Dare to Love (25 page)

I had them. They were mine. I could feel it.

There was the slightest pause as I stood there embracing my invisible lover, and then the music began again, all fireworks and fury. The savage melody caught me and transformed me into a fiery, uninhibited creature who stamped and whirled, the black velvet corselet slipping lower, the skirt sailing higher and higher. There were gasps from some of the women as my legs were revealed from ankle to thigh, but that only spurred me on. The music grew faster, more frenzied. I abandoned myself to it. As I danced, I remembered the gypsy camp and the moors and the cliffs and the crashing waves and the man who had brought me such elation, such joy, such anguish, and that spurred me on to greater heights until the music rose to a shattering crescendo and finally stopped.

It was over. Damp with perspiration, I stood panting, waiting. There was a moment of shocked silence, and then deafening applause filled the theater. The building seemed to shake with it. Men were shouting. People were leaping to their feet. I bowed. They roared. I moved nearer the footlights and bowed again, smiling at them, and they were stamping their feet and clapping furiously and shouting their approval. I looked toward the wings. Anthony was beside himself with joy. He was clapping, too, as loudly, as enthusiastically as any of them. Men were running down the aisle with bouquets of roses. They tossed the bouquets and the ribbons broke and the air was filled with roses that fell all around me.

I had been a rose once, a rose in red tulle who had dreamed of becoming a great ballerina. I remembered the girl I had been, and I felt a touch of sadness inside even as I smiled and acknowledged my triumph. The audience continued to roar. I gathered up the roses and began to toss them to the musicians who had been so kind to me, and then I tossed them to the audience, causing an even greater furor. It was dramatic and flamboyant, exactly the sort of thing Elena would do. I was Elena now. A great success. The past was over. The future was waiting.

INTERLUDE IN PARIS 1847

XX

It was going to be a pleasant crossing. The Channel was calm and blue and there was very little wind so the boat moved slowly. Overhead noisy gulls circled against a pearl-gray sky faintly stained with blue. I stood at the railing watching the white cliffs of Dover grow smaller and smaller, trying to still the faint unease inside me. Anthony had insisted on going on ahead, setting things up, making our hotel reservations and “smoothing the path.” I would have felt much better if he had been standing beside me. He had been altogether too elusive and evasive of late, and I was beginning to wonder if our three weeks in Paris were going to be as restful and relaxing as he had promised.

There would be publicity, of course. There always was. I would be interviewed, and I would be on display, but Anthony had given his word that I would have plenty of time to shop and see the sights while he made the final arrangements for my European tour. His word, I had learned, wasn't nearly as reliable as it might have been. I had earned a rest, and I wasn't going to let him spoil it for me with more of his shenanigans. I would grant a very few interviews, but I would flatly refuse to participate in any of the clever publicity stunts he and David put such stock in. He might grumble and complain, but ultimately I would have my way.

Since we had become lovers, Anthony's manner was even more proprietary and possessive than before, and it was frequently necessary to remind him that I had a will of my own. I was content to let him handle all the business affairs and direct my career, but I was no longer willing to let him bully me. I was Elena Lopez now, not his timorous little protégée. Though I was extremely fond of Anthony, I dared not love him and knew I must keep my guard up at all times. He could push me just so far before I rebelled, and we had had some rousing fights during the past eleven months. It irritated him that I usually won.

During the past month or so I had seen very little of him. My fantastically successful tour of England had ended with two weeks in Bath. Once Millie and I were installed in the hotel and arrangements had been made with the theater, Anthony had gone to London to consult with his business associates about the railroad stocks. He hadn't returned to Bath until the end of the engagement, and then he had been preoccupied, his ordinarily exuberant manner subdued. When I had asked him about the railroad shares he had been almost belligerent, informing me that it was
his
job to manage the money, mine to dance and dazzle and keep the paying customers happy. After we returned to London, he spent most of his time away from the hotel again, dealing with business matters, he said. Then he insisted on going on to Paris ahead of us.

