by Eva Devon
In fact, he’d built his own theater right by Drury Lane. The Hollybrook rivaled Drury Lane. It was a beautiful building, far more modern and much more in line with the theaters of the continent, which made scene changes easily done. It was also designed in a way which encouraged the audience to watch more of the stage than each other.
Still, if this young lady thought that she could get herself upon the stage easily, she was in for a vastly rude awakening.
She did not seem to have anything that a young lady of the stage would need. There was no panache, no excitement, no zeal to her, except… He paused, contemplating her. There was something in her green eyes.
Something that blazed with determination.
Was there a spirit in her strong enough to light up an entire room?
She had not been able to light up any ton ballroom, but then again, he did know that some of the most remarkable people upon the boards were the most quiet in a room full of people outside the theater.
It was the strange contradiction of the art.
People who were quiet and introspective often made great performers, but a young lady of good quality upon the stage? It was madness.
Besides, could she even sing well enough to manage it? So many young ladies were flattered by false compliments.
And even if she could sing, did she not know what the life of a performer was like? To be constantly prodded, pulled, looked upon by men in dressing rooms. To be bothered by admirers at the stage door. To be petitioned to be a mistress. To be given jewels and expected to exchange favors for them.
Or did she know?
Was it something that she was prepared to accept or even welcome?
St. John hesitated. Damnation, she looked so determined. So hopeful.
“What’s your name?” he demanded. “Were we introduced?”
“We were not introduced,” she said tightly. “My name is Miss Eloise Edgington.”
“A name of alliteration,” he teased. “How fascinating for you.”
“I cannot help my name, sir, any more than you can help your title.”
“How true,” he agreed with a mock bow. “I was born to it, just as you were born to yours. But if you’re going to go upon the stage, you’ll have to come up with a new one.”
Her lips parted. “Are you suggesting that I might?”
He drove a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. If you’re so determined, you’ll find a way, I’m sure.” He ground his teeth. “I should not help you.”
She folded her gloved hands before the simple butter-yellow folds of her skirts. “Please, I beg of you.”
“Beg, do you?” he scoffed. “Do you know what it will be like for you? A woman in the theater?”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
He sighed, then decided to explain without mercy. “When you go into a theater with no protection, you shall be preyed upon by every reprobate male and expected to endure it. Because everyone believes that a woman of the stage is, well…”
She swallowed. “A whore.”
He hid his wince. He couldn’t be soft in this. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“I don’t have to be a whore to be a singer,” she bit out. “Certainly there are a great many singers who are not.”
“No,” he said softly, “you don’t. And there are a great many singers who are not, but they do generally find protectors. Do you wish for a protector?”
She blinked. “Could you not be my protector?”
He laughed. “My God, do you even know what it means to be a protector? You would come into my bed happily?”
She blushed.
“Ah,” he said. “You don’t understand, do you?”
She looked away. “Unfortunately, I am rather innocent in many respects. I cannot help it. It is how young ladies of the ton are forced to be. I know, of course, of some scandal, but the actual workings of it…”
“If a man protects you, you are his mistress. Are you prepared for that?” he asked, softening his tone, hating that her dreams might come at a price too high to pay.
“I think I’d rather be a man’s mistress than a wife.”
He balked at that. “I beg your pardon?”
She lifted her chin and said more clearly, “I’d rather be a man’s mistress than his wife.”
“Why?” he asked, surprised.
She blew out a breath. “Well, if I’m his mistress, I’m not his property and I can do what I please. But if I’m his wife, well then he can do what he pleases with me.”
“Oftentimes, men who have mistresses still do what they please with them, but you are right,” he allowed, shocked by her logic. And it was logic. “A mistress does have more independence. If she’s wily and if she’s intelligent, she can do a great many things. Are you wily and intelligent?”
She gave him a hard glare. “Yes.”
“By God, I think you may be,” he whispered. But then he closed his eyes. What the devil was he doing? “No, this is a fool’s errand. You must turn around, go back to your mother, and find an unprepossessing marriage. Go off to the country and realize that a good life with a husband and children is what you are meant for. Not one upon the stage.”
“Why?” she demanded, her voice thick with emotion. “How could you condemn me to a life of so little interest when I know you are so very passionate about art yourself? It is cruel that women are so imprisoned by the narrowness of their lot.”
“Life is cruel,” he agreed. “And I am not condemning you. I cannot. It is simply your lot, as mine is to be an earl and get an heir.”
“I refuse to let it be my lot,” she snapped, her voice hard and full of purpose.
He felt himself grow wary. She was so amazing to behold in her wish for her dreams. The sadness filling him was unwelcome. He hated taking her dreams and crushing them. But if he did not. . . “So if I deny you, what will you do? You should do as I say, you know, find a husband and put on musicales every year. That should content you.”
