Resisting Romeo (Gentlemen of Intrigue Book 2)

by Samantha Grace

  “But why am I not good enough on my own?”

  “You are, dearest. I never want to hear you say otherwise.” She squeezed Claudine’s hands. “I think you and I both realize from where your doubt stems. If Stanhurst wasn’t already dead, I would like to see him horsewhipped for what he did to you. It was bad enough that he hit you, but making you doubt your worth was wretched.”

  The blasted tears returned. Aunt Beatrice retrieved a crisp white handkerchief from her sewing box and passed it to Claudine. “I keep extras. One never knows when a good cry will be in order.”

  Claudine accepted the linen square. “Merci, but I don’t want to have a good cry. Why can’t I keep my head about me?” What she wanted was inconsequential, however. The salty tears continued to fall on her cheeks.

  “Claudine, you are talented and smart. You are better than good enough, but that doesn’t mean you can’t accept help from others.”

  “Mr. Hawke thinks my play is slow and tedious.”

  Aunt Beatrice drew back. “Did the blackguard use those words?”

  “He didn’t use those exact words, but that is what he meant. He has written in every margin toward the end.”

  “Do you have the script with you?”

  “It is in my bag.”

  “Would you ring for a footman, dear? I would like you to read what Mr. Hawke has written. Perhaps you need another viewpoint.”

  Claudine hesitated but gave into the lady’s request. “Of course. I value your opinion.”

  The footman responded to the summons, and Aunt Beatrice requested he retrieve Claudine’s bag. A few moments later, Claudine was digging through her belongings and pulled out the crinkled papers. She hugged the script close to her chest. “I know I can do better. This was my first try.”

  Aunt Beatrice patted her knee. “Mr. Jonas wouldn’t allow your play to be performed if it weren’t up to snuff. When Sophia read aloud from the copy you left for us, we were enthralled. Nothing Mr. Hawke has written will change my opinion about you or your work. I adore both.”

  The older lady’s extravagant praise caused her to blush, but she felt her confidence righting itself again.

  “Go ahead,” Aunt Beatrice urged. “Read his notes.”

  She took a cleansing breath and shuffled through the stack until she encountered his slanted handwriting. “Consider revisiting this line of dialogue. I am uncertain a man of Mr. Manfred’s station would speak this properly.” She quickly read the line of dialogue and looked up from the page.

  Aunt Beatrice nodded thoughtfully. “Continue, please.”

  Claudine moved to the next comment a little further down the page. “Perhaps parts of this conversation could be eliminated to keep the story moving and the audience on the edges of their seats.”

  “Go on.”

  “This line is poignant. I am captivated.” She rolled her eyes. “He is trying to ease the blow.”

  Aunt Beatrice frowned and took the script from her hands to place it on the low table in front of the settee. “How is it you take any criticism as truth, but you don’t believe the compliments? Either the man is a liar, or he is honest. It is unfair for you to decide which one from comment to comment. Just as it is foolish to take anything that he has said about the play and use it as a measure of your worth. This is simply the duke’s handiwork coming back to hurt you.”

  Claudine’s breath caught. She hadn’t realized it until Aunt Beatrice said it aloud, but every slightly critical comment had been pulling her back to the past. “I don’t want Stanhurst controlling me from the grave.”

  “And he won’t as soon as you refuse to allow it.” Aunt Beatrice tapped her finger lightly against Claudine’s head. “Argue with the voice in here if you must, but never let it best you.”

  “If I follow your advice to the letter, I might be tossed into Bedlam.”

  Aunt Beatrice chuckled. “Well, save your arguments for when you are home alone.”

  Claudine smiled and took the older woman’s hands in hers. In a very short time, the lady had worked her way into Claudine’s heart. “Thank you, Beatrice. Your words of wisdom mean the world to me. I never had a chance to know my mother, but I hope she would have been like you.”

  Aunt Beatrice’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, law. Now I need a handkerchief.”

