They call her Dana (49 page)

"Definitely not," Laura agreed.

Ollie gave me a firm look. "You'll have to work very, very hard, duckie," she informed me, "and, I must warn you, I'm a tyrant. I brook no nonsense. I demand complete obedience."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, thoroughly intimidated now.

She continued to skewer me with that firm look for another moment and then she smiled, mischief twinkling in her eyes. She touched my cheek. "Don't look so frightened, ducks. Actually, we'll have^M^. You'll be fine—I can sense it—and what a lark it will be putting one over on Jason. Run along to your rooms now, children. I'll see you both at lunch."

I felt dazed as we moved on down the hall. Laura was smiling to herself, amused by my reaction to her friend.

"We'll do it, love," she assured me. "Ollie's really a wonderful teacher. You'll be in fine shape before Jason ever sees you emote."

"She mentioned being stranded in Washington," I said. "I— I wonder why she never returned to England."

"Politics," Laura said.

"Politics?"

"Intrigue. Romance. Ollie has a past, you see. You'll hear all about it ere long—you'll hear about it constantly, I fear. Ollie was a famous beauty several decades ago and the toast of the London stage and had several important lovers, and one day the Prince Regent spied her and was immediately infatuated. He swept herofi'the Royal Pavilion at Brighton and Mrs. Fitzherbert was insanely jealous and Parliament was appalled and secret meetings were held. Ollie was advised to leave the country if she wanted to stay healthy. According to her, she was the great love of Prinny's life—though naturally it was kept very hush-hush."

"Goodness, she does have a past."

"Or a very vivid imagination," Laura said wryly. "Anyway,

she's remained in America all these years, and we're lucky to have her in the company. Here's your room, love. Mine's over there. After you've had your bath and everything, come on over and we'll visit before we go down to lunch."

The room I entered was large and comfortable-looking with faded blue wallpaper and heavy, rather battered furniture. A flowered counterpane was spread over the large four-poster, and curtains with matching floral print hung at the windows. The mirror over the dressing table was murky silver-gray, and the mahogany veneer of the immense wardrobe had tiny networks of weblike cracks. Behind a threadbare lilac silk screen I found pitcher, ewer, chamberpot, all the necessities. It was a welcoming, womblike room, shabby and snug, a perfect retreat. But you didn't come here to retreat, I reminded myself. You came here to forge ahead, to forget. That's what you're going to do. You're going to immerse yourself in a new life and . . . and put the pain behind you.

I was startled when the door banged open and a large, lumbering woman with flat brown eyes and lifeless blond hair came shambling in with my bags, dumping them beside the bed and giving me a sullen look. Bertha, I assumed. She did rather resemble an ox. She departed without a word and returned fifteen minutes later carrying a huge tin tub, followed by a skinny, skittish giri in mobcap and apron who carried towels, soap and sponge. Bertha set the tub down in the middle of the room and muttered something about water coming soon and left. The skinny girl, surely no more than thirteen, grinned shyly, dropped a nervous curtsey and scurried out after Bertha. I had scarcely finished hanging up my clothes in the wardrobe when they came back with buckets of water. Steam rose as they poured water into the tub. I thanked them profusely. Bertha grunted. The girl giggled. I was relieved when they left.

I'm dreaming all this, I told myself. I must be.

Half an hour later, refreshed, smelling of perfumed soap, hair brushed to a glossy honey-blond sheen, I donned my pale apricot gown and went across the hall to knock on Laura's door. "Come in!" she called, and I was surprised to find her still sitting in her tub, rich mounds of bubbly white suds rising all around her. Her hair was piled atop her head and fastened with a ribbon. Her sapphire eyes gleamed with contentment as she

squeezed her sponge and let rivulets of water spill over her arms and shoulders.

"Sorry, love. I've been looking forward to this for so long I just couldn't drag myself out of this delicious water. We have plenty of time. Did you meet Bertha?"

"She's a charmer," I said.

"But efficient. You look radiant."

"I don't feel very radiant."

"Still nervous?"

I nodded, sitting down on the dressing table stool. Laura smiled and began to rinse herself. Her arms and shoulders were as smooth and creamy as satin, and she had a beautiful body, her breasts full and firm, with rosebud-pink nipples.

