"But stirr’d by Cleopatra.
Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours,
Let’s not confound the time with conference harsh:
There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch
Without some pleasure now. What sport tonight?"
He had by now lowered his tone to a more seductive purr.
But Miranda was not willing to give in to him just yet. Not after what he had said about having any woman he liked for sport. Her voice dripped sarcasm. "Hear the ambassadors."
George’s exasperation was explosive. "Fie, wrangling queen!
Whom every thing becomes, to chide, to laugh,
To weep; whose every passion fully strives
To make itself, in thee, fair and admir’d.
No messenger, but thine; and all alone,
To-night we’ll wander through the streets and note
The qualities of people. Come, my queen;
Last night you did desire it: speak not to us."
Then he took her hand, and reluctantly, she allowed herself to be led away. The last words were directed at an imaginary messenger. Then they were in the wings stage left and George was gazing down at her so intently, it was as though he had never seen her before.
Which in a sense he hadn’t. For Miranda’s performance had been truly remarkable, worthy of the best of London’s theatres. And his sense that he was missing something about her was as strong as ever. Even more worrying was his feeling of deja vu, that somehow he had been here before, met her before.
No, not in London. In his past. Yet surely a woman as vibrant and lovely as this he would remember? A fellow colleague in the service? No, not possible. The war had been over for nearly six years, and she was only in her late teens. His boss Castlereagh was a cunning man, but even he didn’t recruit out of cradles. Dorset? Perhaps. But it had been years since...
"You were magnificent. Completely transformed into a queen," he praised sincerely.
"Shall we do it again?" she asked with a pleased little smile.
"No, no, time is pressing on," he said quickly, refusing to succumb to the temptation of clasping her in his arms again. "Let’s do the death scene. Queenly, but with regrets. Of course, dying on stage is going to be difficult. We’ll aim for pathos. A couple of other little run throughs, and then we need to feed you and get you to put your feet up for a little while."
"Oh, I’m not hungry. And I shall most likely be too nervous to eat."
"Nonsense. It’s hard work projecting your voice, and this play is more difficult than most because of your explosive entrance. It requires a great deal of staying power. Try not to shout, though. Carry on with natural if deep breathing from the diaphragm, here," he said, indicating the area on his own body.
He took her hand and pressed it to his abdomen. She started but did not pull away. He recited a few of his lines. She could see the control, the raw power of his body leashed and mastered, bent to his will, an instrument of his art.
"Teach me, on my body."
Now there was an offer any man in his right mind would give his eye teeth for. She took his hand and clamped it at the divide between her ribs, breathed deeply, and began with her opening lines.
"Good," he said with a satisfied nod, just in time preventing his hand from gliding upwards over her ripe bosom. "Come out onto the stage and let’s see how far you can project. And remember the place will be full of people, including the orange sellers hawking their wares, so you’re going to have to be loud enough to make yourself be heard without straining your voice so that it gives out before the play ever ends."
He held onto Miranda as they walked back out, advising her on her posture all the while. "Not too stiffly, head up. If you get scared looking at the people, just stare at their foreheads. It will look like you’re making eye contact with every single one of them. A sort of spurious intimacy. But there’s no need to be scared. We’ll all be right here with you."
George moved his hand away at last, but pressed her own against her belly, and wondered at his self-control in not just grasping her magnificent breasts, so tantalisingly close.
But time was pressing, and he could not let his lust get the better of him, even though he felt as though he was about to spill like a schoolboy at any moment.
"I’ll go down and to the back. When I raise my hand, begin. And remember, the sound will also change when you move on the stage. Be sure to face forward when you can or at least half turn towards the audience."
His back now to her as he marched up the side aisle, he availed himself of the chance to alleviate the most unbearable pressure in his jewels by tugging them away from his body. He was so tense with need he thought his spine had been replaced by an iron bolt.
On the one hand he could see the uses of sexual tension on stage. He had observed Maggie and Hugo often enough, that slow sizzle of knowing. Now he was panting for the girl desperately, mindlessly. It was making him rigid with tension, leaving his head and neck aching.
It was his own fault, his enforced celibacy. For he had to keep his wits about him, and ever since he had met Viola Morrison, now Viola Grant, he had never even looked at any woman.
Until Miranda. And what he had thought he had felt for his friend’s delicate blonde sister was as nothing compared to the ravening lust this dark-haired beauty filled him with at the sound of her voice, the merest whiff of her perfume.
Not that she wore any—no, she was all natural, and so alluringly feminine he found himself longing to bury his face in the folds of her gown, press his head against her milky, graceful thighs and curl-covered mound, and taste her honeycomb until her sweetness poured over them both.
