Rival Desires

by Annabel Joseph

  Why, do you wish to take her as your mistress?

  A ridiculous idea to entertain as the actress leaked tears in her wig and ruined makeup, with both of them covered in smoky grime. He was of an age and status where he might take a mistress if he wished, sponsor a dancer or actress and buy her pretty things. He might even retain such a mistress after his eventual marriage, but that couldn’t be his focus tonight. He buttoned his shirt and made a loose knot of his cravat, a clumsy attempt to improve his piratical appearance.

  “Don’t cry,” he said, being so bold as to run a finger down one of her sullied cheeks.

  She shrank from the affectionate gesture, glancing around nervously. “I don’t know where we are.”

  “I’m not sure either.”

  “I waited for the carriage. I thought it would come.”

  “You can’t worry about that now.” He wondered whose carriage had been coming to pick her up. Some gentleman who’d been waiting to spend the night in her arms? “It’s likely the driver couldn’t get through,” he said. “The theater had emptied by the time I got there.”

  “This is terrible,” she said through her tears. “What if the carriage caught fire? Or was overtaken by the crowds? Or...or...” She sniffled, struggling for breath. “What if they’re still there looking for me?”

  “I don’t think that’s possible, as the smoke would have driven them away. In fact, I fear it may be some time before it’s possible to ride back. Where is your home, miss? Where do you live?”

  She hesitated before she told him. “West of the theater, near Grosvenor Square.”

  Grosvenor Square? This pretty young actress had a serious sponsor then, a wealthy one. No doubt the man was someone he knew, someone who moved in aristocratic circles.

  “I know that area,” he said aloud. “Your name?”

  She balked, as if he might be some charlatan prying for information. Well, his hair was loose and wild, and he was riding bareback through London in his shirtsleeves, fresh from a sex parlor.

  “You needn’t tell me your real name,” he said with a shrug. “Your stage name will do.”

  “I don’t have a stage name.” She touched her cheeks, the theatrical creature. “I’m La—Miss Layton.”

  Silly, that she didn’t trust him enough to reveal her real name, but the popular novels of the day were all about murder, mayhem, and kidnapping for ransom, actresses and infamous ladies being the victims of choice. He had no liking for murder, and no need for ransom money, so she needn’t have worried. He only wished to get her somewhere warm and less smoky. Even here, curls of ash wafted on the wind.

  “Will the fire still come?” she asked in a shaky voice.

  “I don’t think so. They’ll run it toward the river, and it’ll burn itself out before it reaches these streets.” Now that Wescott’s horse was refreshed, he guided it into a walk along a quiet lane.

  “I’ve never been in a fire before,” she said.

  “Nor have I, nor do I ever wish to be again.”

  “The smoke was terrible. I thought I would die.” She held his stallion’s neck as she spoke, apparently at ease on horseback. Indeed, now that she wasn’t sniveling, her elocution marked her as a woman of elegant manners, which might explain how she’d secured such a wealthy patron. “Thank you for helping me, and escorting me from danger.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Layton. I was raised to assist those in need.”

  “And...sir...who are you?” she finally asked.

  He was used to meeting women in formal introductions, at dinner parties, or in ballrooms. No need for such pomp here.

  “I’m Jack,” he said, giving her his childhood nickname. “Mr. Jack Drake.” He decided not to intimidate the chit with his full, toplofty name and title, although he wondered if he outranked her rich patron. Why did he care? Because you’re playing the hero, Wes, and she’s charming.

  And talented, probably in more ways than one.

  If only he knew the name of her patron, he’d have an idea if this woman was the type to suit him in bed. Now that they’d made their dramatic escape, he pictured an inn, a small room, the two of them together, and her eager to thank him for rescuing her from the fire...

  By God, what was wrong with him? At times like this, he understood why the society gossips had fun changing his surname from “Drake” to “Rake.” This wasn’t an opportunity for flirtation or seduction. Both of them were filthy and tired, and he’d already had plenty of sex for one night.

