“There are so many brothels in Rome that I have lost count of them,” he said. “Have you ever thought it curious that there are no brothels for women to go to, for their pleasure?”
Incomprehension held her expression blank. “Oh. Most women do not enjoy that sort of thing. Really, Uncle, you are being outrageous, and I don’t want to talk any more about it.”
“It? You mean sex? Intercourse? Mating? My dear child, lovemaking should be a joy, for women as well as men. It is as natural a part of life as eating and sleeping, at least it should be.” He paused a moment, then allowed his voice to border on insult. “Now, have we discussed everything to your satisfaction? Have you more questions?”
Giana said stiffly, her chin high, “Yes, I understand. I accept our agreement, Uncle.”
“Be very certain, Giana.”
“I am certain. Yes,” she said again, “I am certain.”
“I will trust you,” Daniele said lightly, “to keep to your word, Giana.” He sat forward in the open carriage and spoke quietly to Marco. When he leaned back against the black leather squabs, he said, “You do understand that our agreement is that you will do exactly as I bid you, do you not, Giana? You are never to refuse what I tell you to do?”
She nodded, remembering Randall’s appeal at their last furtive meeting. “Please, my little love,” he had whispered urgently, clutching her fingers so tightly that she had winced, “spend the three months with your uncle as your mother wishes. Our happiness and our future depend upon it. Do not disappoint me, Giana.”
“You are going to become the most knowledgeable virgin in all of Europe and England, my dear—the most knowledgeable chaste virgin, that is.”
The carriage rolled over the Ponte Umberto I. “Do you go to brothels, Uncle Daniele?”
He started at the timid question, and his eyes twinkled. “Yes, Giana. Not so often now that I am an old man, but yes, occasionally.”
“Did your wife mind?”
“I never told her.” Silent, cold Elana. Of course she had known, known about all his mistresses. But she hadn’t cared—it kept him from her bed. She had been a proper wife, a proper lady.
She was silent again, chewing over this piece of information.
“Randall would never do that,” she said.
Daniele answered her only with an incredulous look, and straightened his white brocade waistcoat as the horse drew to a halt along a quiet, elegant side street.
He stepped down from the carriage. “You will stay here, Giana. I will return soon.”
Giana was feeling wilted from the heat when Daniele returned some thirty minutes later.
“Come, Giana,” he said, offering her his hand, “we have a short walk before us.”
She accepted his outstretched hand and skipped lightly down to the sidewalk. “Where are we going?”
“To a brothel, my dear. I do not wish my driver to know where I am taking you, thus the walk.”
Giana felt a curious sort of excitement. Now she would see what all this botheration was about.
“Giana, before we begin your lessons, I want you to know that I care very much about you. I always have, ever since you were a little girl. Our time spent together over the years has brought me great pleasure. But I also want you to know that I do expect complete obedience from you this summer. Whatever I ask you to do, I ask for a reason. I will always ensure that you are not touched, but otherwise, I will show you a bit of life, as both a man’s wife and his harlot live it. Some of what I will require of you will not be pleasant. Your introduction to a brothel is the first step.”
“I care about you too, Uncle, though I care not one whit for all your elaborate charades.”
“You will trust me and obey me, without question?”
“You must know that I gave my word. You needn’t continue asking me.”
“Very well.”
Madame Lucienne Rostand, French by name and birth, waved a languid greeting to her generous friend, Daniele Cippolo. She felt a bubble of laughter at the sight of the openmouthed girl at his side. So this stiff little chit was to be in her charge.
“Buon giorno,” she said in her heavily accented Italian. “Do come in. A glass of sherry, my dear Daniele?”
“Grazie, Lucienne. Sherry is fine.”
“Shall I offer the child a glass of lemonade?” she said in rapid Italian, laughter sounding in her voice.
Daniele quelled a frown. He had brought Giana to this world, and it was ridiculous of him to go stiff and disapproving. “Would you like a glass of sherry, Giana?”
“No, Uncle,” she replied in her starchy Italian, a legacy from her Swiss seminary, “I am not thirsty.”
