A Reckless Desire (25 page)

“Perhaps you were, and perhaps you weren't.” She scrambled from his lap and stood looking down at him, her arms folded across her chest. She couldn't believe that he'd kept something this important from her. It stung that he'd been so high-handed in his decision, too, as if she were an overeager child unable to withstand the excitement of anticipation.

“I appreciate that you wrote to Mr. McGraw, Rivers, but I would have liked to have known about it before this,” she said, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice.

He lowered his chin defensively, a bad sign for a reasonable conversation. “Why? What difference could those two days possibly have made?”

“Because this audition could change the rest of my life,” she said. “Because having you write to Mr. McGraw without telling me makes me feel as if I am simply another of your possessions, to be ordered about however you please.”

“That's not true,” he said irritably. “I'd never think that of you.”

“But Mr. McGraw will,” she said, unable to keep the unhappiness from her voice. “I'm sure he already does. As soon as he read your letter, I'm sure he decided that I must be your mistress, for you to take such a proprietary interest in me.”

He held his hands out, indicating the rumpled sheets of the bed. “It's a bit late to consider that, isn't it?”

She flushed. She wouldn't deny that she'd willingly shared this bed with him, but in her mind she'd been his lover, not his mistress. Apparently he thought otherwise.

She'd known it would be like this. Because of the distance between their ranks, he would always think of himself as better, higher, than she. He might love her, but he'd never think of her as his equal. He couldn't help it. It had been that way for him since the day he'd been born. He'd always be the one who would unconsciously make decisions like this one. She'd known from the moment she'd agreed to the wager, but she'd let her heart overrule her common sense, and now it had come to this, and she was no better than Magdalena.

“It wasn't too late when you first wrote to Mr. McGraw last week,” she insisted. “You made the decision for me when all that was between us was the wager. I would like to have been the one to decide if I was ready for an audition or not.”

“But you are,” he said with his own maddening logic. “I've no doubt of it. Have you forgotten that you promised to trust me in all things, Lucia? Don't you recall that was part of our initial agreement?”

She looked down, away from him. There was nothing to be gained from this conversation. She had agreed then, but many things had changed between them since that agreement—some that she hadn't even realized.

“The question is not whether I trust you, Rivers,” she said quietly. “Rather it seems that it's you who doesn't trust me.”

She turned away quickly, not giving him time to answer, and headed for the door to the stairs.

“Lucia.”

She stopped, and took a deep breath. Would he explain? Would he apologize?

She looked back over her shoulder. He'd left the bed, and was pulling on his breeches, the sight of his taut, ridged abdomen and well-muscled thighs enough to make her pause.

Ahh, her
grande leone d'oro,
her own great golden lion!

“I'll come with you,” he said. “We can review your lines if you'd like.”

That wasn't either an explanation or an apology, and her heart sank a fraction.

She shook her head. “You told me that wasn't necessary. You just said I was ready for an audition.”

“I did,” he said, buttoning the fall on his breeches. “But if it will give you more confidence, then I am willing.”

“No,” she said. “Thank you, no. I'm going to dress.”

“Ahh,” he said with an awkward shrug. “If that is what you wish. I expect McGraw later this morning, before dinner. I will receive him first, and then send for you to join us, if that is agreeable to you.”

“Very well,” she said. “I shall be ready, and waiting in my room for you to send for me.”

And then she turned away and left him, her bare feet making little sound on the stone steps. He did not follow, and she was so unhappy that she didn't know if she wished he had.

For a long while afterward, she stood at the window of her room, and watched the first raindrops blow and splatter against the diamond-shaped panes. It was the first time she had been alone, without Rivers, for nearly three days, and she missed him. No matter how infuriating he was, that wouldn't change.

She missed him.

Finally, with a deep sigh, she called for Sally to help her dress. Before long Mr. McGraw would arrive, and if she did her best, then her future would begin as well—either with Rivers in it, or not.

Rivers sat in the drawing room at the back of the Lodge, and pretended to read. As the most formal room in the house, this drawing room was also the one he used the least. It remained most true to the Lodge's original use for hunting, with heavy, dark oak furniture from the last century and dark paneling on the walls. There were a handful of paintings of long-ago hunts and hunters, and a pair of stuffed stag heads with many-pointed antlers, one on either end of the room. He'd found those stags forbidding when he'd been a boy, convinced their glass eyes were watching him wherever he stood in the room. He didn't find them much more welcoming now, either, nor did Spot, who always lowered his head and growled on principle at the doorway before he entered.

But Rivers had decided that the room would make an excellent place for receiving the theater manager. He expected the man to be cocky and full of bluster, the way his letter had been, and if ever there was a room that had a gloomy, aristocratic omnipotence to it, this was it. Without a word, the room would remind the man that he was dealing with the Fitzroy family, whose ducal crest was carved into the stone mantelpiece, and that Lucia was a Fitzroy protégée. This was also the reason why Rivers had chosen this chair, an imposing throne-like monstrosity fashioned of antlers with red leather cushions beneath the arched window. McGraw might be from the world of playhouses and actors, but Rivers knew a bit about theatrics as well.