  They rode awhile in silence, his well-trained horse stepping delicately on the unevenly cobbled road.

  “Where are we going, Mr. Drake?” his actress asked. “If we can’t return to our homes?”

  “We’ll stop at an inn, as soon as we come across a reputable one.”

  “I don’t...” She looked on the verge of tears again, brushing at the soot-stained ruching that festooned her theatrical skirts. “I can’t stay at an inn, sir. It...it wouldn’t be proper.”

  He subdued the urge to chuckle. Playing the proper lady, was she? With her garish costume and wig, and the carriage meeting her outside the stage door, to escort her to her lover’s nest near Grosvenor Square? “It’s hard to be proper in such circumstances,” he countered. “Would you rather sleep outside in the lingering smoke?”

  She started trembling again, whether from fear or embarrassment, he didn’t know. Did she worry he’d take advantage of her? Tempting as it was to plan a seduction, no fantasies could be acted out this night.

  “You’ll have your own room, Miss Layton,” he assured her, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I haven’t any money for a room. I’ve just come from—from onstage.”

  “I’ll pay for the rooms, and a warm bath too. Please, calm yourself. You’ll be kept perfectly safe until the air clears and we can return to our respective homes. I’ll deliver you to Grosvenor Square by morning light, if that will do.”

  “That would be...that would be very kind.” She blinked at him. “Thank you, Mr. Drake.” Her voice was roughened, perhaps by tears, perhaps by damage from the smoke. “I promise you’ll be repaid for your assistance.”

  “The only repayment I require is your safe conduct home.”

  She lowered her face, reassured, while he scanned the area, trying to divine their location. If he had to guess, they were somewhere near Bishopsgate, but all the family homes and shops were dark and quiet compared to West London. By the time he found a respectable inn with rooms to let and adequate accommodations for the horse, he felt enormously tired.

  He gave the innkeeper news of the fire near Covent Garden, and told the man Miss Layton was his sister. The good innkeeper stared suspiciously at her opera costume, but as they’d requested separate rooms, he held his peace.

  As for Miss Layton, she seemed too tired to object to the false pretense, or indeed to anything. Refusing the offer of a cold dinner, she allowed Wescott to see her upstairs to a small garret beneath the rafters, where the servants were already setting up a bath. No, it was not a venue for a seduction, which was unfortunate, for an assignation with this actress would have made a fine tale to share with his friends.

  “I’ll be next door,” he told her. “Please wake me if you rise before me in the morning. We’ll do well to return home as soon as we can.”

  “Yes, I will. Thank you, Mr. Drake.”

  He left her reluctantly, then asked for a dinner tray and his own bath to distract him from preposterous thoughts. What would his mother think if he took a mistress from the stage? An actress? The whispers might eventually reach her ears, or God forbid, his father’s. His parents were terribly faithful, and ridiculously in love with one another, so his poor reputation pained them. There would be another uncomfortable conversation about respect and morals, and the expectation of marital fidelity, now that he was practically engaged to Lady June.

  He soaked in the dented hip bath for nearly half an hour, washing away smoke and smut, and the lingering scen
t of the girls at Pearl’s Emporium, then he dried off and sprawled naked upon a narrow cot, imagining the clean, downy blankets that comprised his bed at home. His valet would have turned down the covers, awaiting his return, but there was no such coddling here. Nearly an hour elapsed before servants came to take the bathtub and dinner tray back down.

  He wondered how Miss Layton was faring in her adjacent room, but resisted the urge to look in on her. A warm fire, a stiff drink, and comfortable surroundings filled his thoughts just before he tumbled into a bone-tired sleep.

  Chapter Two: A Nightmare

  Lady Ophelia Lovett sat shivering in the tin bathtub, huddled against the stale night air that seeped in the windows. She’d finished with her bath, but there were no attendants to bring her a towel, which she’d left just out of reach on the edge of the bed. Nor did she have a clean, warm chemise to change into. She had only the garish, soot-stained opera costume, and the tangled black wig, which was likely ruined beyond repair.

