by Eva Devon
And he’d recalled how much he’d worshipped her, his angel. How he’d been crushed beyond all belief when he’d been given evidence of her fall. If only he had. . . No. There was no point in thinking such a thing. He knew. He’d spent months repeating if only to no avail.
He swallowed and drew in another long inhalation of the spicy smoke then blew it out into the night air.
The area by his club and her theater was lined with torches, illuminating the street hawkers and the lower middle classes who were choking together as they struggled to make it into the cheaper seats of her theater.
Large posters had been positioned about the theater, declaring it a sold out run. Not a sold out performance, but a sold out run.
No doubt, half the people who attended her theater would stumble over to his club after. . . Or some of the men would wander over to the Temples of Venus just around the corner in Covent Garden.
He curled a lip at the thought of those meat markets which were so many women’s only option at financial independence. . . So often, that road was one to enslavement by a pimp or madam into never-ending debt, disease, and premature death.
He wanted to kill every man jack of them that dragged women into such hell. . . But he’d have to start with himself. For wasn’t it he who’d driven his angel to become one of the most celebrated jewels of the demimonde? He was simply lucky that her life had not descended into hell as so many others had done. In fact, it seemed as if she had emerged like a Phoenix from the ash of her destruction.
He’d never forgive himself for it despite her success. It was no surprise that she wouldn’t either. But it had been a surprise that she had come, unannounced, to spy upon him.
For she’d rejected his visits vehemently when he’d sought her out years ago. In fact, she’d all but made it clear he was dead to her that last night in Paris when he had prostrated himself before her house, begging to see her.
Why had she sought him out so privately? So intimately? She’d not wished him to know she’d been watching him. Of that, he was certain. So the visit had been for her and her alone. That meant only one thing. She was curious about him. Why? After all this time, what could she possibly wish to know?
Had she come to see if he suffered? If he was unaffected by what had transpired?
Bloody hell, he wished he could have stopped her and had but a bit of honest conversation with her.
That would be impossible tonight. For half of London would be watching them together. To see if they bloodied the floor with each other.
Bloody hell, his heart, which he’d thought he’d long ago brought into control, was aching again. It hurt. It hurt like the devil. And there was nothing that would assuage it permanently.
“Are you ready to face her, then?”
He did not look at John, but rather peered at the glowing lights of the theater, deeply admiring of Emmaline’s tenacity. She’d taken destruction and turned it into creation. How many could do that? He couldn’t even count the number on one hand.
“We might as well get on with it,” Edward said, bracing himself for the night to come. “There’s no hiding myself, after all. We are both notorious.”
John laughed. “The two lambs have become the wolves.”
It was a stunning thing to say. But it was true. All those years ago, he and Emmaline had been so innocent, so naive to the ways of the world. Swallowing back a wave of pain, Edward gave a tight nod. “We’ve both adapted to the wilds.”
John clapped him on the back. “Come on, then, to your doom.”
Edward threw his cheroot down and stamped it out. He eyed the towering temple to Dionysus, struggling to believe that those events years ago had finally led him to this moment. It was going to be a most curious night.
He’d ordered his own box in the theater. He’d be damned if he was going to sit with James, Garret, John and their wives.
He’d rather gouge his eyes out. No, tonight he was going to suffer on his own. But he would not scrape the ground, bowing and professing how he longed for her forgiveness. Not again. He’d already tried that. It hadn’t worked.
Now, he’d simply have to meet her on equal footing. One notorious underworld figure to the other.
So, as he strode across the road and into the gilded hall, he did not shirk.
The crowd all but parted for him like a veritable Red Sea of society’s most venomous and powerful people.
Whispers rushed about him, so many of them, they formed a crescendo of sound. He gave John a tight nod as he turned and headed to the stairs which swept up to the opposite side of the orchestra.
John merely arched his brows in question but then nodded his understanding.
Edward climbed the stairs. His gaze was straight ahead, ignoring all the fans waving, tongues wagging, and pince-nez squinting.
It seemed half-mad that Edward was grateful for John, given that one could argue that without John, he’d be married to Emmaline. None of that mattered now. He’d found his peace with his bastard brother who’d taught him more in a few years than he’d learned in a lifetime. John could be a damned nuisance but he was seldom wrong about things and he was far more practical than his other brothers.
John understood this was a gauntlet Edward needed to walk alone and walk it he would. He was no longer the youngest son who needed cosseting and protecting. He would not allow James to shield him from the consequences.
Edward paused before the lush curtains that led to his box. Spotting a serving boy, he waved him over. “Wine. Lots of it. Charge it to the club across the street.”
The young, handsome boy’s eyes widened. “Yes, my lord. Anything else, my lord?”
Edward sighed. “A knife to slit my throat?”
The boy’s eyes bulged. And Edward laughed. “A bit of gallows’ humor, lad. Never fear. I shan’t stain the carpets crimson. They are new, after all.”
The boy swallowed then scampered off to collect the wine.
Edward pulled back the curtain and stepped into the sumptuous box. The balcony was gilded with golden nymphs and flowers. The crimson, silk chairs were luxuriously cushioned and the wood was painted gold.
