by Lisa Kleypas
“I'll consider it.” Julia looked up as a member of the house staff appeared at the greenroom door to inform them that Mr. Scott desired their presence onstage.
After days of exacting rehearsal, the Friday performance of Taming of the Shrew went superbly. As Logan had directed, Julia threw all her energy into the boisterous production. In previous adaptations the story had been watered down to something resembling a drawing room comedy, with much of the ribald humor removed. Logan Scott had restored all of that, and added a robust physicality that both startled and pleased the audience. It was a lusty, vigorous play that made some critics howl with displeasure and others with delight.
With Logan playing the dashing Petruchio to Julia's devilish Katherine, the audience roared with laughter at their volcanic battles, and sat spellbound during some of the quieter, tender moments. Unfortunately, at the end of the production, Julia was battered and sore. The play called for many physical antics, including one bit in which Katherine tried to attack Petruchio, and he swung her off her feet like a rag doll. In spite of Logan's efforts to be careful with her, Julia was not surprised to find a few faint bruises on her arms and torso.
Ignoring all entreaties for her attention, Julia locked her dressing room door, washed the sweat and paint from her face, and used two pitchers of water in a thorough sponge bath. After dabbing perfume on her throat and inner elbows and between her breasts, she turned her attention to the gown she had brought with her. As Arlyss had insisted, she had decided on her favorite evening gown. It was fashioned of jet-black Italian silk, the surface glossy and finely corded. One deep pink silk rose adorned each short, gathered sleeve. The gown's only other adornments were the vertical slashes of pink at the hem, opening and closing rhythmically in billowy swaths as she walked.
After dressing carefully, Julia left the back fastenings undone and regarded herself in the mirror. A faint smile came to her face. No matter how she felt inside, it was reassuring to know that she looked her best. The black silk provided a dramatic contrast to her pale skin and ash-blond hair, while the touches of rose-pink echoed the color in her cheeks.
“Mrs. Wentworth,” came her maid's voice through the door. “May I come in an' see to your things?”
Julia unlocked the door to let the plump, dark-haired girl inside. Betsy was an efficient servant, taking care of her costumes, keeping the dressing room orderly, and assisting her with a multitude of small tasks. “Will you fasten my gown, please?”
“Yes, Mrs. Wentworth. I've brought some more flowers.”
“You may keep them if you like,” Julia said nonchalantly. The dressing room was already filled with floral arrangements and their cloying perfume.
“Oh, but these are so beautiful! Just have a look,” Betsy coaxed, bringing forth the massive arrangement.
Julia exclaimed in pleasure as she saw the profusion of lush roses ranging from palest pink to crimson-red, interspersed with exotic orchids and tall spikes of vivid purple and white delphinium. “Who sent them?” she asked.
Betsy read the card. “‘Savage,’ it says.”
So it was from Lord Savage. Julia reached out and pulled one of the pink roses from the arrangement. She toyed with the petals, and brought the flower with her to the dressing table. As Betsy fastened the back of her gown, Julia expertly twisted and pinned her hair into a loose, thick coil at the top of her head, leaving a few curls to dangle on her temple and neck. After a moment's hesitation, Julia broke off the blossom, wrapped the end in a bit of paper, and anchored it in the coil with a large pin.
“That looks lovely,” Betsy said, breaking off another blossom and pinning it to Julia's small black silk reticule. “He must be a special man for you to take such pains, Mrs. Wentworth.”
Julia pulled on a pair of sleek black gloves that covered her elbows. “One could say I've been waiting for him all my life.”
“How grand…” Betsy began. She stopped, her round face wrinkling in a frown as she saw the shadowy fingermarks on Julia's upper arms, and another on the tip of her bare shoulder. “Dear me, those won't do at all.”
Julia regarded the bruises ruefully. “I'm afraid they can't be helped. After the bouts Mr. Scott and I had on stage, I'm only surprised there aren't more.”