  Her father could replace them for the theater company. Such an expense wouldn’t touch the Earl of Halsey’s deep pockets. In fact, her father was so wealthy that her rescuer could kidnap her and demand a ransom beyond his wildest dreams, if he discovered who she was.

  And would you mind so much if he stole you away, Ophelia?

  She stood in the tub and let the cool air attack her skin. It was what she deserved, because she’d sort of, a little bit, been imagining what it might be like to be kidnapped by the dashing Mr. Jack Drake. He was so tall and strong, and so virile in a way she wasn’t accustomed to. It had given her a protected, excited sort of feeling when he held her against his massive body.

  Oh, what kind of lady was she, to harbor such thoughts?

  She was no lady at all. She pretended to be one because her parents expected it, but inside her mind, where no one could see, she always wished for more adventure than her narrow place in society would allow. She wished for freedom, for space to breathe outside the dutiful cage her parents had created for her. She would have offered up her “God-given voice” in an instant if she could have traded it for some chance at novelty and excitement.

  Like a kidnapping? Ophelia, you are the very worst of women.

  How awful of her to dwell on lurid, ridiculous kidnapping fantasies when there were so many more serious things to worry about. Were her parents safe? Had they escaped the fire? Did they search for her? And what had happened to Jacqueline? It smarted to think her maid had deserted her, run away with the panicking crowds, when the woman was expressly charged with her care.

  Now she was alone with a man she didn’t know, and while he didn’t seem threatening, her reputation, at least, was endangered. Lurid fantasies aside, there would be gossip if anyone of import saw her in his company, for Mr. Drake seemed the sort of man proper ladies would gossip about. The way he looked, the way he carried himself, she was sure he couldn’t walk by anyone without attracting attention.

  She’d never encountered a man like Mr. Drake at her all-girls music school in Vienna, or on stage in any classical recital or opera. Goodness, she’d been back in England for nearly two months now, and she hadn’t encountered a man like Mr. Drake in any drawing room or tea parlor either. He wasn’t like the gentlemen who’d courted her older sister Nanette, or the mousey viscount she’d finally settled upon.

  No, Mr. Drake was like the Vikings she’d learned about in her history books, before her famed soprano voice lifted her from her childhood schoolroom and landed her in Vienna. His hair was long and golden-blond like a Viking’s, and his eyes were a startling, vivid green. When he held her atop his horse, his giant hands seemed formed to wield great broadswords rather than teacups.

  Oh, she was a wanton dreamer, full of imaginings, and at such an inappropriate time. Such thoughts burst forth when she least wanted them. She deserved another five minutes of shivering in the night air, but instead she reached for the rough, thin towel to pat herself dry.

  He must be a working man, she thought, a man of trade or commerce who could buy a fine stallion, but hadn’t yet saved enough money for proper tack. He was too clean to be a low sort of laborer. Nor was he a refined gentleman, for no gentleman would ride about in his shirtsleeves with his collar all undone. She’d never seen a man in that sort of undress, not in all her eighteen years.

  Being so close to Mr. Jack Drake and his non-refinement had piqued a certain curiosity, but she needed to govern her thoughts. As her mother often told her, she had to be the most proper lady in all of London society, since God had gifted her with a voice that necessitated a life on stage. You cannot silence such talent, her mother had argued when her father pointed out that theater circles were not the place for his highborn daughter. God had given her an angel’s voice.

  And so Ophelia must behave like an angel, and remain above reproach, or Papa would force her to abandon her singing. That would doom her chance at adventure for good, for then she’d have to marry some terribly boring suitor like the one her sister had chosen, and settle down in some stuffy country house to be a wife and mother for the rest of her life. She didn’t believe she’d done anything really sinful yet, aside from harboring Viking fantasies. She should not be in the company of such a man, of course, but he’d been kind enough to pay for separate rooms.

