Rivers wasn’t any more comfortable with talk of unborn kicking babies than Father, and when Gus rubbed her belly to calm the “kicking imp,” he looked down with embarrassment. But that was no better: beneath the hem of her gown he saw that Gus wore not shoes, but backless slippers, and that her feet were so swollen that even those were snug. Horrified, he hastily looked to his own hands, resting on his own knees.
“Father has become entirely irrational on the question of his heir,” he said. “I do not know how you bear it, Gus.”
“I do because he means well,” she said, “and because I have no choice, because he is your father. I also trust that in time he will indeed be blessed with the grandson he so desires. You’re the scholar, not I, but I’m certain there must be some sort of reassuring mathematical law regarding the progeny of three healthy brothers.”
Rivers looked up sharply. “Three brothers?” he repeated suspiciously. “Are you party to the Lady Anne scheme as well?”
She tipped back her head and laughed merrily, the candlelight from the nearby girandole casting a coppery glow on her hair. There was no denying that Gus could be pretty, very pretty, even as pregnant as she was now, and Rivers understood entirely why Harry had married her. Lucia had liked her, too, and before he could stop himself, he was imagining Lucia with Gus and Serena, the three of them laughing happily together with a roomful of tumbling children around them. He was surprised by how appealing a scene it was to him, even if it was impossible.
“No, goose, I have no schemes for you and Lady Anne,” Gus said. “She seems a sweet enough lady, but she is not right for you. I cannot begin to picture her clambering up to your rooftop haunt at the Lodge.”
“Neither can I,” he agreed softly, and he couldn’t. He suspected Lady Anne would be one of those overly dainty ladies who shrieked at heights and clutched at her skirts and cap from fear a breeze would carry her away. She definitely wouldn’t see the beauty in a new moon, or beg to use his telescope, or curl close against his chest while he pointed out the stars. “Then I owe you my gratitude for rescuing me from Father and his matchmaking.”
“No, you don’t,” Gus said. “Because I must warn you: I am also matchmaking.”
He groaned. “Not you, too, Gus. Who have you found for me now? A cousin from the country? An old friend from school?”
“You know her already, Rivers,” she said, smiling. “It’s Mrs. Willow.”
He shook his head, stunned that she’d dare say that.
“No, Gus,” he said. “You must trust me when I say that is not possible.”
“And I say it is,” she insisted. “I have never seen two people more in love than you and Lucia. That is her proper name, isn’t it? Lucia di Rossi?”
He frowned. “How did you learn that?”
“I have my ways,” she said smugly. “Besides, it wasn’t that difficult. But do not distract me. Watching you two together at Breconridge Hall was like—oh, like poetry. You belong together, Rivers. Serena and I both saw it, and it was beautiful to watch. Love like that should not be denied.”
“Poetry isn’t true to life, Gus,” he said, and stood, too agitated to remain still. “There are so many things you don’t know about Lucia, or about me, either.”
“Then tell them to me,” she said promptly. “Make me understand why you cannot be with the one woman who is meant to be yours.”
He shook his head, not knowing where to begin. “She dismissed me, Gus,” he said. “The night of the benefit. She told me she’d be happier without me, and sent me away like some dunning tradesman.”
Gus fluttered her hand dismissively through the air. “I do not believe it,” she said, “because it cannot be true. Did you tell her you loved her? Did you speak of your future together?”
“She didn’t let me,” he said mournfully. “I was going to tell her all about our future together. That night I even had in my pocket the key to a house I’d put in her name.”
Gus gasped. “Oh, Rivers, you didn’t! You were going to ask her to become your mistress?”
“Yes,” he said, glancing around uneasily to make sure no one overheard, for mistresses were another topic that was not encouraged in his father’s house. “After the time we’d spent together at the Lodge, I didn’t want to give her up.”
