The Captain and the Theatrical

by Catherine Curzon

  “As smart as I am beautiful,” Orsini teased. “And but still only half as clever and handsome as you, amore mio!”

  Ambrose caressed Orsini’s face, his expression one of gentle concern. “I am so sorry that you thought I was angry with you, my darling. I was taken aback at what you would have sacrificed for me, that anyone could have such love for me, and I—we shall be so happy, Orsini, I know we shall be.”

  “I thought—” Orsini shook his head. “I was a fool to think it, Pen, but I have loved you for so long, I could not bear to lose you now. I would do anything for you.”

  Orsini was caught then in the loving gaze of Captain Pendleton. Ambrose’s caresses brought them closer until they were embracing tightly, their sweet kisses heated now and deepening. Clinging to Ambrose, Orsini sank against him, losing himself in their embraces as he pressed his body against that of his lover. Ambrose slipped his hand between their bodies and Orsini felt him stroke over the front of his breeches.

  A gentle whisper against his ear asked, “Would you like me to take you here?” Then Ambrose brought his mouth back to Orsini’s, kissing him with a searing heat. “Anything you want, darling…”

  Orsini replied with a sighed “Yes! Take me here, Pen.”

  A tremor passed through their kiss, Ambrose rubbing more firmly against Orsini’s breeches. There was such excitement in being so close to the house and yet so distant. Here in the sunlight they kissed, arms tight about each other, utterly hidden from the world.

  Orsini reached his hand between them, massaging it over the hardness that Ambrose’s breeches were struggling to contain. They had made so many memories during that heady summer and now there would be more, happiness and love stretching off into the far distant, delightful future. “How I love you, Pen.”

  “I love you, too, Orsini. Never forget that, never doubt my constancy for a moment.” With one hand, Ambrose unfastened Orsini’s breeches with admirable speed and slipped his hand inside. How could he ever doubt this man, so strong, so loving? To think that just minutes earlier he had believed himself forsaken. The fancies of a theatrical, as ludicrous as they were mistaken.

  He unfastened Ambrose’s breeches with a confident elegance and took his erection in his hand, holding it with obvious appreciation. He could feel the heat of Ambrose’s passion pulsing through his body, promising pleasure to them both and gently stepped back a little, until he felt the broad trunk of a sheltering tree at his back. Then, still lost in that kiss, Orsini began to stroke his lover, breathless at the thought of what was to come.

  Ambrose seemed to mirror Orsini’s strokes, and with his other hand, he pushed down Orsini’s breeches. He murmured urgently, “I want you. Here…in the garden. Turn, darling, and brace your hands on the tree.”

  “A capital idea from a talented playwright!” Orsini kissed Ambrose once more, and relinquished his cock. Then he turned and he braced his hands against the rough bark. He gave a wiggle of his bottom and whispered, “How do I look?”

  “Marvelous!” Ambrose laughed and gently stroked Orsini’s buttocks. “Give me a moment to prepare myself…now…”

  As Ambrose kissed the nape of Orsini’s neck, he encircled Orsini’s cock with his strong hand and gently eased into him. Orsini pushed his body back to meet Ambrose and, with a low groan, closed his eyes. He was entirely possessed by his capitano now, and he wanted for nothing more than this.

  Ambrose ran one hand over Orsini’s chest, unbuttoning his coat and at last finding the stiffened peak of Orsini’s nipple. Orsini murmured in delight at Ambrose’s touch, inside him, against him, and turned his head as far as he comfortably could to watch Ambrose’s face. He was so beautiful in his transport of joy, but Orsini turned back to look down at the large hand upon him. Sighing, he closed his hand over Ambrose’s on his erection.

  Together the two men moved their hips and hands, perfectly in time in their dance. Together they moaned, together they sighed, together they left the world behind.

  Just two men who adored the very air that each other breathed.

  “I love you,” Ambrose gasped, his hand running over Orsini’s chest once more. “My beautiful, beautiful lover.”

  “Amore mio,” Orsini cooed, the words soft as gossamer. He couldn’t say anything more, for every bit of him was swept up in the tide of pleasure. Every sensation was alive with Ambrose, from the feeling of his kisses and hot breath against Orsini’s nape to their shared moans and gasps, the scent of Ambrose’s cologne heady here in the fragrant woods.

