When You're Desired (8 page)

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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

BOOK: When You're Desired
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“Good God!” Dorian said, acutely embarrassed.
“You would be the envy of every man in London,” his mother went on, unperturbed by her son's discomfort, “which is precisely what you ought to be. Your father would not have hesitated.”
Dorian left his chair and poked the fire again. “You forget, Mama. Miss St. Lys has a protector already.”
She laughed aloud. “I hope you do not mean Captain Fitzclarence! He is no rival for
you
, my love. He may be the king's grandson, but he's still a bastard, and he is poor.”
“What does that matter, if she loves him?” Dorian said sharply.
“Even beautiful actresses must have something to live on,” replied the duchess. “Houses in Curzon Street do not pay for themselves, after all. I wonder who pays her rent? I shall have to inquire. It can't be Fitzclarence; he hasn't a penny to scratch himself with. You could buy him off, I daresay, for a few hundred pounds.”
“Mama!”
She took up her pen. “You are right, of course. It is
St. Lys
we are talking about. I had better offer him a thousand.”
“If he lets her go for a thousand pounds, then he is not worthy of her,” said Dorian.
“No indeed,” she agreed. “All the more reason
you
should take her.
You
would not give her up for a thousand pounds.”
“No. Never!”
She smiled complacently. “Then it's all settled. I'll send Captain Fitzclarence his money, and you shall dine with Miss St. Lys tomorrow night with a clear conscience. I'll have Cartwright draw up the papers.”
“Papers?”
“Yes, dear boy,” she told him firmly. “If she is going to be your mistress, we must do the thing properly. We must have a contract. It is as much for her protection as yours,” she went on quickly, as he began to protest. “A thousand pounds per annum, I think, would be a fair offer.”
“I cannot offer her money!” he protested. “We have only just met. She probably hates me.”
“Nonsense. You are the Duke of Berkshire. She'd be a fool not to jump at the chance. She will be expecting you to make her an offer. If you don't, she will think you do not find her desirable. Her feelings would be hurt. You
do
find her desirable, don't you?”
“Naturally, I—Look here, madam, I do not wish to discuss such matters with my mother!” he said angrily.
“There's no need to be embarrassed. Your feelings are perfectly natural. Offer her two thousand per annum, if it makes you feel better. We would not want her to think you hold her cheap. Oh, I have no doubt that Miss St. Lys will make you an excellent mistress. And what beautiful children you will have. I shall never see them, of course, but when the time comes, I shall find husbands for all the girls, who are sure to be pretty, and government posts for the boys, who are certain to be clever. But I do not think you should keep her in Curzon Street. For one thing, it is much too close to
us
, and for another, she should have nothing but what you give her. The house in Duke Street would be better. I'll evict the tenants tomorrow.”
“You think of everything,” he murmured, rather dismayed by her efficiency.
 
