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 dislikedyou , 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 throat 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 shameoutside of bed.'
They regarded each other with an almost identical wariness, as if they were each protecting secrets that the other must never discover.
CHAPTER 9
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.
And the heat, the gossip, the plague of insincere social smiles, the melange of grease-and sugarbased pomades and heavily applied perfume.
A monotonous bore, every bit of it.
But tonight would be different. He was appearing with a woman whom most of London assumed to be dead. By tomorrow the news would have spread through every layer of society that Vivien Duvall was alive--and that she had appeared at the Lichfield ball on Grant Morgan's arm. He had no doubt that after the revelations of this evening, the man who had tried to kill her would be flushed out.
Drinking from a snifter of brandy, Grant waited in the entrance hall of his home. His black and gold carriage, attended by outriders and footmen, had been stationed at the front door. It was ten minutes past the time he had bid Vivien to be ready, but he knew from experience that women were always late for such events.
One of the housemaids, Mary, descended the stairs at a rapid pace, her face glowing with excitement. 'She's almost ready, sir. Mrs. Buttons is seeing to the last few details.' Grant nodded shortly, glancing around and realizing that the entrance hall was becoming filled with footmen, the butler, the maids, and even his valet, Kellow, all of them staring expectantly at the stairs. It puzzled him, the feeling of pleasure they seemed to share in the proceedings. Vivien's presence had enlivened the house, had subtly altered the starkly masculine atmosphere until it no longer seemed a bachelor's residence. This could have been any ordinary gathering of servants waiting eagerly for the lady of the house to appear in her finery, a ritual that occurred in so many of the elegant residences in London...but never his.
Grant scowled at the group of servants, although none of them seemed to notice his simmering disapproval. Vivien was not the lady of the house. No one seemed to want to acknowledge that, however. She had made them
