A Reckless Desire (37 page)

She lifted the brooch from its velvet nest and began to pin it to the front of her bodice. Her fingers were trembling—he guessed from excitement—and that combined with the carriage's movement made her unable to fasten the little clasp. He reached down and did it for her, her breast pressing warm against the back of his fingers.

“ ‘There's rosemary,' ”
he began to quote,
“ ‘that's for remembrance.' ”

“ ‘Pray, Love, remember,' ”
she said, finishing the couplet. “ 
‘And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.'
You will not forget me, Rivers, will you?”

“Wherever did that come from?” he asked, surprised. He supposed that behind her bravado, she must be more anxious about the benefit than she wanted him to know, which he found endlessly endearing. “You know I won't forget you, Lucia. How could I?”

She didn't answer, but rested her cheek wearily against his chest, her fingers curled around the jeweled bouquet of flowers. He didn't say anything more, either, but put his arms around her and held her close, the way he wanted to do forever.

For remembrance
…

Lucia had been a part of enough theatrical benefits in her life to realize that the one here tonight at Russell Street was different. Unless the featured performers were especially popular with the public, single-night benefits were a risk; audiences often stayed away from what they perceived as an untried production or an inferior offering. She'd seen benefits that had been out-and-out failures, performed halfheartedly before a near-empty house.

This performance of
Hamlet
would not be like that. The house was already sold out, and Mr. McGraw had gleefully announced to the company that he'd managed to squeeze in a few more spaces for those who wished to stand. There had also been a lively business in tickets being resold, and sales for other plays later in the week had been brisk because of rumors that Lucia might appear in those as well.

Yet Lucia understood all too well that the crowds had come from curiosity, and that they were not here to see her act, but to witness her failure. She was determined to amaze them instead, exactly as she'd told Rivers, but as she stood in the wings, waiting for her cue, the task seemed infinitely more daunting. Beyond the orchestra sat rows and rows of pale faces, nearly every one of them belonging to a man or woman who wished her ill. They wouldn't be quietly polite about it, either, for most theatergoers believed their tickets entitled them to call out their displeasure during a performance. No wonder her heart hammered painfully in her chest and her stomach twisted with nervousness. She'd been too excited to eat more than a few pieces of toast since morning, and now even that seemed too much.

She couldn't fail, she couldn't. Rivers had given her this single, shining opportunity to prove herself, to be the actress she'd always claimed she wanted to be. She'd never have another chance to become independent, even wealthy, and if she failed, she hadn't the faintest notion of where she would turn next.

For last night Rivers had made it abundantly clear that once the play was done and the wager was settled, their liaison was over. She'd thought she would be the one to ease away from him, but he'd beaten her to it, and taken the first step. Oh, he'd been every bit the perfect lover, as charming as ever over their dinner together and then later, in bed, as passionate as a man could be.

But before that, in the carriage, he had given her the diamond brooch, and she'd understood. She'd seen it often enough with Magdalena and other dancers in the company. When a gentleman wished to break with one of them, he gave them a gift of costly jewelry; hadn't Rivers done exactly that when he'd parted with Magdalena last year?

She'd tried to tell herself that she'd expected this moment, that it was inevitable no matter how much she'd wished otherwise. But the little brooch had been so beautiful and perfect there in her hand, with flowers that held such significance to their time together, that she'd felt the shock of its other meaning like a blow straight to her heart. He'd said he'd give her what would make her happy, and this benefit was proof of that. He'd said he'd always remember her, and that was all she'd be left with as well: memories, a diamond brooch, and a broken heart.

She'd pinned the brooch to the front of her costume tonight, for luck and remembrance, just like Ophelia's spray of rosemary. She hoped Rivers would see it, too, and she leaned a little farther to one side in the wings, trying to see the royal box where he would be sitting with Sir Edward.

“Here now, none of that,” whispered Mr. Audley sharply, tugging her back. “Don't want to show yourself before you make your entrance.”

She gulped and tried to smile, and from the look on his face she didn't succeed.

“You're not going faint, either, missy,” he said crossly. Beneath the heavy stage paint, his expression was irritated and worried. “For tonight, you're one of this company on this stage, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you turn coward and spoil everything for the rest of us.”

Instead of calming her, his words made her panic. What was she doing anyway? Who did she think she was, ready to go out and make an utter fool of herself before hundreds of people?

Her fear rising by the second, she stared down at her gauzy, gaudy, spangled costume, so unlike any of her ordinary clothes, and suddenly she thought of the long-ago pink gown she'd worn as a girl to recite poetry before the country folk. She'd discovered her talent then, how she'd the power to take words and turn them into magic that could make others laugh or weep.

That gift was still hers, and always would be. Acting couldn't mend her broken heart, but it could take that pain and turn the hurt into something else. That had been one of Rivers's first lessons for her; she didn't want to consider the irony of how he was the cause of her suffering now. Ophelia, too, had been pushed away by the man she'd loved, and if Lucia could bring her own pain to her performance, then she would succeed.

Mr. Lambert as Hamlet rushed from the stage, and a single trumpet sounded to mark the end of one scene and the beginning of another. Lucia raised her head, took a deep breath, and linked her hand through the crook of Mr. Audley's arm, the way they'd rehearsed their entrance. He nodded, satisfied, and together they walked from the wings into the bright light of the stage.

