by Eva Devon
Though her mother still hoped beyond hope, Eloise had decided to no longer live a life of regret and sadness.
She, like her dear friends who had all ventured out into the world, would not be put aside. No, they refused to accept the lot that life had given them. For life was full of so many marvelous opportunities that to simply take what had been given them by society was an absolutely ridiculous thing to do.
No, they had all taken heart.
They had all made a pact, and now she was about to act upon hers.
Truly, it did not matter that her insides fluttered like butterflies gone mad.
It did not matter that she could scarcely swallow because her throat was so tight.
It did not matter that her heart was hammering away like a rabbit’s foot pounding upon the floor.
No, she could do this.
She absolutely could.
Eloise squared her shoulders. It mattered not that this was a house party, and she could be caught at any moment lingering outside a rake’s door! No, this had to be done. And so, she faced the walnut panel, forced her trembling hand to reach forward, and grabbed the golden handle. With pointed resolve, she twisted it, then shoved the panel open.
She slipped into the Earl of Hollybrook’s chamber.
The shocking act alone nearly undid her, for she had never dared to enter a gentleman’s bedchamber, but the house party had been a long, ongoing disaster in terms of her attempts to make contact with Lord St. John Harrington, the Earl of Hollybrook.
Such an opportunity was almost certainly not going to repeat itself. So boldness was required.
She had tried over and over again to make his acquaintance, to corner him in some place in the rooms below, but he had proved most elusive.
It had quickly become clear that the only way to do what she had need of doing was to find him alone in his chamber. She only prayed that he wasn’t too much for her.
Who was she fooling? Of course, he was too much for her. He was a rake of rakes. She knew it. Still, she had only one thing that she wanted from him and that one thing was all that would transpire.
And so when she stepped into the dark shadows, the room lit only by the fireplace and a few tapers along the cherry wood tables, she drew in a fortifying breath.
Then she frowned.
Blast it all.
Where the devil was he?
She peered about the beautifully appointed room of red silks, walnut tables, glimmering mirrors, and paintings of battles from Holland, and wondered if he was not actually present.
Eloise could have sworn that she’d seen him enter his chamber alone. Was her mind now playing tricks upon her? Were her eyes not to be trusted in her desperation to make contact with the fellow who could change her life?
But then she heard someone clear their throat, and she whipped towards that deep sound. It had come from near the fire. And, she quickly realized, from behind a tall, three-paneled, painted screen.
He was standing behind said tall, painted screen. Much to her horror, she saw a shirt whip up and over the screen to land upon the floor in a snowy puddle.
He was getting undressed.
Eloise stiffened.
Surely, she should leave!
But, truly, she had come this far, how could she go now?
So, throwing caution to the wind and choosing her dreams over fear, she boldly took a loud step forward.
“Hello?” a voice queried.
His.
It was a deep, rich sound, one that filled the room with such reverberation she could scarcely countenance it.
No one should be permitted to have a resonance like that, she thought to herself, unless of course it was a singer upon the stage. After all, such men needed voices that could make audiences swoon. Surely, a lord did not require such tones.
She took another step in and managed to reply, “Hello, my lord.”
“Bloody hell,” he growled. “If you’re a maid, do what you need to and get out.”
“I am not a maid,” she said with as much positivity as she could muster.
There was a long tense pause and then he stepped out from behind the screen naked to the waist, his breeches barely fastened, his hair a shocking whiskey shade and disheveled about his face.
He looked at her with eyes that were as hungry as any lion she could imagine. Not hungry for her, she thought, but hungry to put whoever had come into his presence without permission into place.
He stopped in his tracks, the amber glow of the fire bathing his perfect body in its hues of gold. She could not draw breath. He was absolute perfection. The chiseled nature of his body was so intense she felt herself sway in awe.
Goodness, was she about to faint?
What a ninny hammered, silly fluff of a thing to think.
She’d never fainted in her life. The idea of fainting had never even entered her head before, but he really was quite a specimen.
It couldn’t be argued.
And in her defense, she’d never seen a man without his shirt. Well, not a man like this, at any rate. It was quite perplexing. She both wanted to run away and run over and stroke him at the same moment.
His brandy-colored gaze narrowed. “I understand that I have quite a reputation, but I can tell from one look at you that you should not be in my chambers. You are not the sort of woman that will do, and I apologize but I do not usher virgins into–”
Heat and horror flamed her cheeks. She whipped a hand up and cut him off quickly. “No, no, I have no desire to be ushered anywhere that involves your reputation in that regard.”
He cocked his head to the side, which allowed his whiskey locks to tumble over his cheeks. “No?”
“No,” she repeated before she gave him a forced and certainly unconvincing smile.
“You’ve come to my chamber,” he said, his voice a low purr as he took a step forward, “to not be ushered into a state of bliss?”
Bliss?