Reaching for a cake of flesh-colored facepaint, Betsy moistened her fingertips with water, rubbed them across the surface, and then dabbed the color sparingly over the bruises. Julia held still, surveying the maid's handiwork with a pleased smile. “They're hardly noticeable now. Thank you, Betsy.”
“Will there be anything else before I put your costumes away?”
“Yes…would you find out if there is a carriage waiting for me outside?”
Betsy returned soon with the news that there was indeed a vehicle behind the theater, a fine black carriage trimmed with silver, a pair of outriders beside it, and two footmen dressed in dark red livery.
Julia felt her heart quicken with painful force. She put her hand on her chest, as if she could calm the violent thumping, and breathed deeply.
“Mrs. Wentworth? All of a sudden you look rather ill.”
Julia didn't reply. What could have possessed her, agreeing to spend a few hours alone with Lord Savage? What could they possibly say to each other—what mad impulse had driven her to this? Summoning her courage, she relaxed her shoulders, which seemed to have climbed up to her ears. Betsy helped to settle a hooded black silk pelisse over her head and shoulders, and fasten the garnet clasp at the throat. Murmuring good night to the maid, Julia left her dressing room and made her way through the labyrinth of theater facilities.
As she passed the back entrance, a small crowd of theatergoers pressed forward to meet her, a few daring to touch her cloak or her gloved arms. A towering footman helped to usher her through the crowd to the waiting carriage. Deftly he pulled out an extra step for her easy ascent into the luxurious vehicle, and closed the door behind her. It was all accomplished so swiftly that Julia barely had time to blink before she was settled in a soft velvet-and-leather-covered seat.
She stared at Lord Savage, who sat opposite her, one side of his handsome face lit to knife-blade sharpness by a carriage lantern, the rest left in shadow. He smiled with the dangerous charm of Lucifer himself. Hastily Julia lowered her gaze to her lap. Her hands lay perfectly folded and still, when she wanted to knot her fingers together in agitation.
Lord Savage belonged to a world from which she had been running for years. It was her right—some might even say her duty—to assume the title and position her parents had procured for her. She had resisted it with all her might, out of willfulness and resentment, and most of all fear at the discovery of what kind of man she had been given to. She didn't want to stop fearing Savage, didn't want to weaken her defenses in any way. But her own curiosity had led her to this…as well as the troubling pull of attraction between them.
“You were extraordinary tonight,” Savage said.
Julia blinked in surprise. “You watched the play, then? I didn't see you in the audience.”
“It was a demanding performance for you.”
“Yes, it's quite exhausting.” Briefly she wondered what he had thought of the ribald interplay between herself and Logan Scott—if he had been amused along with the rest of the audience, or if he had disapproved. Something must have shown in her face, because he leaned forward and pinned her with his disconcerting silvery gaze.
“What is it?” he asked.
Deciding she had nothing to lose, Julia told him what she had been thinking.
Savage replied slowly, considering his words with care. “It's not my right to disapprove of what you do on stage. Acting is your chosen profession.”
“And you had no personal feelings?” she asked idly. “During the part when Mr. Scott kissed me, or chased me across the stage and—”
“I didn't like it.” The words seemed to escape him before he could prevent it. His mouth twisted with self-derision. “You and Scott were rather too convincing in your rol
es.”
Julia had the feeling that he was as surprised by the admission of jealousy as she was. Alarmed and flattered, she retreated until her shoulders dug into the plush upholstery. “It's only a play,” she said.
“I've seen actors in plays before. The two of you seem…different.”
Julia frowned at her reticule with concentration. She had heard the popular opinion that she and Logan Scott were lovers, and she also knew why. They had stage chemistry, she and Logan, the kind that made it possible to act together so convincingly that illusion and reality were temporarily joined together with seamless perfection.
However, that rare harmony in their acting would never, could never, extend beyond the stage. Not once had the thought seriously crossed Julia's mind. She turned to Logan as everyone else did, for direction, guidance, praise, and criticism…but not for anything that wasn't directly related to her career. There was nothing comfortable about Logan, nothing that invited trust or even the barest hint of safety and warmth. It was clear that Logan would never love a woman as he loved his theater, or sacrifice for a living person what he would for his twin gods of art and ambition.