She was aware of the murmur that greeted her, the rush of not-so-quiet remarks that had nothing to do with Ophelia. She ignored them all, and focused entirely on the play. For the beginning of this scene, Ophelia had only a handful of lines to speak, all simple replies to her brother and father. But finally came the first lines that rang true for both her and Ophelia:

“He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders

Of his affection for me.”

The audience's interest rose, acutely aware of the double meaning of her words as she continued.

“My lord, he hath importuned me with love

In honorable fashion…

And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord,

With almost all the holy vows of heaven.”

“Don't believe him, dearie!” called a woman's voice from the highest seats. “All rogues say the same false rubbish, and believe naught of it.”

Some people laughed at the woman, others shushed her, but far more murmured with agreement, and Lucia knew she was swaying them her way. Her confidence grew, and as Ophelia's confusion and misery became more poignant with each scene, the audience's support grew, too. Not only did they begin to cheer Ophelia and openly call their encouragement, they also began to boo and hiss at Hamlet, much to Mr. Lambert's displeasure.

“It's not right, you know, not right at all,” he fumed to Mr. McGraw between acts, and pointedly in Lucia's hearing. “The prince is the hero of the play, not that damned chit Ophelia.”

But Lucia didn't care. She continued to pour herself and her heart into the role, and by the time she'd reached her final scene, playing the mad Ophelia with her hair loose and tangled over her shoulders, she had lost herself so completely in the role that as she handed out her flowers, her tears of sorrow and bewilderment were so genuine that the audience was completely silent, suffering with her. When she exited, she stood in the wings with the tears streaming down her face, overwhelmed with emotion and oblivious to the congratulations of the other players.

“Here, here, dry your eyes,” Mr. McGraw said, hurrying toward her with a handkerchief. “They're calling for you.”

She took the handkerchief and wiped her eyes, not understanding. “But they can't,” she said. “It's the middle of the play.”

“They can, because tonight the play belongs to you,” he said, all smiles. “They know the story well enough to realize you'll die offstage and the only time you'll be back is as a corpse, so they want you now. Come along, ma'am, take what's due.”

She composed herself as best she could and let Mr. Lambert lead her back out to the stage. The applause stunned her, and small bouquets of flowers were thrown onto the stage around her. She smiled through her tears and curtseyed her thanks, and the cheers grew louder. Not in her headiest dreams had she expected such a response, yet all she could think of was what Rivers thought of her performance. Somewhere in the crowd, he'd been watching her. Did he approve? Had she moved him, too? Did he recognize how much of her own sorrow had fueled Ophelia's?

Finally she left the stage, her arms full of the flowers that had been tossed to her, and the play was able to continue on. But McGraw wasn't done.

“A word with you, Mrs. Willow,” he said, taking her aside. “You are a triumph, ma'am, a triumph, and the people adore you.”

“Am I?” she asked, startled by this praise from him. “Do they?”

“Yes, and yes,” he said firmly. “You have a rare talent, ma'am, but before we can proceed any further, I must know your understanding with his lordship. I'm all too aware of how gentlemen can be under the circumstances.”

She frowned. “I'm not sure I understand, Mr. McGraw.”

“Then let me be blunt, Mrs. Willow,” he said. “He has paid for tonight's performance, and thus it will be his right to determine if it is to be repeated. Most gentlemen do not permit their mistresses to continue on the stage. The attention makes them jealous, and they don't like other men ogling what's theirs. So tell me, ma'am. Was this benefit to be a single event for the sake of his wager, or will he permit you to return to the stage for other performances?”

She flushed, chagrined that she hadn't understood his meaning. “I have no such obligations to his lordship, Mr. McGraw,” she said as firmly as she could. “On the contrary, it is his express wish that I continue on the stage, and earn my living by acting if that is possible.”

“Oh, it's certainly possible,” McGraw said, smiling warmly. “Especially since his lordship has stipulated that the return from tonight's benefit is to go to you, not him.”

Her flush deepened as she considered the significance of Rivers's generosity. He knew she wouldn't take money directly from him, but that she couldn't object to this, the money having been earned through acting rather than in his bed. It was a clever, thoughtful arrangement, and an honorable one, too, and entirely in keeping with Rivers's personality. He had said that he would do whatever was necessary to make her happy, and he had. It was also as sure a sign as the diamond brooch that he was done with her.

“Then I will consider whatever offers you make to me, Mr. McGraw,” she said, striving to sound businesslike. “Another performance of
Hamlet
?”

“Another, and another after that,” he said. “I should say six nights to begin, and after that, if we continue to suit each other, we might discuss a more permanent role for you in the Russell Street company.”

She nodded, her head spinning with possibilities. She had acclaim, she had a future as an actress, and she had money in her pocket. What more could she want?

Rivers,
her heart whispered.
You don't have Rivers, and most likely you never did.

Swiftly she shoved aside the thought. “One more question, Mr. McGraw,” she said. “Can you suggest respectable lodgings near to Russell Street that would be suitable for me?”

“I can recommend a half dozen without hesitation that would be perfectly agreeable for a lady,” he said, studying her shrewdly. Despite clearly realizing the truth about her background, it was in his favor to perpetuate the myth of Mrs. Willow as a gently born lady driven to the stage by personal misfortune, even though most of London would know otherwise by now. “But if you're looking for a place for this night, Mrs. McGraw and I would welcome you as our guest until you find yourself a, ah, new situation.”

Lucia raised her chin with determination. She might play Ophelia, but she'd no intention of withering away or going mad for the sake of Rivers. Part of her would never recover from losing him, yes, but she would be strong, and she would survive.