“But to keep her as your mistress,” Gus said again, appalled. “Rivers, that is so shameful and unworthy of you that it’s beyond bearing. If you’d offered her a house, she’d think it meant she wasn’t good enough to live in your home with you. How can you be so thickheaded? A woman like Lucia would never settle for being kept. If she had even a hint of what you’d planned, then I’m not surprised she asked you to leave. You’re fortunate she didn’t break a bottle over your head and shove you down the stairs as well.”
“But what else was I to do, Gus?” he asked plaintively. “I didn’t want to lose her.”
She looked up at him pityingly. “Rivers, in many ways you are the most clever and learned gentleman I have ever met, but in love you are nothing but a thick-witted dunderhead. If you don’t want to lose Lucia, you don’t make her your mistress. You ask her to marry you.”
He stared at her, too stunned to speak. To Gus it must seem so damnably obvious, and yet he had never let himself dare to consider it. To have Lucia with him always, to never be apart from her, to love her forever—it was everything he wanted.
Except she didn’t want the same things.
“If I asked Lucia for her hand, she would not accept,” he said, the certainty of it turning each word to lead. “She told me that the stage was the only thing that would make her happy, and that is why I let her go.”
Now Gus was shaking her head. “She may have told you that, but it isn’t true. Why couldn’t she act and marry you? Why couldn’t she do both? There’s no law at present against married women on the stage, is there?”
He frowned, thinking of how eagerly she’d thrown herself in amongst the other actresses and actors, leaving him behind. Would she do the same if she were his wife?
“You are thinking too much, Rivers,” Gus said with exasperation. “I can see it in your face. Did Harry tell you that I made him take me to see Lucia in Romeo and Juliet?”
“He did not,” Rivers said, and somehow this felt oddly like some kind of fraternal betrayal. “Was she—Lucia—as fine in the role as everyone says?”
“Better,” Gus said. “I cannot believe you haven’t gone yourself. No, I can believe it, for if you had, you would know she still loves you.”
He thought of what made Lucia so special as an actress. Oh, he had corrected her accent and her grammar, and helped burnish the rougher edges, but her talent was her own. She had always wanted to make people cry, but to do so she had had to draw that emotion from deep within herself and share it with her audience. She’d been fearless that way. She dared to think of what she could give rather than what she could take.
He thought again of that last farewell, and now he realized what she’d really been saying. She hadn’t said she’d be happier without him; she’d said he’d be happier without her. She hadn’t pushed him away. She’d tried to give him his freedom, and he’d been too caught up in his own pride and sorrow to see the difference. He had in fact been—what was it Gus had called him?—a thick-witted dunderhead.
“You are being entirely too quiet, Rivers,” Gus said warily, “which means you are thinking too much. If you become like your father next and begin to protest that Lucia is foreign, or a theatrical person, or some other foolish obstacle as to why you cannot marry, then—”
“Lucia will sleep beneath the stars with me,” he said, his mind made up. “Why should I care who her parents were?”
Gus smiled, her face full of joy.
“If that is true, then you must go to her now,” she said eagerly. “Go watch her as Juliet, now, tonight, and you’ll see how much she loves you still. You may have already missed the first act, but that’s mostly sword-fighting and brawling anyway. Go, Rive
rs. I’ll make excuses for you to the others.”
He grinned, and bent to kiss her cheek. “Thank you, Gus, for everything. No wonder my brother loves you so much.”
“Go, go!” she said, shooing him away. “It won’t matter one bit unless you return with Lucia on your arm.”
—
Lucia hurried off the stage, her thoughts on her final scene. She’d already taken the potion that had made Juliet appear lifeless, and she’d only the final scene, where she’d awaken to find Romeo dead and kill herself. She was glad the play was nearly done, too. Some nights were more exhausting than others, and tonight she’d given so much to her performance that she was completely drained, with little left.
“Mrs. Willow, a moment,” said Mr. McGraw, catching her by her arm. His face was wreathed with concern, and he held her as if he feared she’d collapse. “What is wrong? Are you unwell?”