When Lucienne handed him his sherry, Daniele performed the introductions. “Giana, Madame Lucienne runs the most exclusive brothel in all of Rome.”
“It is impressive,” Giana said. She ogled the statues of plaster and marble men and women, stark white and stark naked, and bent in most unusual positions. She didn’t know precisely what she had expected, perhaps an overabundance of crimson, for that was vulgar, she knew. The huge drawing room was furnished opulently, with many sofas and high-backed chairs, all in delicate shades of blue and white. Even the thick Axminster carpets were light blue swirls against pure white. There was no crimson. The heavy draperies were of royal-blue brocade with heavy gold tassels. She looked for a moment at Madame Lucienne, as opulent as the vast room, her flaming auburn hair piled high atop her head, her rich apricot silk gown cut fashionably, snug at the waist with billowing petticoats beneath, and draped off her sloping white shoulders. She could not begin to tell her age. Uncertain of what she should do, Giana tentatively held out her hand.
Lucienne laughed heartily, and shook the small mittened fingers. “A pleasure to meet you, Georgiana Van Cleve.”
“Giana.”
“Yes, well, Giana. A charming name. When you have looked your fill, my girl, we will get on with it.”
Get on with what? She sat stiffly on the edge of a delicate gilt-armed chair.
“I have looked my fill, madame,” Giana said, her chin up.
“Ah, so there is something beneath those starchy petticoats. Very well, girl, this is a brothel. Wrapped up in clean linen, to be sure, but a brothel nonetheless. Our clients are all wealthy, the cream of Roman and European society. But, of course, they are still men, and the variety of their needs remains the same.”
Variety of needs?
Daniele intervened. “Giana, Madame Lucienne will be your mentor, so to speak. You will spend some of your evenings here, watching and learning.”
“Watching exactly what, Uncle Daniele?” Giana asked.
Lucienne dissolved once again into laughter. “Why, my girl, watching the wealthy gentlemen plow my girls, of course.” She downed the remainder of her sherry and thwacked the glass down upon a lace-covered side table. “Enough talk. It’s time the girl began to learn.” Lucienne rose to her full height, shook out her apricot skirts, and said in an imperious voice, “To be a successful wife, you must appear pretty and helpless and appealing to men, and of course be able to bear children until your breasts sag to your waist. To be a successful whore, you must be equally appealing, both in face and body, and learn what pleases men, not in the drawing room, but in the bedroom. Your uncle tells me that you have a handsome, virile young man awaiting you in London. If you wish to have the slightest chance of keeping him out of brothels like mine, my girl, you have to be both the lady and the whore. Now, stand up and let me have a look at you.”
Giana sent a confused glance toward Daniele, and he nodded at her, his face impassive. She stood up awkwardly.
Lucienne walked majestically over to her and closed her fingers about Giana’s chin, lifting her face upward. “A lovely face, no doubt about that. The sea-blue eyes and the black hair are a striking combination. And the creamy white skin, quite unusual here in Italy.” She ran her fingertip lightly over Giana’s cheek. “No need to be shy, girl.” She stood back, her
full lips pursed, and swept her green eyes over Giana’s body. “My dear Daniele, she looks like a little girl on her way to church in that ridiculous white frock.” She turned back to Giana, not waiting for a reply from Daniele. “Take off the gown, girl, and let us see if your body is as lovely as your face.”
“What?” Giana stood frozen, gaping at the woman.
“Take off your clothes,” Lucienne repeated, more imperiously this time.
“But I—” She turned frantic eyes to Daniele. “Sir, I don’t understand—”
Daniele said gently, “I told you, Giana, that some things required of you would not be particularly pleasant. You will please do as Lucienne says.”
“Unrobe in front of you?”
He ignored the horror in her voice, and nodded.
“Of course, my girl. Daniele is a man of exquisite taste, and it is a man’s judgment I need to assure myself that you are lovely enough for my gentlemen.”