"So what do you think of my cousin?" she inquired.

"He's—different," I said cautiously. "I—I've never met anyone quite like him."

"And you never will, love. He's brilliant, mercurial, often impossible, but he's honest and strong and extremely protective. He watches after his own with fierce vigilance, his own being every member of the company. You'll long to kill him several times a week, but you can always depend on his being there for you when you need him. Behind all that bluster, he's a brick."

"You really admire him, don't you?"

"He's the genuine article, love. He's rough at the edges and unpolished and outspoken, but there's no pretense and absolutely no hypocrisy. What you see is exactly what you get, and a great many women have tried their very best to get him. Jason has the morals of an alley cat where women are concerned, I fear, but you can hardly blame him for that. It seems he's irresistible."

"Oh?"

"Women will keep throwing themselves at him, and he's always happy to oblige them. He never lies and never leads them on, always lets them know just where he stands, but they all keep right on adoring him until he finally dumps them. No strings, no entanglements, that's Jason's creed. Just glorious, uncomplicated coupling—and lots of it."

I was shocked. I tried not to show it.

"What about love?" I asked.

"Oh, Jason's never been in love. He treats his ladies with rough affection, very fond of them while they last, but he's never

been seriously smitten with any of them. When he does fall in love, God help us all. He'll probably be even more impossible."

Laura reached for the large white towel, stood up, stepped out of the tub, and began to dry herself.

"He's pleased to have you with us, incidentally. He came in here to tell me so, that's why I was late getting into my bath. He was worried no end when he received Maisie's letter, wondering how on earth he was going to get another ingenue on such short notice. He actually thanked me for solving his problem."

"He won't be so thankful when he sees me try to act."

"By the time he sees you, you'll be fine. Ollie and I will make sure of that. There's really nothing to it, love. You learn your lines, you pretend, you project."

"I think I'd rather sell ribbons," I said.

"Nonsense. You'll love it. Every girl dreams of going on the stage."

"I never did. I didn't even know what a stage was,'' I added.

"You've come a long way," she said merrily. "Think of it as an adventure. You're going to have a wonderful time."

It was at this point that the door flew open and a very big, very attractive man strolled casually into the room, carrying a large leather bag. Laura let out a little cry, clutching the towel in front of her. The man gave her a long, lazy look and calmly set his bag down. He seemed completely unperturbed and not the least surprised to find a naked woman in what he obviously assumed to be his room.

' 'Who the hell are youl '' Laura demanded.

"Name's Michael Prichard, ma'am. Who might you be?"

" I 'm Laura Devon, and—''

"Mighty pleased to meet you," he drawled. "Go right ahead with what you were doing. Don't mind me a bit."

Laura gasped. Michael Prichard looked at me, nodded. I nodded back. He removed the wide-brimmed brown western hat he was wearing, and a mmble of sun-streaked golden-brown hair spilled over his brow.

"Dana O'Malley," I said. "The new ingenue."

"Mighty pleased to meet you, too, ma'am."

"What are you doing in my room!" Laura cried.

" 'Fraid there's been some error. The lady downstairs told me this was my room. Third door on your left, she said, plain as could be."

"This happens to be the fourth door on your left, you big lummox! Didn't anyone ever teach you to count?'"

He didn't answer. He grinned. It was a delightful grin, both boyish and slightly wicked. He was indeed a strapping fellow, powerfully built and solid with broad, rough-hewn features that were somehow reassuring. His clear gray eyes were hooded by heavy, drooping lids that gave him a lazy, nonchalant look, and the sun-streaked golden-brown hair was unusually thick and luxuriant. He wore tooled brown leather boots, snug tan breeches and, over a silky tan shirt open at the throat, a loose, rather battered tan kidskin jacket that looked as though it had seen many years of service. He was supremely masculine, rugged as granite, yet there was a breezy wholesomeness about him that inspired immediate confidence.

At least in me. Laura didn't look at all confident. She looked furious, her sapphire eyes flashing.

"You weren't supposed to be here till this afternoon," she snapped.

"Got in early," he said lazily.

"On horseback, I assume."

"Train. Never been too fond of horses. High-strung creatures, too easily spooked. Have to pamper 'em just like you'd pamper a woman. No, give me a train every time."