  RESISTING ROMEO

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next day when Russell arrived at the theatre, Miss Bellerose was already on stage. She gifted him with a bright smile. “Good morning.”

  Her pleasant greeting was so different from the aloof ones she usually reserved for him that he looked over his shoulder to see if someone had come in behind him.

  “Good morning,” he said warily.

  “I have a clean script for you. It will be easier to work from, I believe.”

  She’d probably burned his notes the moment she arrived home last night. That would explain her cheerful demeanor. As he ascended the stage to join her, she came forward to hand him the sheaf of papers, and her smile grew wider. She was pretty when she did nothing out of the ordinary. She was breathtaking when she smiled.

  “Is everything all right, Miss Bellerose?”

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” He decided it was best to view her cheerful mood as a gift and not remind her of their argument. “Mr. Jonas isn’t here. Has he been called away?”

  “Oliver will be along later to check our progress,” she said. “I’ve been instructed to begin your lesson as soon as you arrive. Lars offered to help, but Tilde threatened to tie him to the bed if he tried to get up.”

  “Perhaps it is better to leave Lars out of the lessons. I don’t think he likes me.”

  “Now sir, I’m sure that is not true. Lars likes everyone.”

  “And here I thought you were going to say I am too charming to make enemies.”

  She wrinkled her pert nose. “I would never say that.” Playfulness laced her voice, and her eyes twinkled. “Come along, Mr. Hawke. We should get started. And don’t worry. I am under strict instructions not to work you too hard.”

  He planted his feet and crossed his arms as she turned to lead him to center stage. She spun back around to face him when he didn’t follow. “You aren’t coming. Is there a problem?”

  “A slight one, yes. You may work me as hard as you like, but I refuse to begin until we reach an agreement.”

  Her eyes lost a little of their shine. “An agreement on what, exactly?”

  “If you want me to become a real actor, you have to treat me like one.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “My name is Russell. You address everyone else by his or her given name, and I want the same treatment. Either I am one of you, or I’m just a dunce set on ruining the performance.”

  “I never called you a dunce.”

  “Not with words.”

  She pressed her lips together and wiggled them from side to side as she considered his request. “Very well,” she conceded. “Could we please get on with the lesson, Russell?”

  He grinned. “That’s better. Now if you can bring yourself to say my name with a touch less sarcasm.”

  Her sculpted eyebrows arched. “Rus—sell.” She drew out his name with exaggerated slowness. “Are you happy now?”

  “Immensely. What is our first lesson?”

  “Before we begin, I wanted to discuss the notes you made about the play.”

  His gut clenched. They were getting on well this morning, and he didn’t want to quarrel.

  “I read through your comments last night and gave each consideration. When you handed the script to me yesterday, I wanted you to be wrong. I’ve been in theatre most of my life, and my father was a writer. I should know what elements are needed for a great play.”

  “You are amazing, Claudine. I admire—”

  She held up one finger. “Please, let me say my piece. This is not easy.”

  He inclined his head, inviting her to contin
ue.

  “I’ve performed in enough plays to realize you were right. Something is missing. The audience needs to be perched on the edges of their seats and cheering for the characters. If there is no enemy, there can be no victory. As you said, even a love story can do with a bit of excitement.” She concluded her speech with an audible sigh.

  When her pause drew out longer than expected, he grinned. “Is that my cue to speak?”

  “Sacre bleu!” She tossed her hands in the air in mock distress and laughed. “Your timing, sir.”

  “I will take that as a yes.”

  The remnants of amusement lingered on her lips as she touched his hand. A jolt shot up his arm and straight to his chest, lighting a slow burning fire inside of him.

  “I need your help, Russell.” Her voice had a sensual rasp to it that drew him closer. Her turquoise eyes widened slightly. She cleared her throat, dropped her hand from his arm, and took a step back. “With the ending. I know a thing or two about villains, but I’m hopelessly lost when it comes to sword fighting. Will you help me revise the play?”

