The Temptation of Laura (2 page)

She stepped away from the window and turned to Bette. “He’s gone.”

“Until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is a new day.”

“Yeah, and what will we do with it?”

The Theater Royal and Adam Lacey filtered through her mind. “I don’t know yet, but giving in to Malcolm Baxter isn’t the answer. I’ll work something out.” She moved to her friend’s side and smoothed Bette’s hair, damp with perspiration, from her face. “Let me warm up some broth and we’ll worry about tomorrow when the sun comes up, all right?”

Bette’s eyes drifted closed, her face pale with sickness and exhaustion. “He’s right, you know.”

Laura frowned. “Baxter?”

Bette nodded. “I wish we didn’t need him, but I’m dying and it ain’t making my passing easier knowing you’ll be all alone with him sniffing around like a dog in heat.” She opened her eyes.

Wisdom shone in her friend’s gaze. Did Bette know? Did everyone know when their time was nigh? Had her father known? Her mother?

She shook her head, a single traitorous tear breaking over her lashes. “Don’t say that.”

“We have to think what to do. And think fast. My time’s coming.”

Ignoring the pain that slashed across her heart, Laura busied her shaking fingers by straightening the bedclothes, tucking them in warm and secure around Bette’s thinning body. “Don’t be daft. You’re no more likely to give in to this than I am that bastard Malcolm Baxter.”

Bette cupped a hand to Laura’s jaw. “Look at you. You’ve got hair the color of polished bronze and eyes more violet than blue. If I had my way, you wouldn’t be whoring at all. There never should’ve been a day you laid down with a man without his heart wanting to worship every inch of you. Find something else to do with yourself because I can’t leave you until I know you’re all right.”

Taking her hand, Laura brought Bette’s knuckles to her lips. “That’s fine by me, because I don’t want you to leave. Ever.”

Bette’s breath rasped as she huffed out a laugh. “I’ll be leaving. Just not in peace until I know you’re looked after.”

Laura stared as tears fell from Bette’s eyes and crawled like liquid silver down her cheeks. Seven years. They’d met on the street and never been apart since. In all that time, Laura had never seen Bette cry or falter. Her friend was dying.

Silently, she drew her legs onto the bed and gathered Bette in her arms. She laid her head beside Bette’s on the pillow as they each lapsed into silent thoughts, fears, and plans. The minutes passed and eventually Bette’s breathing slowed to the soft murmurs of slumber. Laura stared at the ceiling as twilight streaked through the window, casting the room in a soft semidarkness. Tomorrow she’d find work. New work. No more whoring. No more men.

Bette was right. Enough was enough.

Adam Lacey moved in a ghost-like state toward his dressing room at the Theater Royal. His strained smile fixed in place and his heart beating fast, he continued forward, strangely numb to the shoulder slaps and handshakes he received from his fellow actors, the director, and the producer.

The corridor was rife with jovial laughter and chatter. The gas lanterns cast a golden hue, lighting the delighted faces and illuminating the company’s satisfaction. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling his performance could’ve been better.
Should’ve
been better.

He entered his dressing room, shut the door, and dropped back against it.

With the matinee over, only tonight’s performance and one more week remained before the end of the show. The month-long run of performances had been better received than the company could have anticipated. The rave reviews in newspapers and favorable caricatures in shop windows all over town were testament to the play’s success.

That was all well and good, but after the final performance, then what? He had no more work lined up. No producers waiting in the wings to grab him hungrily by the collar before anyone else thought to do so.

He pushed away from the door. His name was on the billboards outside the theater. His face graced the pamphlets. Yet, neither did anything toward alleviating the panic and fear his success could be ripped from him in a heartbeat.

Weeks of scraping around for new work, auditions, and rejection stretched in front of him, and fear clutched like a fist in his stomach. Where did he go next? How many people had told him the theater business was no better than a continual fistfight? Bare knuckles and blood were part of their world—success did not come to an actor taking handouts. Hard work and tenacity gave the only chance of longevity in the acting world.

He closed his eyes as self-hatred swept over him in a hot wave.

Were shortcuts not what he chased? Was that not the person he had become? Someone so impatient for elevation, he had made himself a rich widow’s man-whore.

“What the hell am I doing?” Adam snapped his eyes open and snatched the powdered wig from his head. He slung it haphazardly upon the stand on his dressing table and dropped onto a blue velvet seat.

The steady thump of a headache snaked through his temples and he covered his face with his hands. Lady Harvard’s money had paved the way for this job but, once again, guaranteed nothing. Taking her benefit had done little more than prove his lowly moral value. Was he not reinforcing everything his parents ever said about the theater business? That it was seedy and unsavory, and had very little to do with talent and hard work.