“Musicales?” she mocked, her lip curling. “When there are great works out there? Music of such perfection and audiences waiting to hear them sung? How could I condemn myself to musicales when so many great composers have filled our world with music to be sung in opera houses”
“You have given this thought,” he admitted. “But do you truly think that you could embody these roles. The great parts of the opera?”
“I should like to try,” she replied without apology. “I have a great imagination, sir, and skill, and I refuse to bind it up and never use it. It is my life. And if I shunt it away, it shall feel as if it’s a small death.”
“A small death,” he echoed. The power of her words shuddered through him.
He knew what it was to try to cut oneself off, to fit in. He’d tried so many times in his early youth to be the man his father wanted him to be. Staid, disciplined, a soldier.
Oh, he knew how to be a soldier, but it was not what he’d desired. It was not the man that he was. No, he preferred the great canvas of life, of art, of literature, of painting, of music.
That was the man he’d been born to be, not some soldier upon some field fighting the wars of old men. He’d never forget the butchery of it.
What was necessary to him was to find the beauty in life, to enjoy it fully and thoroughly. And he had, after too much war.
But now he looked at this young lady and he was absolutely wrenched by the realization that he was seeing himself in her.
It was a shocking thing.
And he had the terrible realization that if he did send her out of his room, she was going to do something utterly foolish, like go down to Covent Garden and attempt to find someone who would allow her onto the stage.
Did she understand that she could end up in some back room learning a new trick to make gentlemen pleased, so that she could get the part she so desired?
She didn’t.
Would he protect her from it?
In the past, he might not have given her
another thought. But now? After her powerful utterances?
Bloody hell. He felt on a knife’s edge. Did he throw her to the wolves or help her negotiate the pack? How determined was she?
Very. . . But he needed to know if she truly was going to cast herself into danger or if this was a whim.
“Miss Edgington, you’re going to have to show me that you desire to be an opera singer.”
She drew in a deep breath, relieved. “I will.”
“All right then, beg me to help you.”
“What?” she gasped.
“Beg.” He raked her with his gaze, towering over her. He swallowed back his own acrid self-disgust. But he wanted to frighten her back to safety. The life she was choosing was only for someone with grit. If she was a mouse, he needed to make her run. “On your knees, if you want this badly enough.”
“No,” she countered, her face hardening. “I will not beg. Certainly not upon my knees.”
He said nothing, secretly pleased at her fury. There was the cold hardness of a stone in her gaze. Of diamonds.
“I have more fire than that, sir, and if you wish for me to beg upon my knees to you,” she proclaimed, “you are a fool. I came here to ask help, to ask a favor of you, but I will not act …”
“Subservient?” he prompted, delighting inwardly at her spirit.
“Correct,” she snapped. “I’ve been subservient all my life and I am ready to be so much more.”
He lifted his hands then and he applauded. “Bravo.” He said, “You do have a spark. And it is the exact sort of spark that you will need if you are going to take London by storm. But will you be able to suffer the disdain of your class?”
“I certainly will not suffer the disdain of you, my lord,” she said coldly.
And with that, much to his amazement, she turned and strode out of his chamber.
Chapter 4
Bloody hell.
Looking for a wife now felt entirely out of the question. St. John strode across the long ballroom eyeing the eager ladies in their many-hued gowns, ranging from the most innocent of white to the most daring of crimsons, and knowing that they were hoping he would engage in their company.
The married ones hoped that he would ask them for a dance and then request they follow him upstairs for a tryst later in the evening. The unmarried ones, thank God, hoped that he might think of them as a marriage partner and listen to them prattle on about what they were allowed to mention. Namely the state of this year’s Season, the fashion of the latest hem, and the horse races at New Market.
Over the last months of this Season, he had made it absolutely clear that he was not interested in said prattle, having given up his mistress over a year ago. He’d eschewed the gambling clubs and late-night drinking sessions that were his typical behavior in the past.
None of that was necessarily required.
But his behavior had been so thoroughly associated with the demimonde that a small show of propriety had seemed a small price to pay on his part.
No, he was a man on the road to matrimony. Or so he’d thought.
Tonight his head was entirely in the wrong place, and it was all that young lady’s fault. Ms. Eloise Edgington was entirely to blame and he was going to find a way to make her pay for it.
He groaned inwardly as he crossed the polished wood floor towards her, the carpet having been taken away to allow for the many guest to dance this evening.
It wasn’t entirely true. He wasn’t going to make her pay. No, he was going to do something worse. He was going to help her.
The most frustrating thing of all was that he could no longer keep his eyes off her. Plain, uninspiring, unimportant. All words the ton would likely use to describe her.
And yet. . . He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her upright figure as he crossed the room, drawn as if by an opposing magnet.
What the devil had happened?
He hadn’t even noticed her before.
She’d not even been on his scope of understanding.
She had been, as she declared, a wallflower, one in keeping with the wallpaper rather than someone he would deign to observe.
But tonight? She was all that he could see.
She stood on the edge of the room.
A figure in shadow.