  He was certain he couldn’t deny her anything. If he could, he would have pursued the sale instead of coming to see the theatre to offer Jonas another chance. His determination to hold on to the Drayton and make it the best playhouse in Marylebone burgeoned. And he knew beyond a doubt that he didn’t want to marry any of the ladies Marcus might try to present to him, because none of them would share his passion for this old place like Claudine did.

  “Of course I will help you,” he said. “Do you want to start now?”

  She shook her head. “Come to my town house after rehearsal. My cook is preparing a lamb stew, and after we dine, we will work on the play.”

  Her invitation filled him with optimism. She was the most talented and accomplished woman of his acquaintance. Together, they could create something extraordinary. “I believe you promised to tutor me. You aren’t having second thoughts, I hope.”

  “Heavens, no! You need all the help you can get.” Her eyes were twinkling again and her manner, playful. She was the most beautiful woman who’d ever mocked him, and he quite liked her teasing.

  “For your first lesson,” she said, “I will teach you how to project your voice, so everyone in the theatre can hear you.”

  “Didn’t you accuse me of having a booming voice yesterday?”

  “I did, and it is, but you are straining your vocal chords. You will be hoarse by the second act. Stand up straight, and take a deep breath from here.” She placed her hand on his upper stomach, and it was all he could do to suppress the groan climbing up his throat. He tried to follow her directions, but the warmth of her hand penetrating his waistcoat and shirt was distracting. She murmured her approval each time he breathed properly. “Now, you will want to breathe just like this before each phrase and open your throat as you speak. Just imagine you are holding an egg in your mouth.”

  “Poached or baked?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Boiled. Repeat after me. Good Night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

  “That is very good. Did you write that line?” he asked with a wink.

  The rest of the morning she worked with him on his voice, stage presence, and awareness of his surroundings as he navigated the stage. After a short break for refreshment, they reconvened with the manager to resume rehearsal. Russell thought he made good progress, and his chest puffed up a little when Claudine commented on his improvement.

  When they left the theatre that evening for Claudine’s town house, he was exhausted, hungry, and the most contented he’d ever been.

  * * * *

  Claudine laughed at Russell and Benny sparring with two of her old parasols in the drawing room. She had to admit that Russell was a pleasant surprise. Not only had he made impressive progress with his acting earlier that day, he threw himself into this new endeavor with gusto.

  “Take that, you blackguard!” Benny thrust the tip of the parasol toward Russell’s midsection. The gold tassels strings on the end tangled. Russell leapt over the needlepoint footstool and sliced the air close to Benny’s chest.

  “You will never defeat me, Red Beard. Never!”

  It was the silliest display she had ever seen from grown men, but they were having fun and so was she.

  She and Russell had finished the revisions an hour ago with help from Benny. Now the men were simply playing while she sat back and enjoyed the show. When Benny struck the top of Russell’s shoulder, he groaned and stumbled, gripping his chest and making choking noises.

  “Straight through the heart,” he said with a gasp.

  “You have a strange anatomy, sir.” Claudine winked at Benny.

  Russell collapsed on the sofa beside her, uttered one last gasp, and died with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. She ruffled his rich, dark hair.

  “Luckily, your character survives in the play,” she said. “Otherwise, we would be doomed.”

  His hazel eyes popped open, and he flashed his dimpled grin that made her insides quiver. “My performance needs work, eh?”

  “May I be in the play?” Benny asked. “I could be the villain. There are no lines for me to remember.”

  Claudine shrugged. “I think it sounds like a wonderful idea. We will have to gain Oliver’s approval, but I can’t imagine he would be opposed.” She looked to Russell for his opinion.

  “Benny would be perfect in the role. He is light on his feet and puts up a good fight.”

  Benny beamed at him. Russell had solidified their friendship tonight. He grabbed his watch from the side table where he’d placed it for safe keeping while he and Benny sparred. “It is late. I should seek out a hack.”

