A Reckless Desire (39 page)

She hopped down from the stool and set the bouquet on a nearby table. She took him by the arm, not by the hand the way she usually did, and led him to the far corner of the room. It wasn't the most private of places, but at least it was out of hearing of the rest of the crowd, who were noisily continuing their merrymaking.

She turned and faced him squarely, staring at his chest instead of meeting his eyes, and clasped her hands before her.

“I am sorry, Rivers,” she said softly, “but I'm not going with you. I'm dining with the rest of the company to celebrate.”

If she'd struck him with her fists he wouldn't have been more surprised.

“Damnation, Lucia,” he growled. “You're supposed to celebrate with me.”

“This is what I must do if I wish to make my way as an actress,” she said. “You know that's what I want, above all things.”

His immediate response was that this wasn't what
he
wanted, not at all, but with a manful effort he shoved aside his own wishes for her sake. This was her special night, and he did not want to deny her anything.

“Very well, then,” he said. “Where will you be dining? I'll have my carriage waiting to fetch you home when you are done.”

“No,” she said, her hands twisting restlessly, betraying her. “I'm not coming back to your house, Rivers.”

He noted the subtle yet devastating difference between
home
and
your house.
What nonsense was this?

“Of course you'll be coming back to Cavendish Square, Lucia,” he said firmly, willing it to be so. “Where else would you go?”

“I'm arranging for lodgings of my own,” she said. “I can't be your guest any longer.”

He thought again of the house with the yellow shutters.

“I understand entirely,” he said with hearty relief, reaching for the key in his pocket. “You should have your own home, to arrange however you please.”

She nodded quickly. “I will be taking lodgings not far from here, close to the theater,” she said. “Mr. McGraw is paying me fairly, and I can afford it now.”

His hand fell away from the key. “There's no need for that, Lucia. I can—”

“Please understand, Rivers,” she said, her voice flat and the words coming as if by rote. “Tonight I will be staying with Mr. and Mrs. McGraw, and then I shall be in rooms of my own. This is my decision. This is what I want. Please.”

He did not want to understand. He wanted her with him.

“No, Lucia,” he said, refusing, denying. “No.”

Still she did not look at him, her fingers knotted together. “You said you would do anything to make me happy. This makes me happy.”

“Lucia, don't—”

“This makes me happy, Rivers,” she said again, so deliberately that only her hands betrayed her. “
You
have made me happy, happier than I'd ever dreamed possible, and I thank you for it.”

He reached for her, desperate for any way to make her stop this madness, but she quickly backed away.

“You will be happy, too,” she said, a breathless rush of words. “You may not believe it now, but in time you will. Be happy, my lord. That is all I wish for you, as you did for me. Be happy.”

“Lucia, please,” he said, reaching for her again, but this time she ran and didn't look back, darting away to rejoin the others.

It couldn't end like this, he thought. She loved him, and he loved her. He couldn't be mistaken about something like that. He had promised to give her whatever she wanted to be happy, but how could she truly be happier without him? He couldn't believe it, not after these last six weeks that they'd had together. He didn't want to believe it, because it couldn't be possible.

Yet as she ran away from him, he let her go, and did not follow.

Lucia sat at her dressing table, leaning close to the looking glass as she carefully drew a fine line of the lampblack around her eyes. Her face and shoulders were already covered with pale paint, smelling faintly of the vinegar used to mix the white lead, and her cheeks were artificially flushed with red vermillion. It looked gaudy and false here before the glass, but beneath the stage's candles, she'd become the fresh-faced maiden Juliet, ripe for love, that the audience had come to see.

In the two weeks since she'd made her debut as Ophelia, she'd learned to outline each eye with two strokes of the brush, above and below, with one more artful curve to lift her brows in permanent surprise. She held her breath to steady her hand, a little trick she'd learned from one of the other actresses. She sat back and blinked at her reflection, then smiled. Beneath the gold-edged cap, she was the very picture of Juliet, without a trace of Lucia, exactly as she was supposed to be.

But then, wasn't that the way this entire fortnight had been? Everything in her life had changed. Her Ophelia had become the talk of London, and instead of being a mere curiosity, she now was praised for the sensitivity and sentiment of her portrayal.

In honor of her success, McGraw had given her a dressing room of her own, as much for receiving her admirers as for any real dressing. The playhouse was filled every night, and paeans to her talent were written in newspapers and magazines. She received amorous letters from men she'd never met, and she was recognized by strangers on the streets and in shops. She had become a
bona fide
celebrity, and one night even the king and queen and a great party of courtiers had come to watch her from the royal box, and had offered their compliments afterward.