Wearily Lucia shook her head and shrugged. “Nothing is wrong,” she said. “Some performances are more taxing than others. You know that as well as I.”
“I do, but tonight seems different.” He studied her face, skeptical. “It is a virtue to put much of yourself into your role, but you can go too far, and let the passion destroy you. I won’t have you ill.”
“You needn’t fear for me,” she said. “I’m well enough.”
But she wasn’t. She wouldn’t explain it to Mr. McGraw, but the shock she’d felt seeing the news-sheet with the mention of Rivers and his impending betrothal had fueled her performance. Her Juliet tonight had been more desperately in love than any other, and felt the agony of being parted from Romeo more deeply. She had thrown herself into the play as if she were jumping overboard from a ship into the deepest sea, and she’d let the lines and her emotions dash and carry her like stormy waves. It was no wonder that she felt so battered and spent, or that it showed on her face.
“You are certain?” McGraw asked, not persuaded and watching her closely. “The way you are now, I’m going to make doubly certain that Romeo’s dagger holds a false blade, or you truly will stab yourself.”
She smiled, thinking of the harmless, rickety trick knife with the spring-loaded blade. “Not for the sake of a play, I won’t.”
He smiled, too, with relief. “Then go change for your death scene,” he said. “But mind that I’ll be watching you.”
She left, and quickly shifted into her last costume: Juliet’s white linen burial-clothes. The other actors saw and understood her mood, and kept their distance, nor did they speak to her, leery of breaking her concentration and the spell of her performance. By the time she’d returned to the stage and climbed onto the painted wooden box that served as her marble tomb, she was once again firmly in the grip of her character.
She lay there as the scene played out around her, her eyes closed and her hands folded over her breasts. She heard the scrape of the mock swords, the deaths of Paris and Romeo, the bustling horror of Friar Laurence, and yet all she thought of was Rivers.
She’d tried to be so noble, giving him his freedom for true happiness, but she hadn’t realized how painful it would be to watch him find that happiness with another woman. Now she realized that she’d never love another man the way she had—no, she still—loved Rivers, but all the regret in the world couldn’t change what she’d done.
It was, quite simply, too late.
By the time Juliet awoke and saw the horror of her dead Romeo, Lucia’s grief was raw and eloquent, her few lines achingly poignant. Frantically she kissed Mr. Lambert, her portly Romeo, found the false dagger and raised it high. She barely heard the gasps and alarm of the audience as she stabbed herself with heartrending anguish, and fell across Mr. Lambert’s body.
That was the end of Juliet. All she’d need do now was lie still and pretend to be dead, the hardest part of the play. She was thankful that her hair had trailed over her face like a veil as she’d fallen, for tears were still sliding down her cheeks, her emotions so mixed that she could not stop them.
As soon as the curtain fell, Mr. Lambert immediately sat upright.
“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously. “Faith, I’ve never seen such a Juliet as that!”
She nodded, recovering with great, shuddering gulps of air and dashing away her tears with the heel of her hand.
“I—I am,” she said. “It’s done now, isn’t it? It’s done.”
She meant not only the play, but what she’d had with Rivers, too. All of it was done.
“Indeed it is,” Mr. Lambert said, helping her to stand. “Come, the audience is wild for you. Are you recovered sufficiently for your bows?”
She nodded, and forced herself to smile. No matter how she felt, the audience was expecting Mrs. Willow. They didn’t know about Rivers and his soon-to-be wife, nor did they care, and now she must try to do the same. The cheers and applause were deafening, the loudest she could recall, and as she curtseyed yet again, she realized for the first time she hadn’t looked to the first tier boxes for Rivers before the play.
Maybe it truly was done after all…
The tiring room was even more crowded than usual, with far too many people crushing into the small space. She was greeted with more applause as admirers pushed forward to congratulate her. She tried to smile, but tonight she had no patience with their slavering praise. Tonight it meant nothing to her. All she wished was to be left alone.