  She sat up straight on the sofa. “Don’t be ridiculous. My driver will see you back to the hotel.”

  “I will call for the carriage.” Benny returned her parasol to the walnut stand. “I think I should ride along to make sure Mr. Hawke reaches his destination safely.”

  She nodded. “That would be lovely.”

  “But unnecessary,” Russell said. “I thank you for the kind offer, Benny, but I imagine Miss Bellerose sleeps better knowing you are close by.”

  A shy smile crossed Benny’s face. “I take good care of her just like Mr. Vistoire asked. I’ll call for the carriage.”

  Once they were alone, Russell swiveled toward her on the cobalt blue sofa. The warmth in his eyes faded as he looked around the room. She could almost see the unfavorable thoughts marching through his mind when he examined the hand painted, gold-leaf wall coverings and thick Aubusson carpet beneath his boots. The duke had insisted on surrounding himself with the best, although it had been for his comfort and not her own.

  Russell’s intense gaze bore into her. “I realize I am overstepping my bounds in asking, but does this all belong to Mr. Vistoire?”

  He wanted to know if she and Xavier were lovers, which would be humorous if not for the charged air crackling around them.

  “No, it is mine.” She swallowed hard and hoped he didn’t push her for an explanation. Being Stanhurst’s mistress had been the most degrading time of her life, and even though the duke had used her loneliness and fear to his advantage, she had accepted his patronage. It had been a hard lesson, a mistake she would never repeat.

  “Xavier Vistoire is a mutual friend,” she said. “He asked me to look after Benny while he is on his honeymoon, and he charged Benny with the same task of taking care of me. His wife Regina is a close friend as well. I believe you were to meet her sister yesterday. Sophia Darlington?”

  He flinched. Red spread up his face, and she could feel the shift in the temperature between their bodies. “Mr. Fletcher wanted to introduce us. Apparently, he is a matchmaker now.”

  “Sophia is lovely. She will make the perfect wife.”

  “I’m certain another gentleman will be more than content with her.”

  “Don’t you wish to marry? Surely, you’ll want an heir.”
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  He grinned. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you and Marcus have been conspiring against me.”

  “Oh, dear. You are one of those.”

  He laid his arm on the back of the sofa, creating an intimate cocoon for what had become a very personal conversation. His hazel eyes glinted in the golden lamplight. “One of what, Miss Bellerose?”

  “A man who fears the parson’s noose. I wouldn’t know myself, but I am told marriage can be pleasant.”

  “Did you hear that from Lars and Tilde?” The tips of his fingers brushed the back of her neck, his touch so light and brief it could have been an accident. Tingles spread from the single point of contact to blanket her in an intoxicating haze.

  “They are devoted to one another,” she said. “I’ve never seen two people more in love. Theirs is the kind of union I would want.”

  “A partnership.”

  “Yes, but more.” She wet her lips, contemplating how to express what she recognized in Tilde and Lars. “Partnership doesn’t quite capture the essence of what they are to each other. Would it be too fanciful to say they are destined?”

  “Perhaps, but I like it.” He smiled, and she felt the warmth of it gathering beneath her breastbone. “The word destiny has always conjured something remarkable in my mind,” he said, “although I suspect some might view it as their destiny to marry for the betterment of their families.”

  The connection she felt with him weakened a bit. For a moment, she’d forgotten he was a gentleman with expectations placed on him—ones she couldn’t help him meet. “I’ve never thought of destiny and duty as synonymous, but I suppose you are correct. The word seems less romantic now.”

  “I’m sorry for ruining it for you. If it is any consolation, I am less enamored of the word now, too. How do you feel about fate?”

  Using her best witchy voice, she spouted, “Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn, and cauldron bubble.”

  “I hadn’t connected fate with Macbeth’s witches, and now I am even more frightened of the parson’s noose.”

  They chuckled. When his smile faded, she asked, “Are you truly worried about fulfilling your responsibilities?”