But the best reason for choosing this room was how it would flatter Lucia. The acoustics were splendid, and would amplify every word she spoke. All the dark wood and masculine hunting memorabilia would serve to make her appear more feminine, more delicate, more beautiful, by comparison. The gloominess, too, seemed appropriate for the dark drama of
Hamlet.
Even the weather was cooperating. He had never traveled to Denmark, but he imagined it as a dank and melancholy place, and the rain driving against the windows outside only contributed to a suitable setting for a play filled with tragic mayhem. He'd even ordered a fire lit in the huge fireplace, something he seldom did in June, but felt was necessary for this day. What better setting could there be for Shakespeare than this?

Yet as Rivers sat near the window, Spot sleeping on the floor beside him, his thoughts were not on Shakespeare or Denmark, or even McGraw's impending arrival. All he could think of was Lucia, and how badly he'd botched their earlier conversation. He had wanted to make a great, generous revelation of McGraw's visit. He'd envisioned her excitement and joy, and how fondly she'd display her gratitude toward him.

But he'd made a mess out of the whole affair. Instead of being generous, he'd sounded selfish and controlling and uncaring, and the more he'd tried to unsay what he'd said, the worse he'd made things. He should have told her as soon as he'd received the letter from McGraw. No, further back than that: he should have told her he was writing to McGraw in the first place. He shouldn't have kept the audition from her until now, and she'd every right to be upset with him.

He knew the reasons why he hadn't, too, which didn't make it any easier to bear. He had wanted the dinner he'd planned for her on the roof to be entirely about love, without any distractions. He hadn't wanted to think about the future, which would inevitably pull them apart. Most of all, he hadn't wanted her to think she was obligated to love him on account of the audition. He had wanted her to feel the same unconditional love and desire, friendship, and trust he felt for her, and now it seemed that all he'd accomplished was the exact opposite.

She'd said he didn't trust her, which couldn't be further from the truth. He'd trusted her with his home, his books, his thoughts, and his past, and most of all his heart, and yet clearly there was something more that was missing. How could he win her trust? How could he win
her
?

And why, why, when he'd had the chance, hadn't he told her again that he loved her?

She'd called herself his mistress. That wasn't how he thought of her, not at all. Her cousin Magdalena had been his mistress. Lucia wasn't. The difference seemed clear enough to him. A mistress was for pleasure, for amusement. Lucia was that, of course, but more important she was his lover in the best sense of the word, his friend, his partner in the wager, even his inspiration. But he hadn't corrected her, and now it was likely too late to do so.

He swore softly to himself, making Spot groan in sleepy sympathy beside him as he stared out at the garden. It was raining hard now. The rain beat down the heavy heads of the open roses, scattering their petals on the dark soil, and filled the garden paths with dappled puddles. He could only imagine what the roads must be like. At this rate, McGraw couldn't—or wouldn't—be able to come, and this morning's misunderstandings would have been for nothing.

He wondered what Lucia was doing now. He'd always been a man comfortable with his own company, but he'd grown so accustomed to the pleasure of having her beside him that he felt lost now without her. She'd been right. Books really weren't the same, and chagrined, he gave up the pretense of reading and closed the book on his lap. Was she dressed and waiting for his summons? Was she studying the play one more time, making certain she knew every word? Or was she, too, watching the rain?

He was so lost in his thoughts that he started when the footman knocked to announce McGraw's arrival. Quickly he glanced at his watch: to his surprise, the manager was right on time, and Rivers called for them to enter.

“Good day, Mr. McGraw,” he said as the manager came forward and bowed more grandly than was necessary. Sleepily Spot rose, wagging his tail and stretching his head forward to sniff at the newcomer. “I hope your journey was not too arduous. Who expects so much rain in June?”

“It was nothing, my lord, nothing at all,” McGraw declared, his smile broad in his round, ruddy face as he glanced about the room in swift appraisal. During McGraw's few steps from his hired carriage to the door, raindrops had speckled his serviceable gray suit and florid orange waistcoat, but clearly had not dampened his personality one whit. Only a hint of the good looks that had once led him to acting himself remained in his face, but in their place was an unabashed shrewdness that likely served him much better as a manager than any actor's perfect profile.

“I am honored, most honored,” he continued effusively, “to be invited here by your lordship, and for such an exciting reason, too. I am always on the hunt for new faces and novelty to cast before the ever-ravenous public.”

“Mrs. Willow shall be entirely new to London, that is true,” Rivers said, motioning for McGraw to sit in the straight-backed chair across from his. Spot, too, resettled; having decided McGraw passed muster, he promptly fell back asleep. “She is most eager to perform for you as well.”