But the backstage visitor who had astonished her the most had been the great Mr. Garrick himself from the Theatre Royal. He had praised her performance to the skies as he'd kissed her hand while McGraw hovered nearby, fearing that his rival would try to lure her to his own playhouse.

To counter Garrick's attention, McGraw had staged a revival of another of Shakespeare's plays,
Romeo and Juliet,
with Lucia as Juliet. They'd rehearsed the new production during the day and played
Hamlet
at night, until Lucia had fallen into her bed in her new lodgings each night so exhausted she'd no notion of how she'd rise to do it again the next day.

Yet she did. She learned this new part in a matter of days rather than the six weeks she'd had for Ophelia, and when they closed
Hamlet
one night and opened
Romeo and Juliet
the next, she'd been ready. Once again, the crowds came, and again she made them weep.

It came easily to her now, making them cry. Critics called this her special gift, but only she knew the real reason. She could wring the anguish from every word of Juliet's tragedy as if it were her own, because in a way it was. Rivers had been her Hamlet, her Romeo, and on the stage, through Shakespeare's words, she could set free all the pain and sorrow of her own broken heart.

Ending her attachment with Rivers had been the proper thing to do, the noble thing, but not a minute went by that she didn't think of him with regret and loss. That last glimpse of his face and the pain she'd caused him were the worst memories to have, and no matter how often she reminded herself that he never could have found lasting happiness with her, she still couldn't stop wishing it had been otherwise.

She hadn't realized how empty her success would feel without him to share it. They truly had been partners in creating Mrs. Willow, and she never imagined how much she'd long for his suggestions and challenges, and even how he'd suddenly charge off to retrieve a book from his library to read her a particular passage that he felt she needed to hear. She missed how seriously he'd taken her, never once making fun of her questions or missteps. All during rehearsals, she'd yearned to discuss her new role with him, and she wondered constantly what he'd make of her performance.

It only got worse, not better. Each evening before the curtain, she stood in the wings and scanned the first tier boxes, searching for him. Considering how she'd broken off with him before he could do the same to her, she knew rationally that he wouldn't be there, and he wasn't. Yet still she searched for him, her heart refusing to give up hope.

And late at night, when she lay alone in her bed in the dark, she longed for him to be there with her. She ached for the warmth of his big body beside her, for the passion they'd shared, for the love he'd given her that had taken away the loneliness that was once again her constant companion.

No one else around her understood. Of course her new friends knew that she'd parted with Lord Fitzroy—that was unavoidable, given that she'd done it in the tiring room—but they believed her to be like Magdalena, effortlessly shedding a gentleman when he no longer proved useful. They teased her about who her next lover would be, and when bouquets of flowers arrived for her from men she neither knew nor wished to, her new friends read aloud the cards with bad poetry, and made bawdy suggestions about the authors. Even Mr. McGraw had praised her for leaving Rivers, telling her that he would only have complicated her career and brought her trouble in the end.

In return, Lucia merely smiled, and let them think what they wanted. She alone knew the bitter truth, and the aching loneliness that went with it.

She touched the flowered brooch Rivers had given her, pinned for safekeeping to her stays, beneath her costume and over her heart. She always wore it now, a talisman and a reminder. It was all she had left of him.

“Scene three, ladies, scene three,” announced the stage boy from the hall. “Make ready for your entrance.”

Lucia gave a final pat to her cap and turned away from the looking glass. In the dressing room across the narrow hall from hers sat another actress, Martha, who would play Lucia's mother in the next scene.

“We should go, Martha,” Lucia said, already up and closing her door behind her. “You know how angry Mr. McGraw was last night when Ned was late coming back from the privy and the whole scene had to wait.”

“Oh, McGraw can wait, the old cow,” Martha said, engrossed in the scandal sheet she'd spread across the table before her. “This will interest you, Lucia. It's about that lordling what made the wager with you. He is to wed, or leastways he's as good as betrothed.”

Lucia caught her breath. “You cannot mean Lord Rivers.”

“I can, and I do,” Martha said, pointing to the page. “Here it is, clear as day, even with the proper names left out. Read it for yourself.”

Reluctantly Lucia took the paper from Martha, and forced herself to read the item.