There were four seats.
Only one would be filled. Of that, he was damned sure.
He did not sit immediately but rather gazed out over the sea of people filling the theater.
The curtain would go up in but a few minutes and the building was humming with excitement. In any other circumstances, it would have been a wonderful moment. He adored the theater.
But the moment he stepped into the golden light of the central chandelier that danced along his box, a hush fell over the company and he felt hundreds of pairs of eyes fall upon him.
Once, he’d barely been worth the ton’s notice. After all, he was the youngest son. The youngest son of a duke, true. But still, he’d been nothing more than a soldier with a decent allowance. That had all changed with the scandal surrounding him and Emmaline.
Now, he was a great source of intrigue and gossip, made greater by his own disinterest in the approval of those interested in him.
The hush that fell suddenly erupted into gossip, no doubt about his presence.
After all, he and Emmaline, to their knowledge, had not been in the same room since the debacle in the church. And they would have been right but for that brief glimpse in his club.
He lowered himself to one of the red, silk chairs and leaned his forearm against the railing.
Much to his relief, the serving boy ducked under the curtain of his box bearing a large decanter of wine and a pair of glasses.
He eyed the second glass with irritation, for he had no intention of hosting anyone, but said nothing.
The boy quickly set the items down on the small table tucked in the curve of the box. Deftly, he poured a full glass.
“Well done, lad,” Edward said as he slipped a shilling from his pocket and flicked it to the boy.
The boy’s eyes rounded at the size of the tip and he gave a qu
ick bow. As he exited, he said brightly, “Thank you, my lord.”
Edward took his glass up and drank deeply. There wasn’t enough wine in the world for this night. Gin would have been preferable. But even he wasn’t going to openly drink gin at Emmaline’s opening night.
He leaned back, determined to keep an unaffected air, even if it killed him.
“Ah! My lord!”
He closed his eyes, hiding a wince. What the devil? Was this night to grow in difficulty?
Slowly, he opened his eyes and forced a smile. “Mrs. Barton.”
“You know the sound of my voice, my lord.” She smiled, that slow, perfect smile that had devastated thousands of London theatergoers and many men in less public conditions. “I’m honored.”
Edward ground his teeth together. Mrs. Barton had been instrumental in the proving of Emmaline’s innocence. Really, he was deeply grateful to her. She was one of the best people he could know. But at this moment, it seemed as if every second was designed to remind him of the agony of that particular time.
“How could any man not recognize such a rapturous voice?” he said simply, meaning it.
Mrs. Barton was still one of London’s darlings. An actress of incredible beauty. And a woman undaunted by her birth, or the precipitous climb she had made to make it into society. Even now, she was one of the most beautiful women in England. Her dark hair was coiled about her head in soft tendrils. Emeralds and green silk were artfully woven through her tresses. The bodice of her green, silk gown clung precipitously to her magnificent bosom and her skirts, though of the deepest emerald, were translucent over an ivory skirt.
“You have learned to flatter, Edward,” she said as she sashayed forward. Without waiting for an invitation, she sat beside him.
He drank. “Is it flattery if it is the truth?”
“You see?” she gestured towards him with a pale hand, the massive emerald ring on her right hand winking. “Even better. And yes, I would adore a glass of wine.”
What had he done to deserve this? Oh. . . What a foolish question that was. Wordlessly, he poured the wine then handed her the glass.
He refilled his own.
Mrs. Barton contemplated the dark red hue of her wine. “I wondered if you would come.”
“Did you?” he drawled.
“Yes,” she confirmed, cocking her head to the side, causing her emerald earbob to dance. “But you have become a man who doesn’t shrink, haven’t you?”
He lifted his glass in salute.
Mrs. Barton leaned casually in her chair which showed her figure off in a remarkable way to anyone who might be watching. “You’re not going to hurt her again though, are you?”
He stared at Mrs. Barton for a long moment then threw back his head and laughed. “You cannot be serious.”
She smiled. “Oh, I am.”
“She loathes me, madam,” he pointed out, anger sparking that she would even suggest such a thing. “I doubt that I could get close enough to her to touch her hand let alone hurt her.”
“Life is a mysterious thing.” Mrs. Barton took a long sip of wine. “As is the heart.”
“I take your warning then,” he replied evenly. “Perhaps, you should warn her, in turn, since you care so deeply.”
Her dark brows lifted. “Oh?”
“Coming to my club without a mask is not the most advisable thing for a lady. Though I suppose she is not. . .”
“A lady?”
Edward frowned, feeling completely adrift. “I am at a loss as to how to classify Emmaline. But I don’t want her hurt. . . Not like that.”
Mrs. Barton laughed, shaking her head. “I highly doubt she’ll come to your club.”
He stared back, saying nothing.
“My God,” Mrs. Barton gasped. “She already has.”
Edward looked away but found nowhere to fix his gaze and, once again, he looked upon the actress.
Mrs. Barton drank deeply. “I was afraid of this.”