She was only half-aware of a scuffle near the door, of one more man pushing his way into the room.
“Lucia!” Rivers called. “Lucia, here!”
Shocked, she turned toward his voice, unsure whether she’d imagined it or not. “Rivers? Why are you here?”
“Lucia,” he said, holding his arms out to clear his path.
The crowd recognized him and melted back to give him room. He was rumpled and mussed, his golden hair falling across his face and his clothing without its usual neatness, yet he was still impossibly handsome, impossibly perfect to her. She forgot the lady he was supposed to be marrying, the cruel things she’d overheard his father say, how she’d tried to be noble and failed. None of that mattered now. This time he’d brought no flowers, but he didn’t need them. His smile was more than enough for her as he held out his hand to her.
“Lucia,” he said again, and the din around him faded as the others listened and craned their necks. “You were—you are—magnificent.”
She smiled, and realized she was crying again. That was what he always said to her, and she answered the way she always did, too.
“Truly, Rivers?” she asked, her voice squeaking upward. “Truly?”
“Yes, truly,” he said. “And yes, you made them all cry, just as you’re crying now.”
“I cannot help it,” she said, her smile wobbling. “It’s seeing you here.”
“Ahh,” he said, that familiar, slightly-grumpy noise that he used to fill time while he thought of what to say next. Oh, how much she’d missed him, every part of him! “So you made your audience cry, and now I’ve done the same to you.”
“Yes,” she said, every bit as foolish as he. “That is, I am very glad that you came here tonight.”
“I’d a reason for doing so,” he said, and to her shock, he sank down on his knee before her. “An excellent reason. You see, I’ve found it’s quite impossible for me to live without you. I love you that much. Mrs. Willow. Miss di Rossi. My own Lucia. Will you marry me?”
Now she was the one at a loss for words. She gasped, stunned, her heart beating so fast that it drummed out everything else. She had never imagined this, never expected this, and most certainly never wanted this—this disaster.
Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their collective breath, waiting for her reply. Rivers’s smile widened, certain she was simply too overwhelmed to reply—which, of course, she was, though not for the reason he believed.
Oh, how much she loved him when he gazed up at her like this!
“Please say yes, Lucia.” He took her hand and kissed it, not letting it go. �
��Please be my wife.”
She gulped, her eyes brimming with fresh emotion. There was only one possible answer to give now, only one, and she gave it.
“No, Rivers,” she said. “No.”
“No?” Rivers repeated, the single word echoing as if in a cold and empty cave. How in blazes could she refuse him? He’d offered her his heart, his title, his world. He’d done the honorable thing, the only thing, and yet she’d rejected it all. “Lucia, I love you, and you love me, and I want nothing more than—”
“No,” she said again, more firmly this time, and scattered tears as she shook her head. “No.”
He only half-heard the low, collective groan of disappointment and commiseration from those watching, and a single woman clicking her tongue with dismay. Awkwardly he rose to his feet, still clutching Lucia’s hand. He felt foolish and ashamed, confused and distraught and furious, too, but most of all he felt as wounded as if she’d taken a sword and cut him to the quick. Damnation, he loved her, and she loved him. They were meant to marry, and be together always.
Weren’t they?
“I wish to speak to you alone,” he said. “There must be some more private place than this.”
“My dressing room,” she said, reluctantly. “But there’s nothing more that—”
“Come with me,” he said tersely, pulling her through the crowd and down the narrow hall. “Which one’s yours?”
“The last,” she said. “Rivers, please, I—”
“Not until we’re alone,” he said, leading her into the tiny dressing room and slamming the door shut. No doubt the crowd was already rushing to follow them and listen shamelessly outside the door, but at least he wouldn’t have to see their looks of pity. When he finally released her hand, she immediately pulled it back, rubbing her wrist. He hadn’t intended to hurt her—he’d never wish to do that—and guilt and remorse jumped in to join the rest of his turbulent emotions.
A Reckless Desire Page 34