“This is ridiculous. I will do no such thing. I have never taken off my clothes in front of anyone, even Mother.” Giana turned on her heel, gathered up her skirt, and raced toward the door.
She drew to a halt at Daniele’s harsh voice. “Giana. So this is how you treat our agreement? I knew that you would grow pale and sputter like a little girl. But remember our wager, Giana, for I will hold you to it. If you do not come back here and do as you’re bid, you will return tomorrow to London, and the agreement with your mother will be null.”
Giana suddenly remembered standing in front of her mother, listening to her in childish excitement when she mentioned prostitutes, remembered all her confidence and disdain such a short time before when Daniele had told her what he would do. Her face drained of color. She had not imagined this. But if she ran, it would be all over, and she would be returned to London to face her mother and Randall again.
“Whores, like wives,” Lucienne said, “do as men wish them to, my fine little lady. If they balk, the gentlemen complain. The primary difference is that whores can grow rich, wives do not. That is the way of the world, and it is time you realized that.”
Giana stood as still as the marble statues. Randall would not want her to be so demeaned, so humiliated. If he but knew what she was being asked to do, surely he would take back all his appeals to her to appease her mother. But she remembered the intensity of his gaze and the urgency of his voice when she saw him last.
She heard Daniele’s voice, oddly implacable. “Do as you’re told, Giana, else you will prove that you are a prideless child who strews her promises about like so many fallen leaves.”
Slowly, her step awkward, Giana walked back to where Madame Lucienne stood, tapping her foot, her arms crossed over her bosom.
“I shall go through with your charade, Uncle Daniele, but know that no matter what you make me do, I shall have Randall.”
“We shall see, Giana. It is a risk that I will take.”
Giana found quickly that the reality was different from her show of bravado. Eyes downcast, her fingers trembling, she slowly began to unfasten the small buttons over the bodice of her frock.
“At the rate you’re going, my girl, your gentleman’s ardor will have evaporated. You must remember that men do not like to wait.” Lucienne stepped forward and lightly slapped Giana’s hands away. The rest of the small buttons slipped open quickly, and her frock fell to her waist.
“Good,” Lucienne said as her fingers busily unfastened the layers of petticoats. “I am glad to see that your tiny waist isn’t the result of corseting.”
Giana felt her petticoats rustle down into a pile at her feet. Her lovely white muslin gown fell haphazardly over the stiff crinolines. When Lucienne’s hands touched the straps of her shift, Giana closed her eyes.
She grimaced as cold air touched her naked flesh, and tried to cover herself with her splayed hands.
“Kick off your shoes.”
Giana did as she was bid. Lucienne’s hands pulled down the white garters from her thighs and rolled down her silk stockings. She wanted to scream for this to stop, but knew that she could not. She gritted her teeth and tried to push all thought from her mind, to be apart from what was happening, to feel nothing, to be like the statues.
Daniele could not help but stare at her. She was a beautiful girl, all white-fleshed, with but a curling triangle of midnight black hair between her slender thighs. Her breasts were high and round, the nipples a flushed pink. Her waist was narrow and supple above her flat smooth belly.
“She is acceptable, I think,” Lucienne said to Daniele after a studied moment.
“Nice long legs,” Lucienne continued at Daniele’s nod. “Men like long slender legs, girl. I suppose your breasts will grow—after all, you’re still quite young. Now turn around and let me see your back. Round and dimpled. Quite charming.”
Giana jumped when Madame Lucienne lightly ran her hands over her buttocks.
“You needn’t act like I’m going to shoot you, my dear. Our clients like to be enticed, it flatters their vanity and makes them all the hotter. You must learn to hold yourself erect, and at the same time, sway your little fanny to best advantage. If you don’t, they might as well stay in their wives’ cold beds, and lord knows, none of the fine gentlemen want that.”
Madame Lucienne paused a moment, then touched her finger lightly to the small birthmark in the center of Giana’s left buttock. “It looks like a tiny flying bird. The gentlemen would much enjoy that, Daniele. Would you like to have a closer look?”
“No, Lucienne,” Daniele said.
“You can dress now, my girl.”