McGraw flipped the skirts of his coat up and deposited himself heavily on the chair.

“She must be new, my lord,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Her name is entirely unknown to me, and I am not merely flattering myself when I claim that I am aware of every young actress, good, bad, and indifferent, traipsing upon the London stage.”

“Mrs. Willow's performances have been limited in the past to the north and on the Continent,” Rivers said, falling back on the final version of Mrs. Willow's biography that he and Lucia had agreed upon. “She had in fact retired from the stage with her marriage.”

“Most ladies do,” McGraw agreed sagely. “Husbands don't care to have wives on the stage.”

Rivers nodded in agreement, hoping that he was relaying Mrs. Willow's fictional past convincingly. It was impossible to tell if McGraw was trustworthy or not, given the general blather with which all theatrical people swathed themselves. Spot had the best method, deciding worthiness with a brisk sniff, but that would not work for Rivers. Instead he forced himself to look somber, and plowed on ahead.

“Mrs. Willow herself would not have agreed to the notion of this benefit were it not for the unfortunate death of Mr. Willow, and the change in her circumstances,” he said, omitting all references to tigers. “I need not say more.”

“A lady should always be able to rely upon her closest friends in times of need, my lord,” said McGraw with a knowing smile. “What gentleman wants to see a poor delicate creature suffer, I ask you?”

“Indeed,” Rivers said coolly, determined to offer no more details about his friendship with Lucia. He didn't like how McGraw said the word
lady,
emphasizing it in a way to show that Lucia must be anything but a lady, and more likely a whore—exactly as she'd predicted. “That is why I have convinced Mrs. Willow of the wisdom of a benefit performance of
Hamlet.
”

“Oh, yes, yes, my lord, it's a wise plan indeed for any lady in her circumstances.” Pointedly McGraw looked about the room as if hoping to spy Lucia hiding beneath one of the stag heads. “Mrs. Willow herself is present today, my lord, isn't she?”

“She is.” Rivers lowered his voice for emphasis. “But I wished to speak with you alone first, Mr. McGraw, before she joins us.”

McGraw smiled again, that sly and knowing smile that Rivers did not like.

“Oh, I know how important it is to keep a lady content, my lord,” he said, “especially where money's concerned.
Most
especially, my lord. They get greedy, don't they, my lord? I vow I won't reveal a word to her about your, ah, support of the production, if that's what concerns you.”

“It is not,” Rivers said, his displeasure gathering into anger. The man was damnably presumptuous, and insulting as well. Money had never been an issue between him and Lucia, nor had she even once displayed a hint of greed. “Not in the least.”

“Ahh.” McGraw lowered his head toward his chest, with the same demeanor as a man who'd inadvertently poked a stick into a large nest of snakes. “I intended no offense, my lord.”

“I am glad of that,” Rivers said, each word clipped. “Because I expect you to show only the greatest respect to Mrs. Willow, and treat her with the regard due a lady, and an artist.”

“Oh, of course, my lord, of course,” McGraw said, attempting a recovery, and failing. “Clearly she is a special, ah, lady to you.”

“She is my
friend,
Mr. McGraw,” Rivers said, “and I hold her in the highest regard, and with the greatest respect possible. And if I ever learn that she has suffered any insult or slander whilst in your company or elsewhere, then you will answer directly to me. To
me.
Is that clear?”

“Entirely, my lord.” McGraw nodded vigorously. “You have my every assurance, my lord, that I shall offer the lady every opportunity for her gifts to shine, with no offense whatsoever.”

“As it should be,” Rivers said, only a little mollified. “As she deserves.”

He could tell exactly what McGraw was thinking: that Lucia was a talentless and inconsequential bit of fluff, and that Rivers himself was blinded by desire into believing she was more than that.

But Rivers had had enough, and briskly he waved for the footman to summon Lucia. He was confident—more than confident—that Lucia herself would prove to McGraw exactly how wrong his assumptions about her were; he could not wait to see it.

The footman reappeared so quickly that he suspected Lucia must have been waiting not far from the door. He would have been surprised if she'd been late. Not only was she as prompt as he was himself, but he knew how eager she was for this audition.

“My lord, Mrs. Willow,” the footman droned, holding the door open wide for her to enter.

And enter she did.

Gone forever were the awkward dramatics that she'd shown three weeks ago, and gone, too, was the self-effacing maidservant who'd begged for his attention. Instead she entered the parlor with the exact mixture of confidence, grace, and elegance that many noble-born women spent their entire lives striving to achieve. Her gown was the palest blue silk, painted with scattered wildflowers, and she'd tucked some manner of filmy lace kerchief around her shoulders and into the front of the bodice. The neckline was cut very low, yet the lace kerchief was more tantalizing than modest, with the fullness of her breasts only faintly veiled. Resting against the hollow of her throat was the only jewel she ever wore, her mother's necklace with the little cameo.