I couldn't shake the vague apprehension I felt, and Millie insisted that something was afoot. But she didn't trust Anthony, never had, telling me I had a soft heart where he was concerned and would ultimately be brought to grief. I realized that she was probably right, but I owed everything to him. I accepted Anthony as he was, grateful to him for all he had done, knowing he was unreliable, quixotic, an engaging rogue whose boyish charm and jaunty manner belied an essentially ruthless nature. He might be infuriating at times, might exasperate me and cause my temper to flare, but it was impossible not to forgive him. Best of all, Anthony was a superb lover, magnificent in bed, and I had come to depend on him in a whole new way.

The Dover cliffs were barely visible now, melting into a misty blue-gray horizon. The slight breeze toyed with my hair and caused my skirts to billow. I was wearing a dark blue gown with long puffed sleeves, a snug, fitted bodice, and a very full skirt adorned with rows of fine black lace. It was a dramatic garment, as indeed were all my new clothes, designed to draw attention to Elena Lopez, and I wore them with aplomb. The public expected Elena to be bold and daring in her dress, and I knew how important it was to maintain their image of me. After almost a year, it was second nature to me.

Passengers strolled up and down the deck, enjoying the salty air, the cry of the gulls, the brilliant sunshine. Most of them stared at me, for I was a celebrated figure now, immediately recognizable, a scandalous creature who caused women to exchange shocked whispers and men to entertain decidedly wicked thoughts. David Rogers had done his job well. He had accompanied us on the lengthy tour throughout England, and he had seen to it that everyone high and low knew about the legendary, tempestuous, and seductive Spanish dancer. Rarely a week had passed without at least one story in the papers. There were usually more. Tinted pictures and paintings of me had been circulated all over the country, sold in stalls and theater lobbies, and a reproduction was featured on the lid of a popular cigar box. I was constantly in the public eye, and I had grown accustomed to the stares.

Few men had stared so openly, however, as the man in the bright maroon frock coat was doing at the moment. I had been aware of him for some time. He was a large man with dark, humorous eyes, dusky skin, and crisp dark hair that covered his head in tight curls. His black boots were polished to a high gloss, his maroon breeches unusually snug. His waistcoat was silver embroidered with black and maroon silk flowers, dashing indeed, and his neckcloth was of vivid turquoise silk. Probably in his early forties, he was quite handsome in an exotic sort of way, and he seemed to crackle with vitality and health. His lips were unusually full, undeniably sensual, and a smile seemed natural on them.

He continued to stare, boldly, without real rudeness, and I noticed that people were staring at him, too. It wasn't surprising. Any man who wore such outlandish clothes deserved to be stared at. He looked as if he enjoyed it, too. Aware that he had captured my attention, he gave me a friendly nod, dark eyes dancing with amusement. I put on my haughtiest manner and turned away, ignoring him. He smiled and strode briskly toward me anyway. I braced myself for another unpleasant encounter. Because of my scandalous reputation, certain men felt free to approach me, and I had learned to deal with them with an icy disdain that chilled even the most ardent.

“I think it's time we met,” he said.

“I think not,” I retorted, hoping my French would be adequate. I had recently had a tutor help me brush up on my schoolroom French.

“You don't know who I am?”

“No, nor do I care to.”

He chuckled, clearly delighted by my rebuff. “I'm dismayed,” he said, “positively dismayed. A bit deflated, too. I thought everyone knew me. Are you sure you're not just teasing?”

“I can assure you I—”

“Have you heard of
The Three Musketeers
?”

“I believe it's a novel.”

“A novel! It's a phenomenon! It's taken the world by storm. Such style, such panache, such
heart
. A masterpiece, believe me. A masterpiece. Come now, you've read it. Surely you have.”

I shook my head, maintaining my cold demeanor with great difficulty. There was something immediately warming about this great, exuberant man with his twinkling eyes and rumbling voice. One sensed charging red corpuscles and incredible drive, strong appetites and a terrific zest for living. He seemed larger than life, the flamboyant clothes carefully tailored to display the hefty, muscular physique. Although he spoke the language perfectly, he did not look like a typical Frenchman. The dusky skin, full lips and tight, crisp curls were faintly African.