What possible bliss could be so compelling a young lady would be willing to ruin herself thus? She supposed young ladies did. But there was only one bliss for her, thank you very much.
And it involved sheet music, an orchestra, and a stage.
“That’s rather arrogant of you to insinuate,” she pointed out. “Are you always putting young ladies into a state of bliss?”
“Young ladies?” he repeated. “No, ladies who have had the opportunity to mature and know themselves,” he said. “Young ladies are quite impossible. I have nothing to do with them if it’s at all possible.”
“How very rude,” she replied, annoyed by his dismissal of her sort. “Young ladies can be the very best sorts of people.”
“I have yet to meet young ladies that are the best sorts of people,” he drawled. “They have not been seasoned.”
“You make us sound like a bit of fish in want of salt,” she said archly.
A smile quirked his sensual lips at that. “You are a surprise,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, deciding to take that as a compliment. “But to be clear, I have not come here to be ushered into bliss,” she informed.
“Then why are you here?” he asked, his gaze sweeping over her with intense curiosity. “Most young ladies come to my rooms only because of my reputation. I assume you know it.” He hesitated. “You haven’t wandered into the wrong room, have you?”
His words fell upon her and she found herself questioning how often ladies wandered into his rooms if he was so fixed upon their general motivation. But then she shook her head, hearing his last question.
“No, no,” she explained. “I quite mean to be in your room.”
“Then what the devil do you want?” he demanded, folding his arms over his naked chest in a most fascinating display of male sinew. “Say it and get out. I will not be… Oh God,” he said. “You’re not about to compromise me?” he asked. His gaze darted towards the door. “Someone’s not about to spill into the room and insinuate that I asked you here. I won’t marry
you, you know.”
“Good Lord,” she exclaimed. “You are arrogant! What sort of young lady do you take me for? And with your reputation, what lady would wish to wed you?”
Suddenly, he looked irked. As though she had hit a nerve.
“I’m an earl,” he defended. “That’s enough. And I don’t know you, but you are the sort of young lady to enter a gentleman’s bedchamber uninvited so that makes you a rather dubious person, doesn’t it? And I am quite right to be suspicious, but I will tell you, I don’t always do the right thing. I quite often prefer to do the wrong thing. So you better turn around and hie thee hence.”
He liked to do the wrong thing?
The idea had never occurred to her, to enjoy doing the wrong thing.
Well, she was herself doing a bit of the wrong thing right now, but not the sort of wrong thing that most might imagine.
No, she was doing something else altogether different. She was choosing a life lived without regret and it had nothing to do with the man and his ability to cause bliss.
“I want to be an opera singer,” she declared.
His eyes widened and he leaned forward as if he had misheard. “You want to be a what?”
“An opera singer,” she repeated, articulating herself clearly, “upon the stage.”
“Yes, yes. I understand what an opera singer is,” he ground out. “But why the devil are you coming to me about it? You are clearly a young lady of good breeding. You are not about to go on the Drury Lane stage.”
“Exactly,” she said, relieved he could surmise her dilemma. “It’s most problematic. Young ladies are not supposed to be opera singers, but I dearly wish to be one.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh God,” he groaned. “You’ve been reading the newssheets, haven’t you? Or have you been to a few operas and fancy that you would enjoy being gazed upon on the stage? No doubt you like to parade about in costumes with your friends.”
She drew her shoulders back. “Well, the idea of being in costumes isn’t off-putting,” she said. “I won’t lie to you on that score. I have dreamed of being upon being the stage for years. I love the opera. If I could go every night, I would.”
“Go then, every night,” he said with little patience, “but do not think of going upon the stage as a profession.”
“Whyever not?” she demanded, even as her heart began to beat like a drum on parade.
“It is not a life for you,” he informed tightly.
“How dare you, sir, to suggest you know what is a life for me,” she retorted, shocked by the fire within her bursting to life to defend her dreams. “As you say, you do not know me at all.”
He took another step forward.
His very presence seemed to fill the room and she felt as if he was honing in on her, not in a frightening way, but as if he was prowling forward, assessing her, wishing to make her understand what he was trying to say.
At last, he paused and stated, “You are a young lady, clearly from a good family. Young ladies will not survive the opera unless they are willing to throw away their position entirely.” He arched a brow, daring her. “Are you willing to throw away your position entirely?”
She lifted her chin, even as she felt the momentous chasm of her future opening up. This was the deciding action. The deciding word.
“Yes,” she professed.
“Then you are a fool,” he breathed.
His words burned. She did not relent, but rather she drew herself up and countered, “I am not a fool, but I am tired of living foolishly.”
“You live foolishly?” he asked, clearly at a loss in the wake of her blunt reply.
She shook her head and let out a dry laugh. “I stand on the sidelines of balls every night dumb as a post, no one wishing to speak to me or dance with me. My entire life is one great long slog of never getting to say anything to anyone because I am not considered to be a diamond of any sort of water, let alone the first. And yet. . . I have a fire within me, demanding to be let loose. You wonder at me, but you have not even noticed me this whole party. That is my life. No one sees me.”
