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I will go on, I will live my life, but I will never be whole again.
Marietta set aside the diary, and there were tears on her face. Aphrodite had lost her Jemmy, lost her love. It did not sound as if the life of a courtesan was quite what Marietta imagined. Despite all that she had, it had not been enough for Aphrodite—she had still wanted more. She wanted her lost love back again.
Chapter 11
Marietta handed the footman another parcel as she left the milliner’s shop in Regent Street. The new plate-glass windows gleamed with the spring sunlight and the reflections of fellow shoppers. She was admiring the tight fit of her new pale green muslin dress with the pink rosebud pattern, and its double skirt with two flounces. Under that skirt she was wearing a new pair of green slippers, tied about her ankles with ribbons. Her feet were aching from the lack of any support offered by the slippers, which were thin and without a heel, but they were very pretty. There was nothing quite like a new outfit to cheer one up, and she had been feeling a little dowdy—Yorkshire was all very nice but it wasn’t at the forefront of fashion. In London the styles seem to change every other day, and while Marietta did not consider herself so shallow that she must always have the latest style, she did like to be smart.
Just then a figure paused behind her. A broad chested man in a shabby brown coat and plaid trousers. His eyes, in his rugged pugilist’s face, met hers. Marietta was good with faces and she recognized him. It was the man she had seen in Bedford Square when she had visited Max there and stood at the window with Mrs. Pomeroy watching Harold and Susannah arrive. He had seemed as out of place there as he did here, and how odd that she should see him again!
He recognized her, too, she could tell. His mouth tightened and his eyes flared and then he quickly walked on, leaving her wondering whether she should be afraid.
“Miss Greentree!”
Startled, she glanced around expecting to see the same man. Instead there was a large lad in livery sitting upon a coach that looked familiar and gesturing to attract her attention. “Daniel?” she said, unaccountably relieved to see him. “What are you doing here?” Even as she walked towards him she saw that it was indeed Max’s coach.
“Master Max wants a word, Miss,” Daniel said, clearly proud of himself for tracking her down.
“Does he?” Marietta leaned against the door, and standing on tiptoes, peered inside. “Max? Are you well enough to be out? Your head is barely healed, and the doctor said your brain might swell.”
He was looking pale and elegant, and he raised his eyebrows at her comments. “Miss Greentree, perhaps you would be so kind as to allow me to drive you home? Interesting as my private business is to the rest of London, I don’t particularly want to discuss it in front of them.”
She felt the color in her cheeks. She was being more impulsive than usual, she supposed, but for a moment she had allowed her concern for Max to overcome her good sense and caution. She glanced around and, finding that Vivianna’s footman was waiting a little way behind her, she gestured for him to come and open the door and help her inside. “You can ride with Daniel,” she told him kindly. “If that is acceptable to his lordship, of course?”
Max ignored her sarcasm, assuring her that it was perfectly acceptable. “We will go by way of Regent’s Park,” he said for Daniel’s benefit, and then settled back in his corner and waited superciliously while Marietta fiddled and wriggled and finally made herself comfortable.
The truth was that her stays were too tight, but she wasn’t going to tell Max that. Marietta had never fully accepted her size and shape. The trouble was that her sisters were both tall, and Marietta was short, and although she might be a fashionable hourglass shape, she felt that she was just too curvaceous. With this in mind she had insisted her new dress be made a little smaller, so that to fit into it she must be very tightly laced. At least then, she told herself, she kept her lush curves in check. Sometimes she wondered if she was being a little too self-critical—it might actually be more important to breathe than to look slim—but the recent sight of Susannah Valland’s tall, willowy shape had heightened her dissatisfaction with her own.
“Is there a reason you are here, Max?”
“I was going to call upon you,” he said in his haughty voice, “but I was informed you were shopping in Regent Street. It was just a matter of elimination as to which establishment you would be patronizing.”
“You mean you lurked outside until you saw me.”
“If you like, although it is not my habit to lurk anywhere.”
“All right, Max. Having found me, what is it you want?”
They bowled along by sunny Regent’s Park, with its green vistas and strolling visitors. Marietta peered from the coach window for a glimpse of the zoo and the famous botanic gardens. The sense of being out in the country, though deceptive, was refreshing after the bustle of the shops. Marietta could even bear her stays with fortitude, as she awaited Max’s reply.
“Pomeroy said he saw you and Harold conversing. He seemed to think you were upset, Marietta. I want to know what my cousin said.”
Marietta met his gaze—he looked ill at ease. For him to come looking for her, she thought, he must have a fairly good idea that whatever his cousin had said wasn’t polite. But she wasn’t going to be the one to tell him—if he wanted to know, he should ask Harold.
“I really don’t wish to discuss it,” she said quietly, and looked away. Behind her Max stirred restlessly.
“If you will not tell me what he said, then how can I apologize on his behalf?”
Marietta cast him a sideways glance. “There’s no need to apologize. I don’t care what Harold thinks or says. My dealings aren’t with Harold, they are with you. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
He shook his head.
Marietta sighed with relief. “Good.” She gave him another look, and found herself remembering his kisses. That feeling had returned, the ache low in her belly, and since it only seemed to occur when she was around him, she considered asking him what it was.
“Max?”
He reached out and took her hand. He wasn’t wearing gloves, but she was, and for a moment he rubbed his thumb over her protected palm. Then, as if the thin barrier between them irritated him, he deftly unbuttoned the wrist of her glove and proceeded to tug it off by the fingers.
“Max,” she said, with a little giggle. “What are you doing?”