  Ambrose gasped, his thrusts growing deeper, harder, with each passing moment. “Amadeo…Cosima…my heart’s darling.”

  “My only love,” Orsini moaned in reply. Then he shifted to balance himself against the tree with one arm. With the other he reached behind his head and caught Ambrose gently around his neck, twining his fingers in his hair. “My captain.”

  Ambrose held his strong arm securely around Orsini’s waist, and Orsini felt a change in him, knew that the peak of Ambrose’s pleasure could not be far away. They would reach the pinnacle together, he decided, and only when Ambrose was ready.

  “I want to feel you.” Orsini sighed. “Together, tato, you and I.”

  “Now?” Ambrose asked through his ragged breaths. “My darling, I cannot—”

  Whatever words he was about to say were lost in a sigh of bliss, and Ambrose buried his lips against Orsini’s neck, moaning his pleasure. Orsini drove his body against Ambrose’s and together they soared, caught up in an excess of joy. The sun suddenly seemed brighter and Orsini closed his eyes, his spirit flying free.

  The strength of Ambrose’s embrace supported Orsini as they sagged against the tree, worn out by their trysting but utterly together. Ambrose murmured to Orsini soft words of love that were as heady as any perfume. Turning his face, Orsini sought out a kiss that was as sweet as their coupling had been fiery. Their bodies were still joined, still pressed tight together, his nerves still tingling with that rush of delight.

  I probably shouldn’t put this in a play though.

  London isn’t quite ready.

  Chapter Twenty

  Bella donna,

  Come to my rooms at midnight as the household dances and we shall shed our masks together. Let us make the night of the ball one that we shall always remember.

  O

  Orsini read the note over, satisfied that it was just the right mix of anonymous and alluring. Should anyone discover it the lady need not fear for her reputation, for she was not named, and nobody would be surprised that an Italian gentleman of the theatrical persuasion was intriguing with someone. It was what they did, after all. Once the letter was sealed he took it in his gloved hand and, on Cosima’s silk-slippered feet, skipped along the landing of Pendleton Hall. By now the quiet palace was witnessing a house party of some renown and tomorrow, at the ball that the Pendletons had planned for so long, all would be concluded.

  Tomorrow, Ambrose would be free.

  Orsini glanced this way and that outside Mrs. Tarbottom’s door. Then he stooped and pushed the note beneath it before skipping away again, all innocence once more.

  All that would improve it was word from Viscount Hartington, but still it did not arrive. Perhaps the curtain had fallen on that particular hope. For now though Orsini pushed that doubt aside, for Cosima had a day of needlepoint with the ladies ahead of her.

  Be still my beating heart.

  A door opened ahead and a familiar lace cap appeared, askew upon the head of Mrs. Pendleton. She glanced up at Orsini, offering him a distracted smile, but her attention was elsewhere as she anxiously scanned the floor.

  “Good morning, my dear Cosima!” She closed her finger and thumb around her wrist then looked up and down the corridor again. Speaking to herself, it seemed, Mrs. Pendleton muttered, “Oh, where can the dratted thing be?”

  “Where is it?” Pagolo hopped out of the room behind her, looking left and right like the busy gentleman he was. “For shame, Mamma!”

 
“Have you misplaced something?” Orsini asked, smiling as he watched the parrot follow each move the lady made. “Can I help?”

  “My bracelet!” Mrs. Pendleton wailed as she clasped Orsini’s hand. “I wore it last night at dinner. Such a pretty thing, a string of sapphires with a diamond clasp! I put it in its case before I retired to bed, I’m certain of it. I had some household matters to attend to this morning, then came back to my bedchamber and found the case open and my bracelet gone!”

  “For shame.” Pagolo hopped up onto her shoulder. “Gone!”

  And Orsini knew then, if he had not been sure before, that he was right about the pearls and that here in this house, the pickings were rich indeed for Harriet Tarbottom. Each of the ladies who were guests of the Pendletons would be as good as a shopfront for Harriet, he realized, but the distress he now saw on this finest of all women was almost too much to bear.