He grew silent. And he studied her then with a seriousness that crackled.
“You’re correct,” he admitted. “I have no idea who you are and cannot recall having seen you in the last days.”
The truth was not surprising. It still caused her pain. “You see, I fade into the furniture.”
“If you fade into the furniture,” he pointed out with a surprising kindness, “you will not do well upon the stage, dear girl.”
“Not if I’m behaving the way I’m expected to in society,” she protested. “But that? That silly miss I’m expected to be day in and day out? That’s not me at all.”
He shook his head. “The way you behave in society isn’t you at all?”
“The way I behave?” she challenged. “It is how every lady is expected to get on, but I am not good at it. So I fade away before others. You see, I wish to do so much more.”
He pressed his lips together, contemplating her. A pained look crossed his face. A sympathetic look. “You may wish to be so much more, but you do not understand the life of the opera at all,” he stated. “It is not necessarily a pleasant one.”
“How could it not be pleasant?” she demanded. Music raced through her head. “One gets to sing the great verses and notes of–”
“Stop,” he cut in firmly. “You have not given this thought. You know nothing about it.”
“Please,” she begged, her voice nearly breaking. “Please, you are the patron of an opera. You could say something. You could give me a position.”
“I’m not about to let you ruin yourself because you fancy trotting the boards.”
“I’m not going to give up,” she declared, even as she felt her hopes falling away. “I want it more than I can say, and if you will not at least consider giving me some sort of opportunity or introduction, then I shall find another means.”
He ground his teeth. “And what means are those? Do you even know what it is to insinuate yourself with some gentlemen so that they get you a part in the chorus?”
She cleared her throat. She did not know. She did not have the knowledge of what it would take to go such a route. But she wasn’t going to give up yet. “Possibly.”
He let out a shaky breath. “You want it that much, do you?”
“Indeed,” she said.
“And what if you’re terrible?”
“I’m not terrible,” she said confidently.
“How do you know?” he growled, merciless.
“I know,” she repeated firmly.
“Hm, you’re rather certain about it. Could it not be vanity?”
“No,” she stated without hesitation. “I’ve been giving this thought for months and planning on meeting you for months. Planning on getting to speak to you for months. I apologize for the indiscretion of this meeting, but I could not manage it downstairs. You were very elusive, if you must know.”
He smiled, though there was no humor in it. “I can’t stand still for long,” he said, “or else I get cornered by fools. I thought I could have a bit of peace in my room, but clearly I was mistaken.”
“Please,” she said, reaching out without even thinking about it. “Please, at least give me a chance.”
“I’d be ruining you, you know, with this chance?” he warned softly. “Not the way I usually ruin young ladies, but in a way I don’t think you could understand.”
She took a step forward, refusing to be frightened. “I wish this. Please, it is the dream of my heart and of my mind. I will find a way, but I think that you could help me if you were willing.”
He was silent again. He stared at her. His gaze assessed her, piercing her, and then he winced and looked away.
“I’m not willing,” he said. “Now get out.”
Chapter 3
She did not get out.
If anything, she looked further entrenched.
St. John stared at the young, uninspiring
woman and wondered what the devil had happened to him in but a few moments.
He’d come upstairs hoping to take a bath to escape the inanity of downstairs. He particularly liked cold baths. He would sit in the frigid water and it would invigorate him in a way that he needed after spending so much time with so many witless fools below.
Still, it was his position to go throughout society suffering the prattling of those with little interest in profound thought.
And he was in want of a wife.
It was a ridiculous thing for a rake of rakes to need, but he was in his thirties now and it was time for him to settle down.
Yet here he was standing with a young lady in his room who could make his plans very difficult. If someone was to come in at this particular moment, he would be forced to marry her.
Really, he should toss her out into the hall before they were caught.
He never would have been concerned about such a thing in the past, but he was attempting to restore his reputation and make himself palatable to mamas. He needed them to allow him to marry their daughters.
He could have a young lady easily, of course. He came from a good family himself, ancient line, great deal of money, but at present the mothers who’d be more willing to shove their daughters at him would do so out of desperation and hope for a title, rather than any sort of wish for a true union.
His reputation was quite, well, legendary. He loved the life that he’d lived. He wasn’t going to apologize for it, but most found it rather shocking.
Apparently, not the miss standing before him.
She didn’t appear intimidated at all. If anything, she seemed to be pleased by the fact that he had such a reputation.
Patron of an opera company. That’s what she cared for. Not his debauchery. But his art. It was a first, and he was stunned by how much he liked it.
He adored the opera and the theater. He loved the arts. He had taken part in many theatricals himself. He’d done it in Paris. He did it in London. He couldn’t sing as was needed to perform, but he had a strong tenor. Above all, he was happy to support the great artists of the day.
