Wicked Little Secrets (3 page)

Vivienne regarded Lily for a moment. Then she tilted her head and said, “I’m so sorry, but I don’t think Lord Dashiell can break my heart. For I am engaged.”

“Engaged?” Dashiell echoed sharply.

A lovely, joyous smile graced her lips that made her dimples come out of hiding. His heart dropped like a dead bird from a branch.

“Yes,” she gushed.

He had never seen her gush. He didn’t like it. He wanted little Vivienne back—the one who idolized him.

“I know, you feel sorry for the poor gentleman, don’t you?” she said.

“No. It’s just… just…” He swallowed. He always knew he would lose his little sister to another. She deserved to fall in love with someone who would be faithful and bring her a lifetime of happiness. The kind of man Dashiell could never be. But instead of congratulating her, he stood swaying on his bloody feet, clutching his Zulu shield to his heart, bereft, while Lily laughed at him from deep in her throat.

“Best wishes for you and the lucky gentleman,” he finally managed.

“Thank you.” She swept forward and handed him his treasured Persian tablet. “I came to tell you that your grandfather is in my aunt’s garden and insists on disturbing our Bible lessons on being a virtuous wife. Did you know such a wife is expected to rise before dawn, go out to the merchant ships to buy foods from afar, purchase fields, and plant crops? And if that isn’t enough, she must also sew tapestries, spin linen, flax, and wool, and then sell them. I think that is a bit excessive. You would wonder what her virtuous husband is doing, wouldn’t you?”

The room fell silent as the other ladies stared at Vivienne, baffled. But Dashiell, who always found her odd observations endearing, struggled to keep a straight face.

“Anyway, I should go. My Aunt Gertrude thinks I’ll get corrupted here.” Vivienne performed an abrupt bob of a curtsy and turned to leave. At the door jamb, she glanced over her shoulder, a devilish spark rallied in her eyes. “Oh, I should mention that your grandfather has no clothes on.”

“What?” Dashiell yelled. The precious clay tablet slipped from his grasp. He dropped the shield and caught the relic at the same moment the shield slammed his already injured toe. His howling curse was concealed by the raucous laughter ringing through the hall.

The earl sauntered upon the scene, his robe loose, his percy hanging free.

“You should have seen old Trudie.” He cackled. “I thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head. You can tell she ain’t seen a man in a long time.”

Dashiell slicked his hand down his face and wondered if the morning could get any worse.

***

Vivienne quickly closed the door, but not before hearing another colorful snatch of Dashiell’s profanity. She put her palm over her mouth, trying to stem the flow of laughter that gurgled up. Her nerves still crackled from the sight of Dashiell’s bare chest, stripped all the way down his torso. He put to shame all those illustrations of naked men she had found in the medical journals at the library.

“Miss Taylor! What in God’s name are you doing coming out of Lord Dashiell’s home?”

Vivienne’s laughter disappeared with a gasp. John Vandergrift waited by her aunt’s front step, holding a package that was tied with large looping pink ribbons. Under his neat mustache, his mouth dropped open in shock and his chiseled features pinched in disapproval. In contrast to Dashiell’s tousled appearance—even when completely clothed—John was fastidious in his dress and manner. His sage coat molded to his well-formed shoulders without a single wrinkle. His reddish-blond hair curled neatly below the brim of his high hat. “Come away this instant before anyone sees you!” he hissed.

“Oh God,” Vivienne muttered. She had made another stupid mistake, and after she promised her father she wouldn’t.

Just three weeks before, two men in coats with the seams straining around their bulging muscles had arrived at their door in Birmingham. Their blank reptilian eyes had raked over the house and then Vivienne and her sisters, twin smirks cutting the corners of their lips.

“Nice place ’ere, wouldn’t be thinking this bloke don’t have a tanner,” one of them had said and then jerked his head toward Vivienne. “Tell you wat, if he don’t pay, we kin share this pretty ’un. But he can have them ugly girls with ’im in debtor’s prison.”

Papa had no choice but to welcome the filthy scoundrels into his library. Outside the door, Vivienne could hear the crash of chairs being toppled over and ugly threats from the men about how they were going to hurt him. After they left, she found him slumped over his desk, his bruised face buried in his hands.