 
“Madam!”
It was morning. Celia's bedroom was flooded with light, and Flood was calling out to her. With a groan of weak, inarticulate fury, Celia thrust her head under the pillow.
“Madam, you must get up,” Flood cried, shaking her.
“Why?” Celia whined, burrowing under the covers. “What time is it?”
“Half past seven, madam!”
“What!” Celia was so surprised, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Half past seven?” she repeated stupidly, her heart pounding. “Half past
seven
?”
Leaping out of bed, she ran to her dressing closet, howling, “How could you let me sleep so late, you stupid cow? I've missed rehearsals! I shall be late for the curtain!”
“'Tis half past seven in the
morning
, madam,” Flood told her.
“Morning?” said Celia, as if she had never heard of this word,
morning
. “Yes; that would explain the morning light pouring in at the windows. But . . . I don't understand, Flood. How could you let me sleep so long—all day and all night? They will think I missed Mr. Palmer's benefit on purpose! Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”
“'Tis
Wednesday
morning, madam,” Flood told her patiently. “You've not missed Mr. Palmer's benefit. 'Tis hours away, that.”
“Wednesday morning?” Celia turned slowly, her eyes closed against the sunlight. “No. That can't be right. That would mean that yesterday was
Tuesday
, and yesterday could not possibly have been Tuesday.”
“Yesterday
was
Tuesday, madam.”
“You're quite wrong.”
“No, madam.”
Celia barely opened her eyes. “Am I to understand, Mrs. Flood, that you have awakened me at half past seven on
Wednesday
morning?” she said thinly. “Why have you done this terrible thing to me? Haven't I always been good to you? I am not expected at the theatre until one o'clock.”
“There's a gentleman here to see you,” Flood explained.
“Is that all?” cried Celia. “Go away, you vile creature, before I turn you off without a character. And close the bloody curtains!” she added, stumbling back to her bed.
“What do I tell the gentleman?”asked Flood, hurrying to the window and yanking the two curtains together.
“Tell him to jump in the Thames,” Celia suggested. Turning her pillow over to the cool side, she thrust it under her cheek. “Or you may tell him to go to Halifax. I really don't care.”
“I can't tell the Duke of Berkshire to jump in the Thames,” Flood protested.
Celia's eyes opened wide. “The Duke of Berkshire?” she cried, jumping out of bed. “You did not say it was the Duke of Berkshire!” Hurrying to her dressing table, she consulted the mirror. She certainly was not in her best looks. Who is, at half past seven? Her face was pink and puffy. Her eyes were seamed with sand. Her pillowcase had left deep, livid creases in her cheek. Her hair was tangled around her face. “What does he mean, coming here at half past seven? The Beau got it wrong. He is not Lord Granville without his smirk. He's Lord Granville without his
watch
.”
Still grumbling, she filled the washbasin. Then, bending quickly at the waist, she plunged her whole face into the ice-cold water. Coming up again, she cursed through chattering teeth, “Bloody hell!”
Flood handed her a warm towel.
“He would not call on a
lady
so early in the morning,” Celia grumbled, patting her face dry. “He is eager, I daresay, but that is no excuse for such rudeness. Well, I certainly can't let him see me like
this
,” she added, looking at herself in the mirror with despair. “I look like I've been put through the mangle. Did you tell him I was still asleep?”
“I told him nothing.”
Celia thought quickly. “Well, I can't see him with my eyes all puffy. He'd go away and never come back. Tell him I'm—tell him I'm in the middle of a costume fitting, and I cannot see him now. Ask him to return in an hour or so. No! No, he might be offended. Ask him to wait,” she said decisively. “Tell him I won't be long. And send the girl up with some bloody coffee,” she added, picking up her hairbrush.
Three quarters of an hour later, she was ready. More than ready; she was perfect. Her eyes sparkled like sapphires. Her skin looked flawless, her cheeks were rosy, and her lips were like cherries. She had dressed herself very carefully, with minute attention to detail. She took one last look in the mirror, craning her neck to get a good look at her bottom, then went down to the drawing room on the first floor with a light and confident step.
Opening the door, she went quietly into the room.
The Duke of Berkshire was standing at one of the two tall, narrow windows overlooking the street below. His back was to her.
“Your Grace,” she said. “How very nice of you to come and see me!”
Dorian turned at the sound of her voice. As she moved toward him, her hand extended, his hazel eyes widened in disbelief, and his handsome face slowly turned crimson.
“Miss St. Lys?” he exclaimed, quite stunned by her appearance. Though he took her hand, he knew not whether to shake it or kiss it. “Is that you?”
Celia grinned proudly. She could not have been more pleased by his reaction. She had chosen her costume well. The superbly tailored scarlet dolman, heavily adorned with gold, fit her like a glove, while from the waist down her long, shapely legs were encased in skintight breeches of glazed white leather and polished black top-boots. A tall shako, gilded and lacquered, with a white plume, covered her head. There was even a sword, a needlelike rapier in a black and gold sheath, buckled at her side.
Holding his hand, she made a slow pirouette before him, like something from a dance, affording him an excellent view of her exquisitely molded rear end. “What do you think, Your Grace?” she asked when they were face-to-face. “Am I a good boy?”
Her magnificent blue eyes twinkled up at him, full with mischief.
“If I knocked on your door and offered you my services, would you take me on?” she asked. “As your servant, I mean.”
“I'm afraid I don't quite understand,” he murmured apologetically. “Why should you do such a thing?”
“That's what happens in the play,” she explained, smiling. “The heroine disguises herself as a boy, and the Duke of Illyria takes her on as his servant. The whole play hangs on it, if you see what I mean. So! If
I
came to your door—completely out of the blue, mind—and offered myself to you, would you take me on? Or would you send me away?”
Dorian seemed a little short of breath. “I most certainly would not send you away,” he said, plucking at his neckcloth, which suddenly seemed too tight.
“I am
very
glad to hear that, Your Grace,” she said, laughing. Releasing his hand, she stepped away and unbuckled the chin strap of the shako. Removing it, she shook out her golden curls. “If the duke rejects me in the first act, it will be a very short play indeed!” she added, placing the shako on the little desk that stood between the two windows.
“You have nothing to worry about, Miss St. Lys,” he said. “I think I can safely say that you shall not be rejected in the first act.”
She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I hope you have not been waiting long.”
“No, not at all,” he assured her.
She winced. “Oh dear. As long as that? I am sorry. But, you see, I never know how long these fittings are going to take. Do you forgive me?”
“My dear Miss St. Lys, there is nothing to forgive,” he protested.
“But you were so angry when I came in. You were scowling.”
“Was I?” he said. He had not been scowling, of course, though he had been a little annoyed. He was not, after all, accustomed to being kept waiting. “I beg your pardon.”
She smiled. “Of course, if I had
known
you were coming to see me this morning . . .”
“Oh, how thoughtless of me,” he said quickly. “And so early, too.”
“It's not important,” she said. “I'm just sorry you had to wait. Your Grace is looking very countrymanlike this morning,” she went on, looking over his rust-red coat, doeskin breeches, and boots with obvious approval. “I suppose you have been riding? Which park?”
Her house was convenient to both Hyde Park and Green Park.
“I do like a good gallop in the morning,” he said. “I rode all the way to Kensington Palace and back again. I was so close to you that I thought I would just stop and see how you were doing. I can see that your face did not bruise. I was so afraid—”
“Let us not speak of it,” she said quickly. “I was insolent, perhaps, and deserved it. Would you be good enough to apologize to Miss Tinsley for me? Truly, I meant no harm.”
He stared at her. “You want me to apologize to her? My dear girl, she should be on her knees begging your forgiveness! What she did to you was unforgivable.”
“No,” she said demurely. “She was just jealous, poor thing. If you were mine, I might be jealous, too,” she added softly.
She actually heard him catch his breath. It was very gratifying. “What do you mean?” he stammered. “I am not—I do not belong to Miss Tinsley!”
She lifted startled eyes to his face. “But . . . are you not engaged to marry her?”

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