Good God. Even yanking his pendant organs as hard as he dared without doing himself permanent injury, George felt the surge of his climax rocketing through him. He stumbled into a seat, raising his hand to signal to her to begin. As he heard her musical tones, his original fantasy now changed to include her murmuring dulcetly in his ear, coos of pleasure as he treasured her with his lips, mouth and even teeth in an effort to drive her to the heights of the most ecstatic bliss.
In the clouds himself, he felt his shuddering going on and on, until at last he felt his climax subside. He couldn’t believe what had just happened to him. He hadn’t even touched himself except to try to stem the tide. It really had been too long....
He had never met a woman he wanted so desperately.
"How was it?" she asked innocently from the stage.
"What?" he gasped in shock, confusion and dismay.
"Could you hear me from there? Feel the tension and desire?"
He laughed explosively, trying to tug his cloying sodden clothing away from his body. "Feel it? My God, Miranda, you’re going to cause riots."
CHAPTER SEVEN
George’s words were prophetic, for Miranda’s performance nearly did cause several riots that night, for many different reasons, some of which even he could not have foreseen.
She proved even more magnificent in front of an audience, seeming not in the least nervous, though the butterflies fluttered in the pit of her belly and she could feel herself break out into a cold sweat.
But the hand massage and the image of the haughty Georgina Jerome floating on stage like a battleship of the line got her through the first scene, and it was all plain sailing for her from there.
George stood in the wings and watched her in awe. He and had all to do not to put his hand on his throbbing flesh as she became the Queen of Egypt, the embodiment of the goddess Isis.
For surely Miranda was divine. The audience was mesmerised, and hung on her every word. The orange sellers and trulls were livid that they could not ply their trade effectively with every man panting after the strumpet on stage. Every pub in the district emptied, and even some of the publicans wandered in to see what all the fuss was about.
Her light and saucy dramatic monologue before the show had stirred the few men in the original audience to a fever pitch. Many
had run out to fetch their friends to see the incredible new actress. Once the play proper had begun, her appearance in the gauzy gold costume which bared her cleavage nearly to her waist had caused every male heart to lurch in its broad breast.
Miranda had debated on whether or not to try to wear drawers underneath. But the white lace would have bulged and shown through, and a petticoat was of course out of the question.
Milly came to her rescue with a pair of well-cut silk pantalets which she had been making for Maggie. They did not ruin the line of the gown, but did make it look disconcertingly as if she were completely naked underneath.
George could not believe her boldness, and kept hoping she would stand closer to the footlights so he could see for sure. His head swam with desire, and he could see his own feelings etched on the fact of every man in the theatre as they too hoped for a glimpse of her dark triangle or her two rounded buttocks.
Even more alluring, though, were her breasts. A corset had been equally out of the question, and their natural high firmness plumped the deep vee of the top of the gown incredibly, though she was far more slender than Maggie. Their gentle unhampered sway as she walked was so eye-catching he had hardly been able to wish her luck as she had presented herself before the performance for his inspection.
"How do I look?" she had asked timidly.
"Merveilleiux," he had breathed, forgetting completely his role as the blustering English crime lord and pimp. "Incroyable. C’est magnifique."
"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur." She curtsied deeply, displaying even more of her cleavage to his bulging eyes, and gave a little happy twirl that was nearly his undoing. And her own.
"Time, ladies and gents, time to begin," Daniel commanded.
Her performance was word-perfect, with such passion and verve that everyone was on the edge of the seat at the end of the very first speech. But as the play progressed, there were grumbles of discontent, for Hugo was just not able to keep up with her.
The more he tried, the worse his performance got. He attempted to cover for himself by distracting her, making odd gestures which she could see but the audience could not, and rushing through the words which cued her so as to throw off her timing. He also pinched, groped and squeezed her whenever he got the chance, making the most of the fact that she could hardly protest in front of an entire theatre full of people.
No doubt he had to be upset about Maggie having been injured, and of course they were in love. But he was wooden and distracted, unresponsive to the words and lost in his own anger. He looked as though he wanted to be anywhere else in the world than there.
In fact, they had even begun to wonder if he was going to turn up at all, he had been so late. He had only arrived well after Miranda had completed her monologue and gone to change. He was shocked to discover it would be Miranda not Milly on stage with him, and in fact tried to talk them out of having any performance at all.
"The cash box is bursting for the first time since you signed on. Stop whinging and get out there," George told him in no uncertain terms. "You are not going to let everyone down. Maggie wouldn’t want you to."
He had glowered, but done so, though his upset was obvious for all to see.