“When you go to the Vandergrifts’ party… you remember to give his son some pretty smiles,” he had said in a weak voice.

Vivienne went to the party. Her lips hurt from smiling for so long, but a week later, a miracle occurred on the magnitude of burning bushes and parting seas. John proposed. That night, her father made her kneel before him. He clutched her hands in his and the perspiration on his red forehead glistened in the lamplight.

“Vivienne, promise me you’ll make him a perfect wife, that you won’t cause any more trouble.”

She kissed his fingers. “I promise, Papa.”

“And for God’s sake, don’t tell him about our financial troubles. Understand? I just need enough work to make a payment. Then we can get on our feet.”

She searched her father’s face, crinkled with lines of worry. “H-have I made you proud, Papa?”

His lips twitched. “Yes,” he conceded for the first time in her life.

Well, he certainly wouldn’t be proud of her at this moment. She rushed down the walk to John. “I can explain. You see, Lord Dashiell’s grandfather was in Aunt Gertrude’s garden. He had no clo—I mean, he was acting most peculiar. I hurried over and spoke to their butler regarding the matter. Lord Dashiell had guests, so I really didn’t converse with him, except to exchange a few words like ‘Hello,’ ‘How are you,’ ‘What a fascinating mummy tomb.’ The usual things.” She gave a hollow, false laugh, trying to make a joke of the moment.

John didn’t laugh. His eyes were like hot blue flames. “Did he touch you?” He spoke in the same stern tone her father used when he wasn’t pleased with something she had done… which until recently covered all her activities aside from breathing, eating, and sleeping.

“Of course not,” she said feebly, even as she remembered touching Dashiell’s fingers when she gave him back the Persian tablet and how the feel of his skin sent a current of hot electricity through her body.

“Vivienne, you’re going to be the wife of a consequential man. Your behavior reflects on me. You can’t just pop harem-scarem into bachelors’ homes… and certainly
not
Lord Dashiell’s. What were you thinking?”

She couldn’t say she was dying to see her old friend whom she had been secretly meeting for the last ten years.

“I-I made a mistake,” she said, and latched onto his free arm. “That is all.”

He studied her face. “You are a most beautiful creature. Tell me my father isn’t right, that I haven’t acted rashly by asking for your hand.”

Oh, Lord!
If John jilted her, well, she wouldn’t be able to go home. She couldn’t tell her father that she had ruined him. “I said I made a mistake!” she cried. “I-I love you!”

A smile broke across his handsome face. “Say those last words again.”

She let out a long breath. “I love you.”

He peeked at either side of the street, checking to make sure the square was empty, and then brushed her cheek with his lips, a pleasant tickling sensation that caused her to giggle.

“I brought you something, my pet.” He handed her the package.

In their few weeks together, she had learned that he didn’t hesitate to lay down large sums at tailors, carriage makers, or wine merchants. “Only buy the finest,” he had told her with a sparkle in his eyes, as if his words were a compliment to her. Vivienne’s belly squirmed in the knowledge that she had to conceal from him for her family’s sake—she wasn’t the finest; in fact, she was a desperate bargain.

“You are too good to me,” she said. She pulled the pink ribbon loose and the paper unfolded around a beautiful leather volume.
The
Ethereal
Graces
of
the
Delicate
Sex: Being a handbook on the proper conduct of young ladies upon entering society and consequentially marriage,
by Mrs. Beatrice Smith-Figgle.

“Oh no…” she muttered, before she could stop herself.

John’s brows creased.

“I mean, oh yes!” she cried. “Oh yes! What a lovely gift!”

“I thought of you when I saw it.” He took the book from her hands and opened it. There were small pieces of paper with his handwriting in the creases. “I’ve even marked the sections to which you should pay special attention.”

She swallowed the sour taste in her throat. “Thank you. I shall endeavor to memorize every word.” In truth, she already knew it by heart. Her former headmistress had made her stand before the class and recite long passages from the book after she had sewed hieroglyphs into her sampler and turned in her French assignment in the misshapen Greek that she had tried to teach herself.

“Now, let’s go inside. Maybe your aunt will give us a moment alone.”