Giana bent down and clutched her discarded clothes against her. She looked wildly about for a place to hide—but Lucienne and Daniele were paying her no further attention.
“You will bring her back this evening, caro?”
Daniele shook his head, looking at Giana from the corner of his eye. He had been right, he thought, to plunge her immediately into the fray. Had he waited, moved more slowly with her, he might well have lost her. She was shaking, could scarcely manage to roll up her stockings. She was fighting to pull her shift over her head when there was a sound of giggling outside the room.
“Wait a moment, Miss Georgiana,” Lucienne ordered. “Let us see what my ladies think of you.”
Lucienne swept to the door and flung it open. Giana saw three girls, none of them much older than she, craning their necks to see past Lucienne.
“So all of you have been peeking, have you. Well, come in, Lucia, Margot, Emilie.
“Three of my loveliest girls,” Lucienne said proudly, lining them up, still giggling, in front of Giana. Giana was aware of auburn, blond, and chestnut beauty. One girl reached out and touched Giana’s loose hair.
“Very lovely, madame,” Emilie said.
Giana jerked away before Emilie could release her hair, and winced at the sharp pain in her scalp.
“The gentlemen will adore her, madame,” Lucia announced wisely, her black eyes laughing. “We saw how very white she is. And that little patch of black hair covering her secrets.”
Daniele saw that Giana was white with humiliation, her eyes vague with shock. He said to Margot, a French girl with thick honey-blond hair, “Help Giana to dress, Margot. She is tired.”
Margot nodded, her amber eyes serious. “Viens, petite,” she said gently, and led Giana by the hand to a corner of the room.
Lucienne shooed the other two girls away. “All of you rest now. You must be at your best tonight.”
She turned slowly and smiled at Daniele. “A first lesson is always the most painful, is it not, caro?”
Daniele was gnawing his lower lip and did not answer her. He rose slowly, his eyes going toward Giana. “I will not bring her back this evening, Lucienne. Luigi del Conde and his strident wife are giving a dinner party tonight, and for the most part, the gentlemen and ladies who will be present are a fine selection. Let her meet all the gentlemen in their social setting before she meets them here. And their wives, of cour
se.”
“You believe, caro, that the child is old enough to understand the hypocrisy of it all?”
“She will understand,” Daniele said, and rose. “Eventually.” He shrugged and looked toward Giana. She was standing perfectly still, staring blindly in front of her as Margot fastened the tiny buttons over her bodice.
Daniele led Giana from the elegant three-story house on the Via Crispi and hailed a hansom cab. After he had given instructions to the driver to his sprawling villa off the Piazza di Pellicceria, he turned to his still-silent companion.
To his surprise, Giana whipped her head about to face him before he could say anything, and said in a low voice, “Do not ask me to feel sorry for the plight of your precious Madame Lucienne, Uncle, or those other terrible girls, or try to make me believe that it is men who have forced them there. It is they who are the temptresses, they who throw themselves at men, not the other way around. They are without any tenderness, any goodness, without any feeling a woman should have. They are despicable. How dare that woman compare whores to wives and ladies?”
Perhaps it was a mistake, Daniele thought, to take her to such a charmingly elegant brothel. But he knew that he could not expose her to the lower houses, where girls were held in practical servitude by their masters, abused and degraded until they were old at twenty-five and riddled with disease. He pulled at the corners of his mustache, but said only, “We will see.”
But Giana wasn’t through. She felt such humiliating anger that she threatened to choke on it. “How could you make me do that? How could you make me stand like a block of wood, naked, in front of that leering harridan and in front of you?”
“Because, Giana,” he said slowly, locking his gaze to hers, “that is exactly how a whore is treated. She is to have no feelings, no modesty. Her only worth lies in how well she will please the men who decide to take her. Madame Lucienne was but doing her job. Surely you see that she would not be so successful in her business if she failed to provide all her gentlemen clients with lovely young girls who were eager to please them.”
Giana answered in a coldly vicious voice. “And does she please you, Uncle Daniele? Did I please you?”