine lady then—and won’t Mr. Morgan be pleased to see you turned out so well!”
“Thank you, Mary.” Vivien made her way to the dressing table, pausing to pick up the length of damp toweling discarded from her bath.
“No, no,” the maid scolded, rushing forward at the same time that Mrs. Buttons did. “I’ve told you, Miss Duvall, you’re not to help me with such things!”
Vivien surrendered the towel with a sheepish smile. “I can pick up the linens just as easily as you can.”
“But it’s not your place,” Mary said, ushering her toward the dressing-table chair.
Mrs. Buttons stood close to Vivien, meeting her gaze in the mirror. The housekeeper smiled pleasantly, but her eyes were speculative. “I don’t believe you’re accustomed to being waited on,” she remarked.
Vivien sighed. “I don’t remember what I’m accustomed to.”
“A lady with servants would never think to straighten a room or pour her own bath, even if she forgot every blessed fact in her head.”
“But I know I had servants.” Vivien picked up a stray hairpin from the little box Mary had brought, and traced the crimped edge. “At least, I did according to Mr. Morgan. I was a spoiled creature who did nothing except…” She stopped and frowned in confusion.
Mrs. Buttons watched as Mary brushed out the shining length of Vivien’s rich red hair. “You certainly don’t behave like a ‘spoiled creature,’” the housekeeper said. “And in my opinion some things about you would not change no matter what has happened to your memory.” She shrugged philosophically and smiled. “But then, I’m hardly a doctor. And I can scarcely keep order of what’s in my own head, much less divine what’s in someone else’s.”
Mary dressed Vivien’s hair in a simple style, pinning a braided knot atop her head and allowing a few sunset wisps to curl around her neck and ears. Enjoying the feeling of being properly clothed and turned out, Vivien decided she would like to visit some other part of the house. “It would be a treat just to sit for a while in a room different from this one,” she said. “Is there a small parlor or perhaps even a library downstairs? Does Mr. Morgan have a few books I might be able to look at?”
For some reason the question caused the housekeeper and the maid to exchange a smile. “Just a few,” Mrs. Buttons replied. “I’ll show you to the library, Miss Duvall. But you must take care not to injure your ankle again, and you mustn’t tire yourself.”
Eagerly Vivien took the woman’s arm, and they made their way downstairs step by careful step. The town house was exceptionally handsome, filled with dark panels of mahogany, thick English carpets underfoot, clean-lined Sheraton furniture, and fireplaces fitted with generous slabs of marble. As they approached the library, the air was rich with the smells of beeswax, leather, and vellum. Sniffing appreciatively, Vivien entered the room. She wandered to the center and turned a slow circle, her eyes wide with wonder.
“One of the largest rooms in the house,” Mrs. Buttons said proudly. “Mr. Morgan spared no expense in housing his precious books in first-rate style.”
Vivien stared reverently at the towering glass-fronted bookcases, the map cabinets embossed with gold letters, the marble busts positioned at each corner of the room. Her gaze fell to the tables loaded with books, many of them left open and piled atop each other, as if the reader had been called away hastily in the middle of an intriguing passage. “It’s not merely a vanity collection, is it?” she asked aloud.
“No, the master is quite devoted to his books.” Mrs. Buttons repositioned a comfortable chair by the cheerful fire and drew back a curtain to admit plenty of daylight. “I’ll leave you to explore, Miss Duvall. Shall I send a tea tray for you?”
Vivien shook her head and wandered from one bookcase to another, her gaze rapidly scanning the enticing rows. The housekeeper laughed suddenly. “Until now, I’ve never seen anyone look at books the way Mr. Morgan does,” she remarked.
Barely aware of the housekeeper’s departure, Vivien opened a glas
s door and examined a row of poetry. Something strange happened as she read one title after another…Many of them seemed startlingly familiar, the words connecting in a way that made her quiver with surprise. Mesmerized, she reached for one of the books. She opened it, the textured leather binding soft beneath her fingers, and found a poem by John Keats entitled “Ode to a Grecian Urn.” Thou still unravished bride of quietness… It seemed as if she had read the words a thousand times before. A door opened in her mind, illuminating knowledge that had been stored away until this moment. Thoroughly unnerved, Vivien clutched the open volume against her chest and grabbed another off the shelf, and another…Shakespeare, Keats, Donne, Blake. There were many other instantly recognizable poems, fragments of which she could even recite by memory.
The relief of remembering something made her almost dizzy with excitement. She picked up and held as many books as possible, crowding them against her body, dropping a few in her haste. She wanted to carry them all to a quiet corner, and read and read.
On a lower shelf she discovered well-worn volumes of philosophy. Snatching up Descartes’s Meditations, she flipped it open and feverishly read a passage aloud. “There is nothing, among the things I once believed to be true, which it is not permissible to doubt…”
Vivien hugged the open book to her chest, mind swimming with chaotic impressions. She was positive she had once studied this book, these words, with someone she had cared for very much. The familiarity of the words gave her a sense of safety and comfort she needed desperately. She closed her eyes and clutched the book harder, straining to capture some elusive memory.
“Well.” A sardonic rumble broke the silence. “I wouldn’t have expected to find you in the library. What have you found that interests you?”
Six
Vivien whirled to see Morgan filling the doorway, the corner of his mouth tightened in a jaded quirk that passed for a smile. The somber gray of his trousers and waistcoat was balanced by a moss-colored coat that brightened the antique green of his eyes. She stumbled forward in her excitement, anxious to share her discovery.