Lord R****s F*****y, son of the Duke of B*********e is said to have formed an attachment to the beauteous daughter of the Marquess of S*******e. The two are seen often in one another's Company, & since
LOVE
& HAPPINESS
will not be denied, a nuptial Announcement by the Lady's father is regarded as Imminent.

“ 'Tis fortunate you left the rogue when you did,” Martha said as she rose, straightening her wig. “You're spared all the teeth-gnashing of him mending his ways for his new bride. Men being men, he'd likely been planning to marry her all the time he was with you, the lying rascal. Come along now, or McGraw will come yipping after us himself.”

Yet Lucia lingered, unable to look away from the small item of gossip. Even this was enough to make her heart ache with loss, and long for all she'd never have. For two weeks now, he'd stayed away from her, accepting her rejection as final. Here was the last proof that he'd rejected her in return.

Because of course it was Rivers. Of course he was going to marry the daughter of a marquess, who was of course beauteous.

And of course love and happiness would not be denied. Wasn't that exactly what she'd wished for him? Love and happiness, with another woman who was his equal, and would be welcomed warmly into his family as his wife, not his mistress.

Of course.

Rivers
,
however
,
was not happy, nor was he in love, at least not with Lady Anne Stanhope. He was standing at one of the long windows of his father's house with his back turned to the rest of his family, who were gaily blathering on about some nonsense or other while they waited for their guests to arrive.

He was in no humor for either gaiety or blather, and if he was honest, he wasn't overly interested in his family at this point, either. Nor did it help his mood knowing that he was being a fool, pining over a woman who had discarded him as easily as an old pair of gloves.

Yet he could not help it. Lucia di Rossi had done that to him, and he'd make no apologies for how thoroughly her rejection had wounded him. He felt like a dog with a broken leg, hopping gamely along on three legs but still in pain.

He hadn't even been able to manage that much for the first days after she'd told him she no longer wished to be with him. He missed her more than he'd believed possible. Countless times a day he'd been sure he heard her voice in the hall, or turned his head, certain he'd find her there at his side. With only Spot for company, he had stayed in his house and he hadn't left it, hoping that she'd return to her senses and come back to him.

Instead she had sent a man with a cart to collect her belongings, the same little trunk that she'd once carried herself, and the new clothes that had been made for her in Newbury. To make matters even more humiliating, she had also returned the bag of coins that had been Everett's wager. With it had been a note explaining that the money should be considered repayment for the clothes, and that he should now regard her debt to him paid in full.

Rivers had cursed and sworn that he'd consider no such thing, and had insisted the man take the money back to her. He had no use for it, not when the one thing he truly wanted was Lucia herself.

Yet even after this, he had kept his distance, the way she'd requested. He hadn't gone to the playhouse to watch her perform. He hadn't loitered outside after the play was done, hoping to see her leave. He hadn't made inquiries as to her new lodgings, or asked if she had taken up with another man. He read her reviews, because he would have read the papers anyway, and he felt ridiculously proud of her for them. Even though she had banished him from her life, he was not able to do the same with her.

After that first week alone, he had forced himself to go out, and to pretend that there was nothing amiss. He went to his club, where he was congratulated for winning the wager. He dined with his friends, and his refusal to discuss Lucia was only taken as a sign of worldly manhood. He visited his family, and tolerated their attempts to make a match with Lady Anne. He was polite to the lady, who would have been entirely agreeable under other circumstances, but he did nothing to encourage her. He couldn't. His heart and his love still belonged to Lucia, whether she wished it or not.

All of which had led him here, to this window, staring out at the green oval of Portman Square in the falling dusk. The lanterns were being lighted now, little pockets of brightness against the night. He had thought he'd been invited here for a family dinner, his father and Celia, Harry and Gus, Geoffrey and Serena, but Harry had let it slip that the Stanhopes had been invited as well. He did not want to dine with the Stanhopes, or to have to suffer through a long meal with Lady Anne gazing adoringly at him with her blank blue eyes.

To his relief, they were late, and he surreptitiously checked his watch. Perhaps he could plead some other engagement and escape before they arrived. Perhaps he could shift from this window to the door and slip away unnoticed, and make apologies tomorrow. Perhaps—

“Lost in your own thoughts, Rivers?” said Father as he came to stand beside him, and put an end to all hopes of escape. He motioned to a nearby footman to bring them wine. “I don't blame you, when all the ladies can speak of is infants and children. There was a time when the trials of the nursery were left there, but now it seems that every tantrum and rash is considered fit conversation for the drawing room as well.”