Perhaps that was why he and Julia had chemistry on the stage, because each of them sensed the other's inability to surrender to another person. There was safety in that, knowing there was no risk of love, pain, or disillusionment between them…that whereas their emotions on stage seemed to run deep, nothing would remain after the curtain fell.
Since attaining adulthood, Julia had tried to find contentment in the independence she prized so highly. If only she could stop herself from wanting more. She longed for someone to understand and cherish her, a man to whom she could give all of herself with no fear or doubt. It was her most private dream, one she hated to acknowledge even to herself.
At times she felt as if she were divided into two selves, one part of her wanting isolation from the rest of the world, and the other aching to be possessed and loved as she had never been in her life. Her father, with his dominating nature, had precious little love to offer anyone. Her mother had always been too timid, too lost in the shadow of her husband to give Julia the attention a child required. And the constant inflow and outflow of servants from the Hargate household had prevented Julia from forming a close attachment to any of them. Love was something to be feared more than desired.
Realizing that she had been silent for an unaccountably long time, Julia glanced warily at Lord Savage, worrying that her thoughts might have betrayed themselves.
“We're almost there,” was all he said, in a murmur that somehow relaxed her.
The carriage traveled along Upper Brook Street and turned to ascend the long drive leading to a massive white and cream-colored house. The building was cool, beautiful and perfectly symmetrical, with towering Grecian columns and a wide portico adorning the front. Two graceful white wings fitted with rows of gleaming Palladian windows stretched out from the central structure. It was entirely different from the dark, gothic estate Julia had grown up in.
Savage preceded her from the carriage and reached in to assist her. Their gloved fingers caught firmly until she reached the ground, and he offered her his arm. Walking with him up the wide marble steps and into the house, Julia was intensely aware of the hard muscle in his forearm, and the way he checked his long stride to match her shorter ones.
A narrow-faced butler welcomed them inside, taking Julia's hooded pelisse and Lord Savage's hat and gloves. Julia was amazed by what she saw of the entrance hall and the rooms beyond, the forty-foot-high ceilings and antique columns, the exquisite floors tiled in green, blue, and amber. “How beautiful,” she exclaimed.
“Yes.” But Savage was staring at her instead of their surroundings.
“Show me around,” she urged, eager to see more.
Obligingly Savage escorted her through several rooms, pausing to describe the history of certain painted panels or furnishings. It was clear that the Savage family had a great appreciation of art. Many of the ceilings were studded with medallions of delicately painted angels, clouds, and mythological figures, while nearly every corner featured a piece of rare sculpture. There were walls decorated in gold and white to display portraits by Van Dyck and Rembrandt, and landscapes by Gainsborough, Marlow, and Lambert.
“I could stare at these for hours,” Julia said, regarding a wall of paintings with delight.
“I don't often have the time to enjoy them.”
“What keeps you so busy, my lord? Supervising all your investments and business interests, I suppose.”
“There is a lot to be managed,” he admitted, staring thoughtfully at the Van Dyck before them.
All of a sudden Julia was mortified by the indiscreet growling of her stomach. She placed her hand over her midriff. “How unladylike. I'm afraid I haven't eaten since this morning.”
The corners of his mouth twitched with a smile. “Shall we go in to dinner?”
“Yes, I'm famished.” Taking his arm once more, Julia accompanied him through more gleaming, art-filled rooms. Though it would have been best to find a neutral topic, she couldn't resist prying. “Surely you could hire estate agents and managers to take care of your business, my lord.”
“I prefer to handle most of it myself.”
“You don't trust other people very easily,” she observed.
“No,” he said quietly. “Particularly when my family's finances are at stake.”
Julia glanced at the uncompromising line of his profile, her brows lifting in mild surprise. Why would he admit such a thing to her? Without exception, all members of the aristocracy pretended that their money sprang from limitless sources, to be squandered without a trace of worry.