As a matter of fact, one might have called her a pillar rather than a person, for no one stopped to engage her in company. She stood there, hands folded primly in front of her simple, pale garment, eyes downcast, looking as bored as anyone possibly could.
Of course, she had no idea that said bored look made it impossible for anyone to wish to engage in conversation with her.
She actually radiated a rather powerful energy suggesting that she did not wish someone to come speak with her. That they’d be met with an icy glance and an awkward rebuff.
He wondered if she had had to field many unpleasant and awkward conversations.
Thus, unwittingly, she had created an aura around herself which shielded her from unwanted advances. He’d seen it before, of course, young ladies who became wallflowers.
The only people who approached them were generally old men or foolish fellows not worth having. And so young ladies were often forced to put up with a great deal of difficulty when they had become wallflowers. He couldn’t blame her for having such a way about her, but it did mean that she was going to stand entirely by herself for the rest of the evening.
Was that what it was then? She was entirely sick of being alone in a ballroom?
It couldn’t be just that. She was so ardent about the opera. Her dream was raw and powerful and true.
She wished to shed this life and to choose something different. He could not blame her, but did she truly mean it? Did she truly wish to bid adieu to her life as a delicate, taken-care-of flower in a field of other delicate, taken-care-of flowers and throw herself into a life of bawdy wildness in which she would have to take care of herself?
For opera singers were bold creatures who had to make the most of it in ways that young ladies of the ton never had to do.
While young ladies of the ton did have certain skills and life could be cruel to them, it was different for a woman upon the stage.
Anyone who thought the opposite was a fool.
But he did not think Miss Eloise Edgington was a fool. A trifle innocent and naive perhaps, but not a fool. She had spoken with a razor’s wit and he had admired her determination. Even if he had pushed her cruelly at the end, seeing if she would fold to him.
At long last he did the unthinkable. He felt his boots crossing the last distance towards her. He could not stop himself.
It was as if their interaction had left some sort of line between them. She’d hooked something into him and was now pulling him closer and closer. It was absolutely absurd.
Given her declaration of wishing to throw herself into what many would consider sin, she was the last person he should wish to come close to. But he did. Oh, how he did. It was inexplicable and undeniable. It was. . .the power of her hope.
At long last, he stopped before her, inclined his head, and said, “Would you do me the honor of this dance?”
She lifted her gaze up to him with surprising slowness, her mouth in a firm line.
“No,” she declared.
He folded his hands behind his back. “You’re angry with me,” he observed.
“Of course, I’m angry with you,” she hissed quietly, careful so that others would not overhear her. “You are absolutely rude.”
He scanned the room to give the appearance they were not engaged in debate and kept a light expression on his features, a necessary skill of a good rake. “If you’re not willing to deal with a bit of rudeness, you certainly don’t want to be an opera singer. Men will order you about, treat you like a scullery maid, and do their best to bend you to their dark desires.”
She rolled her eyes. “That again?”
“That again,” he agreed dryly, “because it’s accurate. However, I did push you rathe
r hard, didn’t I?” He lowered his gaze to hers. “I was unkind.”
She met his gaze, unflinching. “Indeed you were, my lord.”
A muscle tightened in his jaw. Why should he be angry with himself for testing her? Because he hated the idea of anyone being cruel to her and he had been. He swallowed and explained, “I wanted to see what you could take.”
Her brow furrowed. “You wanted to see what I… Do you know what kind of man that makes you?” she challenged.
“Yes,” he growled oh so softly. “One who cares about your safety, though you may not see it. And perhaps you think it’s patronizing for me to want to care about your safety, but I’ve seen young women cornered by dubious fellows in the dark workings and set pieces of the theater. I would not have such a thing happen to you unless you were prepared for it. And I will say, you didn’t take much. You put me in my place rather quickly.”
She blinked, taking in this information. Her cheeks pinked with pride. “I see,” she said. “And if I were truly prepared for the machinations of such men?”
“You’d have to bloody well be prepared for it to defend your honor at every possible moment.” He did not smile. He did not wish to wax poetic about the art he so loved. The fact was, ladies were in jeopardy almost everywhere. And in the arts? They were expected to be votives of Venus. If she did not wish to be a votive, it wouldn’t be easy for her. “It’s a dangerous profession, you know.”
She nibbled her lower lip. “I confess I did not know.”
He eyed that lip. Why? Why the blazes was he eyeing her lip, thinking about taking it between his own teeth and gently–
“My lord?” she prompted.
“Yes.” He blinked and cleared his throat. “Young ladies in the theater are seen as, well, easy sport, and they’re largely seen as fair play. If you want to go upon the stage, you shall have to take that into account. Is that truly what you wish to face every day?”
“Of course not,” she rushed. “I do not wish to be seen as an object at all. I am a living, breathing being with dreams and hopes and feelings, just as you. But I am seen as an object anyway in the ton. You know that young ladies are objects to be bandied about from father or brother to husband, taken care of without any will of our own.”
