A Reckless Desire (13 page)

And so with a little grunt of capitulation, he stopped trying, and did what he'd been working so hard not to do. He took the last step that remained between them and cupped her face in his hands, turning it up toward his.

“I do believe in you, Lucia,” he said, lightly stroking the underside of her jaw with his thumbs. “Have no doubt of that.”

She didn't smile, or answer, her eyes wide and searching. She was holding her breath, and he didn't know why. Surely he'd said enough to reassure her, hadn't he?

Impulsively he leaned down and kissed her forehead, the slightest brush of his lips over her skin. He'd meant it as a gesture of fondness, of regard, nothing more. But instead of stopping there, that innocent kiss pushed his gallant resolve clear from his brain, and in the next instant his mouth was kissing hers, exactly as he'd been wanting to do.

But until their lips touched, he hadn't realized how much he'd been holding back. If he was honest, he'd wanted to kiss her when she'd appeared at his doorstep with her belongings in her arms, her face filled with such eagerness and life that he'd been instantly drawn to her. That was when he'd first (and belatedly) realized that it was her spirit that made her beautiful to him, and desirable as well.

It was no wonder, really, that now he kissed her hungrily, possessively, as if she'd some special secret that he wanted to taste. He thrust his fingers into her hair, the heavy waves falling over his wrists like a silken caress. He slanted his mouth over hers, coaxing her lips to part so he could deepen the kiss. She swayed toward him, as delicate as an angel, and with one hand he cradled the small of her back to draw her closer.

He was acutely aware of how warm and soft her uncorseted body was beneath the coverlet, of how yielding she would be in his arms, in his bed. The bed that was beckoning in the next room, only a few steps away. It seemed like such an old story, the stuff of bad novels and plays. How many other young women had been swept off to similar convenient havens by other gentlemen—young women who, like Lucia, were of such inconsequential stations in life that their virtue, or lack thereof, wasn't really an issue?

And yet she wasn't like them, not at all. In her kiss he tasted not wantonness, but eager inexperience, the same eagerness with which she'd greeted every other challenge he'd set before her. She had courage.
That
was Lucia, and what separated her from all the other dancers and milliner's apprentices and lady's maids in London, and it only made him desire her more.

She made a small, shuddering gasp of surprise when his tongue pushed into her mouth, and he took his time to let her grow accustomed to the heady new sensations. He wanted her to want him as well, and not be frightened. While she didn't fight him or try to break free, she'd let the coverlet slip forgotten from her shoulders to a woolen puddle around her feet, leaving her clad only in the rough white linen shift she slept in. With her hands slightly raised at her sides, the full sleeves hung around her arms like wings, and her fingers fluttered uncertainly beneath the drawstring cuffs like little birds.

He tried to keep his eyes closed and his conscience at bay, and focus instead on the endless pleasure of kissing her. But he couldn't quite forget those little fluttering hands, nor those last words she'd said about how he was the only one besides her father who believed in her.

Because she trusted him.

With a muttered oath aimed at himself, he tore his mouth away from hers and stepped back from her, dropping his arms to his sides.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Willow,” he said, his voice harsh from the exertion of breaking away from her, and staying away when all he wanted to do was haul her back into his arms. “I regret that I have, ah—”

“No, my lord, do not say it!” she cried. He wasn't sure how he'd expected her to behave after he'd taken such patent advantage of her—a tear or two of calculated shame, perhaps, or a bowed head to hide a mortified blush—but the fire he now saw in her dark eyes wasn't it. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips ruddy and full from kissing, and her hair was tangled around her face. She snatched the fallen coverlet back over her shoulders, and those fluttering hands were now clasped around the edges in determined fists.

“You were going to say you regretted kissing me, my lord,” she continued with fierce indignation. “I
know
you were, because you apologize about
everything,
and—and I won't hear it!”

“You'll hear it if I say it,” he said, taking another step back from her. “I shouldn't have kissed you, and I regret it.”

“Why, my lord?” Her small chin rose defensively, and she shook her hair back from her face. “If you will not speak the truth, then I shall. Am I too common for the son of a duke to kiss? Am I too plain, too small, too slight in my figure?”

“Lucia, I have never once so much as thought any of those things of you.” He was determined to control his temper; of course, as was always the case when he tried to employ reason over passion, he failed. “Damnation, not
once.
I regretted kissing you only because you trusted me to behave as an honorable gentleman should, and instead I behaved like a selfish, arrogant boor, and if I wish to apologize to you for that, then I will.”