  She lifted the opera costume with disdain, and instead put on her own cotton chemise she wore beneath it. It smelled less of ash and was mostly clean. The smoke, the fire, the fleeing crowds, she had to put all that away, or she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Her mind turned on fears of her parents burning in the flames as they searched for her. When she refused that horror, it was replaced by thoughts of her heavy wig on fire as she tried to outrun the advancing inferno. So many images she couldn’t tolerate at the moment, and her empty stomach was churning because she’d been too worried to eat.

  Even if her parents hadn’t been harmed, they’d be beside themselves with worry. Her father might send out riders to search for her, but they’d never find her in this far-flung room. How was she to sleep now, with so much to worry about? Her performance in Armide seemed a million hours ago. She hardly remembered if she’d sung well, or whom she’d performed with, or who had been in the audience to watch.

  She pulled the covers up to her chin, wishing her mind would be still, because her body was exhausted and needed rest. And tomorrow...tomorrow she’d need to get home without Mr. Drake learning how highborn she was. She didn’t dare tell him her true address, for then he’d know who she was. Worse, someone might see them together, right outside her father’s house.

  Oh dear, that mustn’t happen. She’d have to ask her rescuer to drop her off at some nearby establishment. Perhaps in the park? How humiliating this all was.

  She blew out the candle and lay in the dark, listening to unfamiliar noises and the settling of the old inn, and felt even more homesick than she’d felt in Vienna. She missed her Mama and Papa, and even her faithless French maid Jacqueline. She only had the ability to say a very short prayer through the ache in her smoke-scorched throat. Please, God, let them all be safe.

  Alas, sleep brought no respite from her worries. She dreamed of fire almost the minute she closed her eyes. The flames flew at her like birds, hissed at her like snakes, and seared wherever they touched her. Mama, Papa, I’m waiting here. Where are you? Jacqueline, you were to have waited with me. How could you leave me alone?

  She called out for them, and told them she was so, so sorry, although she didn’t know for what. Still, the flames grew as high as the buildings looming over her, threatening to enfold her and turn her into fire. Unlike Armide, the warrior-sorceress she’d played in the opera that evening, she had no power, no strength to save herself. The fire was hot and suffocating, alive with the shrieks and screams of those around her. Was she on stage? Was this a dream? No, it was real life, real fire, all over again. No, no, no...

  A voice sounded through the flames, and hands reached out to rescue her. “Miss Layton. Miss Layton!”


  Ophelia came awake with a gasp. She wasn’t in a wall of flame, but in the inn’s garret room, surrounded by darkness. Wide eyes and golden hair swam before her, illuminated by the moon. Mr. Drake was holding her, leaning over her in the bed.

  “Miss Layton, you were having a nightmare,” he said. “Please, be calm.”

  Her throat hurt when she swallowed, as if she’d been trying to scream in her sleep. “There was a fire,” she said, though barely any sound came out. Her throat ached as if it had been shredded by glass.

  “There’s no fire here. It was only a dream. We’re safe now.” He stroked her long, loose hair, still damp from her bath. His touch felt so gentle, so soothing, that it took her a moment to think of the impropriety. She wore only her thin chemise, and he was in shirtsleeves, his legs fully bare. She ought to tell him he must leave, that he should not be in here, but the words wouldn’t come because she was too befuddled. She’d never been so near a man in his state of undress.

  “Are you awake now?” He moved closer to put a steadying arm around her. “Miss Layton?”

  “Yes, I...” She was half in a world of fire, and half in this world where Mr. Drake embraced her, his strong, muscular body so near beside hers.

  “It was f-fearsome,” she whispered. “My nightmare.”

  “Don’t worry, please. You’re safe here. Shall I light the candle?”

  She didn’t want him to. She felt better in the darkness, but he reached beside her bed and lit it anyway. He looked back to her and his expression altered, his eyes widening as he stared. He’s seeing me without the wig and makeup, she thought. Seeing that I am blonde and small, not dark-haired and powerful like Armide. Mr. Drake was so close to her. Was this how common ladies and gentlemen conducted themselves, with this easy proximity?

  “Would you like me to stay here with you?” he asked. “To keep the nightmares away?”