“You
do
read French?”

“I've read everything Balzac has written.”

“Balzac!” he roared.

“I read all George Sand's books, too.”

“She'll be delighted to hear it,” he said grumpily. “You're one of her current idols. George goes mad over colorful, independent women who defy convention and make a career for themselves—kindred souls. I'll introduce you to her.”

His voice was petulant, but that was merely pretense. The dark eyes were still twinkling, and a half smile played on those sensual lips. He had an almost overwhelming presence, this great lion of a man who combined the enthusiasm of a merry child with an aura of potent sexual magnetism that was galvanizing in its effect. Women were obviously as indispensable to him as hearty meals and huge tankards of strong red wine.

“What about
The Count of Monte Cristo
?” he asked.

“What about it?”

“Surely you've read
that
.”

“I'm afraid not.”

“If you weren't so pretty, I'd wring your neck,” he growled. “You're doing this deliberately. You know very well who I am. Everyone knows. Ask anyone on this boat. They'll tell you. See those schoolgirls over there? See them tittering and pointing? They know who I am. They know my reputation with women. They're hoping I'll scoop them up and carry them off to my cabin.”

I smiled in spite of myself, melting before his jovial charm. I knew who he was now, of course, but I was enjoying the game too much to give it up just yet.

“You're not Spanish,” he said accusingly. “Your accent is English.”

“You think not?”

“Gorgeous, yes. Fascinating, undeniably. Seductive, no question about it. Spanish, not a chance. The papers say you claim to be Lord Byron's illegitimate daughter. I doubt that, too.”

“You'll admit it makes good reading.”

He rumbled with laughter, drawing even more attention to us. I should have been uncomfortable, but I wasn't. I found Monsieur Alexandre Dumas both amusing and endearing.

“I think you're as big a fraud as I am, Elena.”

“You're entitled to your opinion, Monsieur Dumas.”

“Ah-ha! So you do know who I am.”

“I've read about you. Your reputation is almost as bad as mine.”

“Worse,
chérie
,” he assured me. “We've wasted enough time in idle chitchat. The boat won't dock for at least half an hour. That'll give us ample time for a rousing bounce in bed.”

“You are outrageous.”

“I've the stamina of a ram. You're going to love it. They all do. Women are constantly after me; they can't leave me alone. They're always underfoot. I literally have to kick them out of the house in order to get any work done.”

“So I've heard.”

“Look at them staring at us. They're talking about us already,
ma petite
. By tomorrow afternoon it'll be all over Paris that Dumas went to London to see his English publishers and came back with Elena Lopez. They'll say we had a raging, lusty affair and spent the whole time on this boat making noisy love in my cabin. Come now, let us give truth to the rumors already starting.”

“I'll pass, Monsieur Dumas.”

“You're turning me down?”

When I nodded, his expression changed to mock dismay.

“I refuse to believe it! You're not impressed with my accomplishments? You don't find me wonderfully handsome and irresistibly virile? You're not eager to find out if all that talk about my prowess is true? Incredible!”

I smiled again. It was impossible to take offense. He took nothing seriously, himself least of all. I liked him very much.

“You're making a mistake. I really am phenomenal in bed, lusty as can be. I always leave them begging for more,” he added, “I could provide references.”

“You'd merely be wasting your time.”

“I must be losing my touch,” he complained. “You've ruined my day, you know. I'm totally crushed.”

“I imagine you'll get over it.”

He sighed and shook his head, and then he smiled, eyes atwinkle.

“I suppose I'll have to settle for friendship, for the time being. How long are you going to be in Paris?”

“I'll be there for three weeks. Then I begin a European tour.”

“Three weeks will give us plenty of time to become
amis
. We're going to be seeing a lot of each other, I promise. Someone needs to launch you in Paris, and it might as well be me. If you're not going to come down to my cabin with me for a touch of
l'amour
, I suppose I'd better go back down alone and dash off the rest of that chapter. My publishers are screaming. They never give me a moment's peace.
A bientôt
, Elena.”