She studied him with guarded eyes, unwilling to give up her assumption.

“You're a gentleman, my lord,” she said warily. “You needn't be honorable with me, because I'm not a lady.”

“Your station has nothing to do with this, Lucia,” he said. “You deserved better from me, just as you deserve my apology, if only you'd be agreeable enough to accept it.”

Abruptly her face lost its wariness and softened, and her eyes glowed too brightly. She tried to smile, and instead her mouth trembled and crumpled. He knew what that meant. Blast, he'd made her cry.

“Here now, Lucia,” he said gruffly. “No tears, or I'll have to apologize all over again.”

She lowered her gaze and shook her head, and then, before he quite knew what was happening, she threw herself at him. Small she might be, but she hurled herself forward with such force that he staggered back, catching her around the waist to steady them both before they crashed to the floor.

Not that she cared. She was kissing him, kissing him with the same fervor (if not the same experience) that he'd employed whilst kissing her earlier. She'd once again lost the coverlet that had given her a semblance of modesty, and with it she seemed to have lost her reluctance to touch him. Those once-fluttering hands were now firmly locked around his shoulders and her body was pressed so close against his that he felt the curve of her breasts through his coat and waistcoat and shirt.

She kissed him eagerly, ardently, and as soon as the shock had worn off—a quick process—he realized that, because it had been so unexpected, being kissed by her was perhaps even better than when he'd been the one kissing her.

Finally she slipped free and retreated, her gaze never leaving his as she caught up the coverlet and wrapped it tightly about her body.

“I—we—should not have done that, my lord,” she said breathlessly, shoving her hair back from her forehead with one hand. “It wasn't right, not for either of us, and—and I must go.”

“You can't go now.” He reached for her, but she slipped away.

“I must, my lord,” she said, hurrying toward the door. “Good night, my lord.”

He stared at the closed door after she'd left, perplexed. He hadn't meant to kiss her, but he had, and she hadn't meant to kiss him, but she had, too.

Yet she was perfectly correct about none of it being right. It wasn't because of the usual reasons against falling into bed with a particular woman: she wasn't a lady, or the sister of a close friend. Being a Di Rossi and also clearly of a passionate nature would have been reason enough. But she
was
beneath his roof for the sake of the wager, not for a dalliance. What the devil would they say to each other tomorrow morning? Could they return to
Hamlet
as if this hadn't just happened between them?

He ran his hand along his jaw, thinking of all she'd told him this night, of her father and her aspirations of becoming an actress, and of how much she'd endured from her wretched family. He'd never have guessed any of that, and yet still she'd said he was the only one to believe in her, the only chance she had to make her dreams become real.

To him this was only a frivolous wager with a friend; to her it was her life. He sighed, thinking of how she'd felt pressed against his chest, and how warm and wet and sweet her mouth had been when they'd kissed. He couldn't simply forget that, nor was he entirely sure he wanted to.

And he'd still five and a half weeks with her to figure it out.

It was one of the worst nights that Lucia could ever recall. Guilt could do that, and as she'd raced down the hall from Rivers's rooms to her own, she'd never felt more guilty, or more confused, in her life. Her heart racing, she'd locked her bedchamber door in case he tried to follow her, and then a quarter hour later, she'd unlocked it again for the same reason. She didn't know what she wanted or what she expected, beyond that kissing Lord Rivers Fitzroy had been at once glorious, and thoroughly, hopelessly disastrous.

In one impulsive, foolish moment, she could have ruined everything. She should never have gone to his rooms in her nightclothes in the first place. What was he to think? What more obvious invitation could there be than that? Surely he must judge her to be exactly like her cousin Magdalena, available to any wealthy man who could purchase her fancy.

But she wasn't, not at all. He'd likely never believe it, but that kiss had been her first. She was twenty-three years old, old enough to qualify as a spinster, and she'd never had a sweetheart, let alone a noble lover. She remained a virgin not so much by choice, but because she'd never known a man worthy of her surrender. Surrounded by the more brilliant beauties at the playhouse, she'd always gone unnoticed, an undistinguished and lowly weed among so many exotic blossoms.

But here in the country, Rivers (for in her head she'd abandoned his title) hadn't overlooked her. Although the wager had brought them together into a kind of partnership, she hadn't expected the intimacy that would come with it. He did believe in her, in her talent and her ambition, but there was more to it than that.