  “Might we speak privately, signora?” Orsini asked in a whisper, the empty corridor no guarantee that they were alone. “You and I and Pagolo?”

  Mrs. Pendleton blinked, as if she was uncertain of what might follow. “Of course—come into my bedchamber, do, and perhaps you might even find it! My husband gave it to me for a present when he’d made his first five thousand pounds, you see—all the days of want were over at last and…and I would hate to think my trinket lost to me.”

  She ushered Orsini inside, and as soon as the door closed and the unhappy woman was seated before the fireplace, Orsini told her, “I believe Harriet Tarbottom has taken your bracelet, Signora Pendleton, and I believe she has carried out such crimes in London too, and probably elsewhere if truth be known!”

  Mrs. Pendleton’s cap slipped farther as she gaped at Orsini in surprise. Her mouth formed a perfect circle.

  “A thief? That girl is a common thief?” She fanned herself with her handkerchief and took a shuddering breath. “Such does not surprise me, Cosima, I am sad to say. She has quizzed me about my jewels and would you believe it but my husband has inquired, at the behest of the Tarbottoms, which pieces of my jewelry I would bestow on the girl as a wedding gift! I said she’d be lucky if I gave her so much as a home-knitted stocking! My jewels to become part of their dirty negotiations!” Mrs. Pendleton spat the word as though it were an expletive.

  Yet Orsini was not immune to shame himself and even as he nodded his agreement, he wondered at the lies he had told the lady, the lie he told each time Cosima appeared before her. If only he dared to tell her the truth about Orsini and Cosima, yet how could he? She might put him out here and now, for the number of parents who would smile on a union such as theirs must be small indeed. A lie for sake of love it might be, but it was still an untruth.

  Pagolo woke Orsini from his reverie, tugging the lace cap back into place with a sharp pull of his beak and as Orsini blinked, he realized that Mrs. Pendleton was looking at him closely.

  Did she know?

  Of course not, what an absurd thought.

  “Dowager Viscountess Hartington’s pearls were stolen during a ball at her home and I am sure that Harriet wore those same pearls to dinner just last night,” Orsini explained. “I had hoped that we might have Lord H. and his mother here to identify the necklace but he has not replied to our invitation. One thing I ask though, madame, if he does reply or even better if he attends, please say nothing to the Tarbottoms. I intend to exploit Harriet’s naturally rotten character and have her wear the pearls to the ball for if she knows Cosima—I adore them just as I adore Pen—she will certainly flaunt them.”

  “I shan’t say a word, Cosima—until you wish me to speak.” Mrs. Pendleton sighed. “I dearly wish I could tell my husband what you suspect, but all he cares for nowadays is money. I fear he would not believe me, and think you and I were intriguing together against his intentions.”

  Mrs. Pendleton clasped Orsini’s hand and smiled. “For I could want no one else in all the world but you at my son’s side, whatever obstacles there might be.”

  Her gaze wandered to a painting on the wall of a round-cheeked child with curls falling to his silk-clad shoulders. It could only have been Pen as a boy.

  “Every subterfuge I have practiced here in your home,” Orsini told her quietly, “has been for love. Know that I have done nothing that is wicked, signora, and I will love your son with all of my heart for as long as we live.”

  Mrs. Pendleton smiled at Orsini again. “I know you love him, and I know he loves you, and that is all that matters.”

  “I still have a hope that the viscount will attend,” Orsini admitted. “And for that, I believe I have just thought of the perfect way to make sure our madam wears the questionable pearls! Will you excuse me, Mamma P.?”

  “Yes, of course, my dear!”

  “And worry not for your bracelet.” Orsini stooped to hug Mrs. Pendleton. “For it shall soon be with you again, I am sure of it!”

  With that, he left lady and parrot alone and went in search of Harriet Tarbottom. She would not be hard to find, Orsini knew, for Harriet always changed after lunch. Even now, as he knocked at Harriet’s door, he was certain that both mother and daughter would be here, strapping the younger Tarbottom into stays and silk.

  “Who is there?” Mrs. Tarbottom called, with the self-important volume of a dowager duchess.

  “Only Cosima!”

  “The little contessina!” Harriet said, as if she was addressing her favorite friend. “I’m dressing for the afternoon, but do come in!”