Savage continued without a change in inflection. “My father insisted on managing the family's affairs by himself until he fell ill several years ago. When I assumed control of everything, I discovered that the Savages were heavily in debt, and all our financial dealings were in shambles. The duke had a taste for gambling. If he ever made a sound investment, it was purely by accident.”
“You seem to have done very well for the Savages since then. Your father must be pleased that you have righted the situation.”
Savage shrugged. “The duke never admits that he was wrong about anything. He doesn't acknowledge that he made mistakes.”
“I understand.” The words came out almost in a whisper. But Savage couldn't know exactly how well she did understand. As Julia had always suspected, their fathers were two of a kind. Like Lord Hargate, the Duke of Leeds had tried to control his family with an iron hand. When it had become clear that he was a poor manager of property and people, he had sacrificed his son's future in exchange for a large settlement from the Hargates.
Julia suspected that long ago Lord Savage had decided that he would never be controlled by anyone again. She felt a touch of sympathy for him, even kinship…but she suspected that as a husband, he would be inflexible, untrusting, and remote. A highly undesirable mate, at least for her.
The sumptuous dishes at dinner would have satisfied a dozen people. Julia sat to Savage's right at a long table laden with silver trumpet-shaped vases filled with orchids and trailing nasturtium. The first course consisted of vegetable consommé, followed by salmon rillettes covered with cream and dill. Afterward the servants brought steaming trays bearing pheasant stuffed with truffles and hazelnuts, and veal scallops swimming in Bordeaux sauce.
Julia protested as more dishes arrived; puddings, open tarts, sweetbreads, and vegetables. “This is far too much. I can't possibly do justice to it!”
Savage smiled and coaxed her to try a quail egg stuffed with cream and lobster. Indulging herself as she hadn't in a long time, Julia drank from a selection of French wine and applied herself to the feast with pleasure. Savage proved to be a charming dinner companion when he chose, conversing agreeably on a variety of subjects.
“Why become an actress?” he asked near the end of the leisurely meal, leaning back as their plates were remove
d and tiers of pastries and fresh fruit were set before them.
Julia toyed with a scarlet strawberry on her plate. “It was a desire of mine since childhood. I left my family's home when I was eighteen, worked in a company of traveling players, and then performed at a theater in the Strand until I was fortunate enough to be hired by Mr. Scott.”
“Does your family approve of your career?”
Julia snorted at the idea. “Decidedly not. They wanted me to remain at home…but only if I abided by certain conditions which I found unacceptable.”
“When did you marry?” he asked. “While you were at the Strand?”
She frowned at him. “I never discuss my marriage.”
A half-smile played on his lips. “I'm not convinced your husband actually exists.”
“He does,” she assured him, sipping her wine. He exists as much as your wife does, she was tempted to say, but kept her silence.
“Will he ever want you to leave the theater?”
“He would be a bloody hypocrite if he did,” she said pertly. “He's an actor himself.” She suppressed a smile as she saw the spark of interest in his expression, knowing that he took her meaning literally. It was the truth, however. Lord Savage was undeniably skilled at hiding the truth and presenting a false facade. He was as accomplished an actor as any of the Capital players.
He seemed about to ask something else, when suddenly his eyes narrowed, and he stared at her bare upper arm.
“My lord?” Julia asked, puzzled by his expression.
Before Julia could react, Savage had grasped her arm in his warm, broad hand, and turned it upward toward the light. The smear of paint over the bruise-mark was clearly visible. Julia tried to twist away, spluttering in confusion. “It's nothing…I-I'm perfectly all right…the performance, you see—”
“Hush.” He turned to an approaching servant and brusquely requested a tin of salve from the housekeeper's supply.
Julia watched in dumbfounded silence as Savage dipped the corner of a napkin into a glass of cool water. She stiffened with surprise as the damp cloth passed carefully over the bruise. Savage found another dark fingermark, and a shadowy blotch on the tip of her shoulder. He wiped away the dabs of concealing paint with exquisite care.