When she was with him, she felt a kind of spark, an energy she couldn't find words to explain. It wasn't just that he was clever, and charming, and as handsome as sin itself. He made her feel as if her life were richer, more vibrant, more filled with possibilities. He made her feel more
alive,
if such a thing were possible, as if the rest of her life had been spent in a dreary, gloomy sleep, and he alone had the power to wake her. No one else could do that, and knowing she'd little more than a month with him had only served to make the time in his company more precious.

All of which was why she'd run to join him last night as soon as she'd heard him return home. All she'd wanted was the pleasure, the excitement, of sharing her understanding of the play with him, and instead she'd unwittingly destroyed what they had together.

One kiss, and they'd ceased being simply partners in the wager. Two kisses, and they'd become something else entirely: a wealthy lord and a common little girl from the playhouse, a passing amusement for his entertainment and nothing more.

No wonder she'd spent the night tossing and turning and burying her face in the pillows in despair. She would try to explain to him that what mattered most to her was her chance to act, but the damage was done. She might not be experienced with men herself, but she'd seen enough at the playhouse to know that once men were granted a favor by a woman, they'd expect it again, and more besides.

That, really, was her choice after last night. For the sake of becoming the actress he'd promised, she could let him continue what last night had begun, and be his mistress until he tired of her. There'd be no shame in it for her. In the eyes of the public, such an alliance with a high-placed nobleman was to be expected, even envied, and would likely be advantageous in creating her allure as a popular actress. Even bearing his illegitimate child could bring certain advantages, and no stigma in the theatrical world. She was sure Rivers was the kind of honorable gentleman who would acknowledge and support a bastard child, which would in turn bind him closer long after his love for her was spent.

But she knew herself well enough, and she knew the personal consequences of such a path. A mistress would never be the same as a wife. When she left here, she'd have the training and chance to succeed on the stage that he'd promised, but she'd also have a broken heart.

Now she sat alone in the back parlor where Rivers took breakfast and waited for him to come downstairs. On the cloth beside her teacup was the copy of
Hamlet
that he'd given her, with the ribbon marking the passage she'd already learned. She'd been sitting here nearly an hour, not wanting to miss him. Over and over, she'd rehearsed what she'd say, a carefully chosen speech that had nothing to do with Ophelia. All she could do while she waited was sip at her tea, and pray he'd listen, and understand.

She started when at last the parlor door opened and he joined her. She slipped from her chair and curtseyed silently, waiting for him to speak first. He was dressed for morning in the country—a red waistcoat, fawn-colored buckskin breeches, and a blue frock coat—and not for riding, so at least he'd no intention of escaping from her on horseback. But he looked every bit as uneasy as she did herself as he motioned for her to return to her chair.

“Good day, Mrs. Willow,” he said, using the false name he'd concocted for her. “I've told you before that you needn't curtsey to me whilst we're here. The Lodge is not so formal a house as that.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured as she perched on the edge of her chair, her hands folded in her lap. Her rehearsed little speech hung awkwardly unspoken as she waited for the proper opportunity to begin.

He poured his own tea—another example of the Lodge's informality—dumped two spoonfuls of sugar into the cup as well, and stirred it with a clatter of silver against porcelain.

“I trust you slept well,” he said, concentrating on the steaming tea to avoid meeting her eye. “No, you needn't answer that. If you slept even half as badly as I, then you passed a most miserable night.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said. “That is, I likewise passed a most miserable, horrible night.”

He sighed and sipped at his tea, grimacing from its heat.

“Then that makes two of us,” he said. “We both know the reason why, too, so I suppose there's no use in ignoring it any further.”

“No, my lord,” she said faintly. Now would be the time to begin her speech, now,
now,
yet her usual gift for memorization had fled.

“No.” He cleared his throat. “Given your, ah, unusual upbringing in the theatrical world, I suspect you do not have the usual, ah, delicacy regarding men and women, and what occurred last night between us.”

“I'm not like Magdalena,” she blurted out, and flushed. “That is, I'm not as…as…”

“As much a mercenary?” he suggested, and smiled wryly. “I don't believe any other woman could rival your cousin in that arena. But while they say that blood binds kin together, I've never once thought of you and Magdalena in the same light.”

She nodded cautiously, but said nothing more. That remark could cut two ways. Her heart was racing with uncertainty, and for another precious moment she wanted to cling to the hope that he'd meant to flatter her, not Magdalena.