"Where's your six-shooter?" she asked sarcastically.

"It's in my bag. Wanna see it?"

Laura didn't deign to reply. She stood there gripping the towel tightly, absolutely indignant. Intrigued, too, I could see that. She found the actor from Texas immensely intriguing, though she would undoubtedly have gone to the stake before admitting it. For all her experience and devil-may-care sophistication, she was as susceptible as any other woman to masculine charm. Michael Prichard had charm in abundance and, with those sleepy eyes and that lazy, low-key manner of his, sexual allure that was potent indeed. Laura looked at him with visible disdain.

"You're an actor?''

"Yes, ma'am. One of the best in the South, I'm told. I could show you my clippings. I could also give you personal references."

"I'm sure Doreen Falkner would vouch for you.''

"I'll betcha she would, come to think of it."

Their eyes held. I might as well have been invisible. He

grinned again and reached up to brush the thick hair from his brow, and then he examined his hand, frowning.

"Hair's still a bit damp from all that rain," he said. "Think you could loan me that towel for a minute?''

"Get out of here!" Laura snapped.

"No need to get all riled, ma'am. I'm not gonna bite you, not unless you ask me to. Just bein' friendly."

"Out!"

The grin continued to curl on his wide, full lips, and there was a decided twinkle in those clear gray eyes. He looked at her for a moment longer and then, sighing with sad resignation, plopped the wide-brimmed brown hat back on his head and picked up his bag. "See you girls later,'' he drawled and nodded to both of us and sauntered out of the room, leaving the door wide open. Laura stormed across the room and slammed it with a resounding bang. I smiled to myself. Sophisticated she might be, but she was also transparent, even to one as inexperienced as I was. I couldn't resist making a few sly thrusts as she finished drying off and dressed for lunch.

"What a friendly man," I remarked.

"Friendly! The man's an oaf!"

"I found him quite amiable. Attractive, too."

"Attractive! He's as big as a grizzly bear. He's got to be at least six five, and those shoulders—they're as wide as—"

"You noticed," I said. "He's big, but he's magnificently proportioned, like—like a statue of Hercules I once saw in a picture book. He has wonderful hair, like sunshine blazing on a field of wavy brown wheat, and those eyes are a lovely clear gray.''

Laura pulled on her ruffled white cotton petticoat. "He does have rather nice eyes," she admitted, "but they're entirely too fresh. Did you see the way he was looking at me?"

"I saw," I said. "I loved his voice."

"I can just imagine him playing Porthos with that lazy, burr-filled Texas drawl."

"He's the leading man," I reminded her. "He'll undoubtedly be playing d'Artagnan."

"And Milady Carmelita will undoubtedly be crawling all over him. She has the libido of a Pekingese in heat. It'll take her no time at all to appropriate the new leading man."

"Why should you care?" I asked.

"Me? I couldn't care less. She's welcome to him."

I smiled. She saw it. It didn't improve her mood one bit.

Laura was still in an irritable mood when we went downstairs. Wearing a lovely blue linen frock, black waves mmbling in a rich cascade, she had a visible chip on her shoulder and snapped at Billy when he greeted us in the foyer. She led me into a large parlor with a profusion of potted plants, dusty purple velvet drapes and a large gray rug with green and purple floral patterns. An elderiy, distinguished-looking man with a long, oval face and silvery hair sat on a plush purple sofa, a large brown standard-size poodle sitting beside him. The man was perusing a volume of Shakespeare. The poodle was gazing contentedly into space. A stocky man in a loud checked suit stood at the window, holding the drape back and staring morosely out at the rain. All three looked up as we entered. The poodle wagged his fluffy ball of tail. The silvery-haired gentleman put down his book and stood up, smiling benignly.

"Laura, my dear," he said in dulcet tones, "so pleased to see you back. And this must be Miss O'Malley, the new ingenue Jason was telling us about. I am Bartholomew Hendrics, child. Delighted to meet you."

"I'm delighted to meet you, too."

"What's this about you and Adele?" Laura asked. "I hear you caused her to hand in her apron."

"The girl viciously maligned me," he protested. "There's not a word of truth in anything she said. Would /do something like that?"