Raising his head, he looked to the hefty sheaf of papers stacked at the far corner of the table. Drawn together in a neat and tidy pile, and lovingly tied with string, they represented his dreams on parchment. His play. His manuscript. His soul’s work. He ran his hand over the top sheet, before gripping the string until his knuckles showed white.

“One day you’ll see the light of day, Lucinda. One day.”

Frustration furled in his gut and desperation scratched at his sanity. Two years of putting pen to paper and he had created a heroine of such beauty and muster, tenacity and strength, she resided inside him like a living, breathing woman of flesh and consequence. Her story of struggle against adversity would bring him fortune one day. He was sure of it. He had to believe as much or he had nothing.

Standing abruptly, Adam yanked open the buttons on his waistcoat and strode to the wardrobe. Quickly removing his costume, he hung it neatly and turned away. He needed to get out for a while and take in some air. Early that morning, the scent of autumn hung heavy in the trees and the chill of a softly blowing breeze had whispered against his face. Now, as the clock on the fireplace mantel showed five, the bracing evening air would undoubtedly do much to clear his head.

Naked, he sat at the dressing table and seized some cold cream and a cloth. When he’d roughly scrubbed his face clean of makeup, he steadfastly avoided his reflection. There was no need to see himself laid bare. It was painfully clear what he’d find staring back at him.

A failure. A chameleon. An aspiring star who was little more than Lady Harvard’s plaything.

Adam shot to his feet. Cupping his manhood, he rushed to the wardrobe.

“Who’s there?” He grappled his legs into a pair of breeches.

“It is me, silly.” The doorknob rattled. “Open up. I need to see you. I have missed you even though you have barely been a few feet away from me for the last two, excruciatingly long hours.”

He closed his eyes against the fresh slash of pain that assaulted his temple. Lady Harvard. His investor. His believer. His lover.

“I am in the middle of dressing.” He yanked a shirt from the wardrobe. “Why don’t I meet you in the lobby for a glass of bubbly? I will not be long.” He grimaced. The smile in his voice was strained and clearly forced.

The doorknob rattled again. “Open the door, Adam. Now.”

Her chilly tone made him scowl. He was not in the mood for her histrionics, demands, or unique technique of ensuring she got her way. His penis shriveled as he stared at the door.

What was he doing? Why was he bowing and scraping to a woman who treated him as little more than a lapdog? He narrowed his eyes, wishing his glare would burn a hole through the door and straight into Lady Harvard’s damn snooty nose.

Pride swelled behind his ribcage. There had to be another way. He worked hard. He had vision. He inhaled a long breath as his next step became clear. One way or another, he would manage without Lady Harvard’s monetary support. It was time he moved on.

He strode forward and opened the door. She swept into the room before he had time to draw another breath.

“At last.” Lady Annabel Harvard strode directly to his dressing table, her lavish sapphire blue skirts brushing the floor, her eyes flitting left and right. “I thought you might be hiding a woman in here.”

He gripped the doorknob. “And if I was?”

She spun around, her livid green gaze shooting spears of rancor. “I beg your pardon?”

Adam shoved the door with his palm; it banged shut, and he came toward her. Determination burned inside. Anger and dented pride hummed through his veins, making him want to hold his head high and take back control. How had he succumbed to such a pathetic way of living for so long?

He halted inches away from her and satisfaction swept through him when she stepped back.

Her cheeks flushed pink and she swallowed. “Whatever is the matter with you?”

“I asked you a question. What of it if I chose to have a woman, a lover . . . a whore in my room?”

She huffed out a laugh. “Are you drunk?”

Adam smiled. “Drunk?”

“Yes, Adam, drunk.” She moved past him, opening the space between them. She played her fingers over the thick braid of blond hair that lay over her breast. “I can see no other reason for you to be acting so beastly.”

“As opposed to agreeing to your every whim, bringing you every drink or refreshment? As opposed to bringing your body to pleasure so you shout my name when the bedroom door is closed to the rest of society?”

For a long moment she said nothing, her mouth opening and closing in comedic rapidity. Then the inevitable tears glazed her eyes.

Adam sighed at the ceiling and turned before the onslaught of her dramatics filtered his conscience. His heart hammered with guilt that he would speak to a lady—even this
lady
—in any way other than respectfully. He closed his eyes. He had no other choice if he was to break the web she had wound around him with promises of escalation and fortune.

He was a fool. A fool who had been blinded by impatience.

She sniffed. “I assume you feel the play did not go well this afternoon.”

He gripped the back of the chair at his dressing table. “It went well, so I’m told.” He faced her. “That is not why I am being this way. I want out of this . . . arrangement, Annabel. I will find my own way. It was a mistake. My mistake. I should never have accepted your help this year past.”