At one point when they were both off stage, she whispered, "I’m sorry about Maggie. But just try to relax. I’m sure she’ll be fine."
He had glared at her. "Easy for you to say, you slut. Taking her job right out from under her nose. Offered yourself to the boss, didn’t ye? Futtered him to get the part, eh?"
Miranda didn’t understand the word, but his look of sneering contempt was far too clear.
"And did Maggie? To get the job in the first place?" Miranda asked coolly.
His face suffused with colour, and he raised his open hand. His wrist was caught before it did any damage to Miranda, but George was so livid he nearly snapped it like a twig.
"What the hell is going on here!"
"That’s what I want to know. I go off to take care of Maggie after she's injured. When I come back her job has been given to her tiring woman. Hot little lay, was she? A good enough ride to stake this whole place on? A bloody amateur? Or is she a real professional in other ways?" Hugo sneered.
George just about kept his temper. "I never complained about you and Maggie getting together and swiving swathes through the cast and crew. But don’t you dare accuse me of doing the same thing. And don’t let your jealousy of Miranda’s talent blind you to her decency."
Hugo glared. "Oh aye, decent all right, upstaging me at every turn."
"I never—" Miranda began to protest. "I’ve been trying to help, feed you your lines."
"Why isn’t Milly doing the part? She was the understudy," Hugo demanded petulantly.
"She looks like bloody Maid Marian, not Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, you twit," George growled. "And she would never fit into any half-way decent costume. Miranda knows the play by heart. She can even read. Now stop all this bloody wrangling and get out there! And don’t you dare try to hit the child again."
"Well, well. Looks like the eunuch has finally met his match," Hugo sneered, and stalked back on stage.
The silence between George and Miranda was palpable.
"Listen, Miranda," he said at last, "I’m sorry—"
"It doesn’t matter," she said with a shake of her head. "I know what he said doesn’t have one ounce of truth, so I shall just ignore it. But if he tries to hit me again, I’m going to tear his testicles off and feed them to the ravens."
He blinked in surprise, and laughed.
"He’ll be the eunuch, not you, George. And it just goes to show you how little he knows about you," she said with one long look at the front of his trousers. "I’d say you have a prodigiously fine pair of jewels, in a matchless setting, undoubtedly on a black velvet bed."
He choked, and she laughed throatily, pleased at her accurate if bold imitation of Georgina Jerome. This acting really was most liberating. As had been the sight of his yearning for her in her costume, and his coming to rescue her like a knight in shining armour.
Before he could even hope to find his tongue to reply, she swept off onto the stage.
George was so winded by her pointed gaze and words he slumped against the wall and looked down.
Damn. His fawn breeches left little to the imagination at the best of times, but now every line and curve of his anatomy fully on the alert and ready for action was highlighted and enhanced by their snug fit. Trying to cover himself with his coat tails actually only called even more attention to his desire.
How had she dared? Her words kept echoing in his head over and over again, driving him almost mad with need. He staggered into his office, shut the door, and for the second time that day allowed his fantasy of tasting and touching her, this time on her magnificent breasts, take him to the brink and right over the edge.
The audience too was reaching a crescendo of its own, for the better Miranda got, the worse Hugo became. Finally they began to boo and hiss him every time he opened his mouth. She began to panic. She knew he had tried to trip her up, groped her, tried to make her lose her concentration, but this was too much. Not only for him and his career, but for everyone in the company.
She looked straight out into the audience beseechingly, recalling George’s advice about looking at their foreheads.
The sight of so lovely a damsel in distress, trying to be heard above the increasing din, was enough to persuade all but the most persistent wags to settle down. The ugly torrent of rumbling discontent became a mere trickle of catcalls and jeers every so often when Hugo was particularly bad. At last they managed to get to the end of the act in one piece.
"Jesus God," Hugo complained when he stormed off stage. "They were about to bloody string me up! I’m not going back out there!"
"If you could just concentrate—" Miranda began.
His eyes narrowed. "You obviously have. You were just waiting for your chance and you took it, you little bitch. That whole innocent and kind act was just that.
I knew you were too good to be true."
"Now that’s not fair," she fired back. "I AM trying to help, help everyone."
"Help yourself to my wife's part--"
"There would be no part if the show couldn't go on," she protested mildly. "You get your share of the takings only if there is a play and people come to see it. Why, look! The house is packed tonight. The fullest I’ve seen it since I’ve been here. I’m not going to take all the credit for it, since this is of course an ensemble effort. But if we had cancelled, or Milly had been terrible, you’d all have got a pittance." George came up behind her now.
The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 6 Page 46