“I should warn you that Aunt Gertrude is conducting her Bible lesson.” She gave him a gentle nudge in his ribs. “Those ladies are going to fawn all over you.”

A teasing smile played on his lips. “I have no objection to ladies fawning over me.”

She gave a soft laugh as she wrapped a proprietary hand around his elbow and led him to her aunt’s door. In the corner of her eye, she saw the red-headed woman rush out from Dashiell’s house, clutching a yellow and black Greek vase. Blood rushed to her face. She yanked John inside and slammed the door just as the lady threw the ancient vase on the pavement and screamed, “You lying blackguard!”

Two

After the ladies had sufficiently fawned over John (“What a fine man.” “Our Vivienne is indeed lucky.” “You know she was tossed from ladies semin—” “Be quiet, Mrs. Lacey!”) and the vanilla cakes and fruit jellies were consumed, the ladies dispersed to their homes.

John rose from the sofa, withdrew his pocket watch from his striped waistcoat and checked the time. “I must be off as well,” he said, snapping the lid shut. “I have a pressing engagement this afternoon with Mr. Montag.” He spoke the man’s name in reverent tones, for Mr. Montag was the owner of South Birmingham Railroad and a regular sun god to John. “His family has taken up residence in their Grosvenor Square home.”

He headed for the door. Garth leaped from his owner’s lap and chased him, barking and spitting. “What the devil,” John exclaimed.

Vivienne grabbed Garth by his collar, pulling him free of her fiancé’s cuff.

“You naughty, naughty puppy,” Aunt Gertrude cried. “How dare you be so rude to Mr. Vandergrift. Stop immediately.”

Vivienne shut the excited hound in the parlor. From the hall, she could hear him snorting about the threshold.

“Dearest, do remember to read the book before you meet Mr. Montag,” John said. “I want you to be perfect.”

“I will be,” Vivienne said and stole a quick peck on his cheek. “For you. I promise.”

After seeing John off with another small kiss, Vivienne returned to her aunt in the parlor.

“I’m so happy for you, little Vivvie,” her aunt said. “He will take such good care of you. Such a fine man.”

Vivienne put her arms around her aunt’s neck. “My heart is full from knowing I have brought happiness to you and Papa.”

“There now,” her aunt said, gently pushing Vivienne away, always uncomfortable with emotional displays. “I think we shall have a quiet afternoon after the excitement of the morning. Garth, come away from that window immediately,” she ordered her dog, who was barking at John through the glass as he stepped into his brougham. “You should be ashamed.”

With the incentive to achieve perfection, Vivienne picked up
The
Ethereal
Graces
of
the
Delicate
Sex
with a new motivation to learn Mrs. Beatrice Smith-Figgle’s teachings. The binding was smooth leather without the words “banal, insipid, vapid” that were etched over the title on Vivienne’s copy back home. She lay back on a sofa pillow and opened to Chapter One:

The softly murmured word, the downcast gaze, and gentle blush of rose. These qualities are the perfection of the proper female…

Already Vivienne’s mind began to drift, and she forced herself to focus again.
I
must
be
perfect.

A lady’s true nature is to please her helpmate. Her beauty must appease his sight, her gentle words must calm his woes, her shy smile must convey the pleasure of his presence…

Vivienne yawned, her eyes veering off the page to a spider building a web above the wall crowning.

Be
perfect!
she muttered and returned to the book.

Finally, after twenty minutes of this game, she temporarily gave up, closed the tome, and opened the
London
Times
she had found discarded on the train up from Birmingham. She was halfway through an article about an English expedition into the jungles of South America when she saw the advertisement for the Royal Academy.

The works of the late Lawrence James will be displayed in the Gold Room. Author Mrs. Beatrice Smith-Figgle will be presenting the first in a series of lectures to educate ladies of gentle breeding on the great masters of art. The ladies will only study appropriate works.

The lecture was scheduled for today at two in the Blue Room. Perhaps this was what she needed for proper motivation, to meet the famed author in person. She checked the clock on the mantel. The lecture began in forty-five minutes.

“Aunt Gertrude, the author of the book Mr. Vandergrift has given me is lecturing today,” Vivienne said. “It’s for ladies of gentle breeding and at the Royal Academy. May I go?”