  Orsini opened the door and entered the room where the mother and daughter sat together before the mirror, surrounded by a flurry of attendants. Ranged on the dressing table in front of them were a dozen or more jars and palettes, and it was with a note of satisfaction that Orsini observed the preparations and potions. So it took all of this to make ladies of the Tarbottom women when all it took to make a lady of Amadeo Orsini was a few pads and a quick application of makeup.

  “I wonder, Miss Harriet, if I might ask a very generous favor of you?” Orsini asked, his tone sweetly deferential.

  “Of course, my dear friend! What might it be?” Without turning to Orsini, Harriet met his reflected gaze in the mirror.

  “I know it is a great favor to ask, but I wondered if you might be willing to let me wear your exquisite pearls for the masked ball?” She saw Harriet’s face harden, knowing that her plan was going just as she had hoped.

  “My pearls?” Harriet shook her head and this time turned to face Orsini. “My pearls? Why, Cosima, I simply cannot! For no other necklace I own will go so well with my gown. Besides”—a nasty little smirk came to Harriet’s face—“pearls for the bride! And as you well know, my betrothal to the captain will be announced at the ball.”

  An even nastier smirk twisted her mother’s lips at this remark, but Harriet didn’t seem to notice. Orsini, however, was nothing but understanding. He inclined his head with grace and told her, “Of course, I should not have asked. Congratulations, miss, you must be very happy.”

  Harriet grinned. “Oh, I am the happiest girl in all the land!”

  Her mother continued to smirk. Orsini gave a neat curtsey, just deferential enough, and said, “I look forward to seeing your costume.”

  Then he glided from the room, whispering a prayer to Viscount Hartington’s guardian angel to bring him quickly to Derbyshire.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mrs. Pendleton spent breakfast describing the various preparations in hand for that night’s ball—the arrival of the orchestra, the delicacies for the refreshments, the extra servants drafted in, the excellent and distinguished guests and the unveiling of her new gown. Ambrose was entirely at sea, unable to contribute anything to the proceedings beside polishing the buttons on his uniform or rubbing his boots to a shine.

  And a servant had already done that.

  There were guests to entertain, however, but the Tarbottoms had monopolized them, falsely charming as they nodded and conversed. The very idea that Harriet had crept into Mrs. Pendleton’s room and
stolen her bracelet filled Ambrose with impotent rage. Nothing could be said or done.

  Yet.

  Events had carried him along, and Ambrose wandered the corridors, overcome by sadness. He could be leaving this place forever if the Hartingtons didn’t arrive, if Orsini’s deceiving intrigue with Mrs. Tarbottom did not come off. Either he would be sent off to America with the Tarbottoms, or be rejected by his father forever and never again see the house where he had been born.

  The ground floor of Pendleton Hall was busy with arrangements for the evening ahead. Ambrose could hear his mother excitedly giving directions, her feet tapping back and forth across the marble floors. She was chirping away like the parrot, and Ambrose knew that the moment she laid her eyes on him, she would see his sadness. But he couldn’t spoil the happiness of the ball for her.

  Alone, he wandered from room to room in the oldest wing of the house. He had played hide-and-seek behind that sofa, he had enacted a play for his grandparents before that fireplace and his father had not been pleased, he had stolen off and hidden behind that curtain to write. Those had been glad days, happy times. He would cling to those memories of the joy he had known here as a boy.

  Finally Ambrose came to the nursery, where the Pendleton boys had slept as children. Their two beds still stood side by side, and Ambrose sank down onto the one that had been his. Here he had lain, long after his brother had fallen asleep, conjuring worlds to roam through. He lay back across the mattress and, through a glassy veneer of unshed tears, he magicked a new world—a place for himself and Orsini. A place where they were safe and where their love went unremarked.

  And he’d be sent to America as Harriet Tarbottom’s husband.

  “No!”

  Ambrose hurried through the corridors, searching for his father. He wasn’t going to marry Harriet or be sent across an ocean. He couldn’t. Let his father make him penniless if he would, let him throw him out of the family, but Ambrose couldn’t go through with it. He’d go to London with Orsini and he’d shift for himself by painting sets at the theater for pennies if he had to, but he would not marry Harriet Tarbottom.