“Afraid of what?” he bit out.
“It matters not, my lord,” she rushed. “I ask only that you don’t trifle with her.”
“I doubt we shall exchange words after this night,” he said quietly. An odd bitterness and regret deepened his voice, even to his own ears. “So, you needn’t fear.”
Mrs. Barton nodded and stood. She drained her glass. “I do believe the show is about to begin.”
With that, she headed for the arched doorway.
Edward reached out and touched her hand. “I had no idea I’d been so thoroughly cast as a villain.”
She eyed him carefully. “Didn’t you? You should. Likeable as you are, Edward dear, you are a villain. Your own heart proved that some time ago.”
He let his hand drop and nodded. “Then I must play the part I have been given I suppose.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “I did not mean—”
“What did you mean then?” he challenged. “That I should be a villain but act the angel? You ask too much, Mrs. Barton. Perhaps, you should have asked nothing at all.”
Her face hardened and she strode from the box.
He cursed silently. He had not meant to make an enemy of her. He’d always admired her. But to hear her call him a villain. It . . Hurt.
God, he was such a child. He always had been. And that was his failing.
He knew it well.
The curtain of his box parted once again and Garret popped in.
“Good God,” Edward exclaimed, not giving a fig for the people who were no doubt eagerly watching. “I obtained a box of my own to avoid this very thing.”
Garret ignored him. “That meeting looked quite serious.”
Edward sighed, knowing there was no fighting his brother. The Harts were a stubborn lot. “It was.”
“Look, old boy,” Garret encouraged. “You needn’t look like you’re at hell’s door. Emmaline has always been a good sort. She won’t make your life unbearable now. I’m certain of it.”
“Of course not,” Edward ground out. “I’m the unbearable one.”
He curled his hands into fists. He sounded like a complete arse.
Garret tensed. “That’s not true.”
“Look,” Edward drawled, hating himself as he realized he was donning armor to show everyone that he was not completely shaken by the idea of seeing her again. “You proved yourself the hero, Brother. I didn’t. We can’t go back and you can’t save me from myself.”
“No,” Garret placed a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “But you needn’t—”
“What?” Edward broke in, his voice low. Despite his earlier feelings, he didn’t wish to start a shouting scene right before the curtain was to go up.
Garret locked gazes with him. “You needn’t hate yourself.”
Edward gave his brother a tight smile, even as his insides twisted. “Why not? Everyone else does.”
“That’s not true,” Garret countered firmly. “They envy you, society.”
Edward nodded. “Not quite the same thing as being a good man, now is it?”
“No,” Garret granted. “But I know you—”
“Garret, we cannot change the past,” Edward cut in firmly. “No matter how much we wish it.”
Drawing in a slow breath, Edward forced himself to say with all sincerity, “Besides, things worked out very well for you in the end, did they not?”
“Yes,” Garret replied, taking Edward’s cue. He laughed softly. “They did. No thanks to my addleheaded brothers. I sometimes think I’m the only one of us with half a brain.”
“John has the other half,” Edward pointed out.
And with that, several of the lights about the theater were put out and the lanterns at the foot of the stage were quickly lit.
As the curtain was pulled back, Edward held his breath.
He had good cause.
In the opening scene, several characters lounged about upon rich cushions as a musician played his lute. A painted set of Messina sprawled behind their languid forms.
Emmaline, on the other hand, was not lounging. Emmaline was dancing to the music. The seductive folds of her cream skirts slid over her body.
He could see every shadow between her legs, every curve of her body. She was almost naked and, yet, she was entirely clothed.
It was a trick of the new fashion but, somehow, she made it all the more irresistible.
Her blond hair was curled and tumbled down her back freely.
The way she moved was hypnotic and he immediately understood why she had seized Paris. For he could look at no one but her upon the stage.
The entire theater seemed to be holding its breath and whilst he knew characters were speaking, he could not look away from her.
And as she took the hands of another young actress and twirled around upon the stage giggling about “catching the Benedick”, his heartbeat thundered in his ears. His entire body tensed as if hungering for something it could not and never would have, yet desired above all things.
The torture of it was almost bliss, simply seeing her as she was now. So full of confidence and commanding every single member of the audience to look upon her.
Her voice, which was deep and rich now like the most elegant of slow burns sliding through a Scottish glen, filled the theater. Those tempting notes caught every single person in her spell.
She was magnificent. A goddess. A siren. Every single person sat a little further forward, desperate to be bathed in her light.
The spell wove about him and, much to his horror, his chest tightened with pain. Pain at a loss so great he would never recover. And the worst part? There was no one to blame but himself.
But there was one clear thing.
Emmaline had never been destined to be his young wife, running his little manor in the country. No. She’d been destined for this. She’d been destined to command a room and fill it with the greatest words ever written by one of the greatest souls to ever live.
And he knew, that despite it all, clearly destiny had struck. And her destiny had not been to be his but to be all of London’s.
The realization hit him like the worst blow but he also felt a degree of relief. He had not ruined her life. On the contrary, his misdeed had freed her to live the life she was meant to lead.