“Indeed, indeed,” he said, the kind of empty, meaningless word that gentlemen said when they were at a loss for something of more substance. Could his thoughts be as unsettled as her own?

“Yes, my lord,” she said softly. “Indeed it is a tangle.”

He let out his breath with relief. “A tangle, yes. I know you've forbidden me any further apologies, which is a complication. But when I say that you differ from Magdalena, I mean to say that you are a better, more honorable woman than she will ever be. What happened between us last night—”

“It should never have happened, my lord, not at all,” she said as firmly as she could, even as her heart fluttered with the great compliment that he had just paid her. “The hour was late, and at that hour things will happen that will be regretted by day.”

He placed his teacup deliberately on its saucer, tapping the rim lightly with his finger. “I don't regret kissing you, Lucia. Not one bit.”

Sharply she drew in her breath, taken aback. “You don't, my lord?”

“I don't,” he said evenly, looking up at her. “What I do regret, however, are the circumstances that make it both unwise and unacceptable for me to kiss you again, as I would like.”

This was very nearly what she'd planned to say herself. Relief swept over her, but mixed with her own regret, too.

“That is very true, my lord.” She was glad he sat on the other side of the table, where he couldn't see how her hands were twisting together in her lap. “If I am to become the actress I wish to be, I must make certain—certain sacrifices. I don't want things to be the way you said, unwise and unacceptable.”

“Indeed,” he said solemnly, that empty, hollow word again. “Then we are agreed, yes?”

“Another agreement,” she said wistfully. “We're good at that, aren't we?”

“It's for the best,” he said, even though he wasn't sure it was. “We shall proceed this morning as if last night had not happened.”

“Because it didn't, my lord,” she said, though she could not quite keep the sadness from her voice. “Leastways, not that I recall.”

“Nor I,” he said, a shade too heartily. “Which is just as well, considering how much work we have before us. What you did with the passage last night was first-rate, but there's an entire play for you to learn, and we've less than six weeks in which to do it.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said. “I am ready to begin whenever you please.”

He didn't answer, his blue eyes studying her so intently that she felt her cheeks grow warm. He'd looked at her like this last night as well, when she'd told him he was the only one who believed in her, and just before he'd kissed her.

“It cannot be otherwise, my lord,” she said softly. “No matter what we might wish, it cannot.”

He sighed, and looked down, and whatever spell had been cast between them was broken. He pulled another copy of the play from inside his coat and opened it on the table, pressing the pages flat. “Then let us begin with the first scene.”

Dutifully she opened her own copy, and bowed her head over the pages even if her eyes failed to make out the words. She'd gotten exactly what she'd wished, and what was undeniably for the best.

So why, then, did she feel as if she'd lost?

For Rivers
,
the next two weeks were simultaneously the most rewarding of his life, and the most frustrating. The rewarding part came from all he was able to accomplish with Lucia. Although he'd entered this wager assuming that he could be a most excellent tutor, he hadn't realized how much more important it was to have an excellent student.

Lucia was every teacher's dream: she was clever and quick, as ready to ask a thoughtful question as she was to give an answer to his. She was acutely aware of how much she had to accomplish in a limited number of days, and she worked feverishly hard on whatever he assigned. He wondered if she ever slept, for she always seemed both to have been long awake before he rose and after he'd said good night and retired to his own rooms. He knew because there were some nights when his thoughts were too busy for sleep, and he would go walking with Spot, and while every other window in the Lodge might be dark, there would still be candlelight shining from her corner of the house.

She learned her lines without flaw, and she'd improved her diction, her mannerisms, her posture. As her confidence grew, she stood straighter, with more and more presence when she entered a room. She'd outdone Garrick's instructions for a natural approach to the point that she'd practically
become
Ophelia, and he was almost as proud of her as she was of herself.

There were, however, several grave areas that needed improvement. While she was very good at playing scenes in the drawing room, she had difficulty projecting her voice and making her gestures grand enough to carry to the farthest seats of a playhouse. She occasionally became so enraptured by her lines that she stood immobile, and forgot to add the gestures that would bring her part to life. The hint of her Neapolitan accent was charming, but the working-class-London accent that accompanied it remained a sizable challenge, and though Rivers continued to correct the most egregious and broad-voweled examples, she still would not convince anyone that she'd been born a lady in the royal court of Denmark.