“Why on earth are you saying these things? I love helping you. . . . I love being with you. I do not support you out of the goodness of my heart. I believe in you.”

“That may be, but from now on, I want to see my successes achieved by my own merits, rather than by what doors your money and name can open.”

“But, Adam . . .” She rushed forward and clasped his hand to her breast. “How can this be wrong? You enjoy making love to me. You enjoy what I can give you. Do not walk away from it. I can make the world see your art for the brilliance it is. You know I can.”

The soft cushion of her ample bosom heaved beneath his palm, but it did nothing to excite him. Realization dawned. The previous passions he had shared with her had been based on nothing but the potential of the promised success she claimed was at every corner.

He snatched his hand away. “I want you to go. Leave me.” He softened his tone when a single tear left her eye. “Please.”

“This is silly. You are feeling down and defeated merely because the play is coming to an end. We will find you more work. In the meantime, I will provide for you. There is no need—”

“There is every need.” Irritation flared hot and fast in his abdomen, and he marched to the door. “There is every need because of the very word you have just spoken.”

She frowned. “What word?”

“Provide, Annabel. I do not want you or anyone else
providing
for me.” He yanked open the door. “Now go. Please.”

She stood immobile. The tension weighed heavy on Adam’s chest as he waited. Noise and laughter filtered into the room from the corridor. The clinks of glasses and the popping of corks offered little comfort or consolation to the fear that would not be silenced inside him.

“Fine.” She snatched her purse from the chair beside her. “I will go. I will leave you to your melancholy. I will be waiting at the Rooms for supper and drinks after this evening’s performance. We will talk this through and you will see sense.”

“I will not be there.”

She halted at the door. Her eyes darkened with anger and impatience. “Of course, you will. How can you not be? You are the show’s star. People will expect you.” She gripped his arm. “People of influence. Whatever has happened for you to risk throwing everything away, you must quash it and quash it now before you make the biggest mistake of your career.”

He shook his head and pulled his arm from her grip. “Go, Annabel. Leave me be.”

After another moment’s hesitation, she left and Adam swung the door closed. He walked to his dressing table and looked into the mirror. Euphoria rushed through his blood and for the first time in weeks, he smiled.

 

Later that evening, adrenaline pumped through Adam’s blood as he glanced toward the audience. The theater was packed to the rafters. The aisles, pit, and boxes overflowed with smartly dressed gentlemen and women mixing and blending with brightly dressed whores, ragged street thieves, and drunks. Some there to see the play; others to make a dime.

His smile faltered as his parents’ disproval of his vocation seeped into his mind once more. Were the patrons there secretly wishing he would go wrong too? Prove himself a fraud who in reality couldn’t act at all. . . .

He swallowed and widened his smile as the scene dictated.

“You are my love, my savior, my all. Elisa, marry me.” He dropped to one knee, grasping his costar’s hand.

She clutched her hand to her ample bosom, her dark blue eyes shining with unprecedented joy. “Yes, of course, yes. A million and one yeses.”

Adam leaped to his feet and clutched her into an embrace, his mouth covering hers.

The curtain fell for intermission.

He met Monica Danes’s smile before she wrapped her arms around his waist, her cheek settling onto his chest. “You are Bath’s jewel, Adam. You make this theater what it is.”

He stole his arm around her shoulders and led her from the stage, exhaling a heavy breath. “I am not so sure about that. I have nothing else lined up once we wrap the show, and my money is dwindling badly.”

She came to an abrupt halt and stared into his eyes. “Then you need to swallow your pride and rent something smaller than your current house. Show your parents you are not afraid of making sacrifices if it means you can continue to do what you love.”

He clenched his jaw. “This has nothing to do with them.”

Monica lifted her eyebrow. “Really? Then why do you talk about them all the time? My parents do not give me a second thought anymore and the action is reciprocated. Where is it written that children owe their parents anything? You need to do what is necessary before you end up with nothing.”

He clenched his jaw. “I am doing my best.”

“Good, because you’re a talented actor. Moreover, you are the nicest, kindest man I have ever met. Someone, somewhere will snatch you up in a heartbeat. I promise.” She pressed a hasty kiss to his cheek. “Now, I must rush before callback. The ladies’ room beckons.”

He stared after her as she disappeared down the steps and along the corridor. Five years younger, female and talented, Monica would not know what it was to be rejected and praying for work for a long time yet. Her words of flattery were more flannel than fact. Oh, he drew the women. The wealthy widows like Lady Harvard looking for company and money to spend, but he wasn’t drawing the eye of a producer. From this day on, that would change.

Something was afoot. Something big enough that God had given him the push to rid himself of his benefactor and the grime that coated his conscience and good sense.