He was a horrendous actor, but one would never know his performance stank like four-day-old fish based on the audience’s response. As he’d bumbled his last line, thunderous applause and cheers had erupted in the auditorium. He’d even received a blasted standing ovation.
Mr. Hawke beamed at her over the women’s heads, turning her legs to jelly. Claudine growled under her breath and looked away.
She understood his appeal. Truly, she did. Because every time he walked in the front door and his gaze locked on to her, her pulse sputtered while her heart tried to burst free from her chest. Nevertheless, he was missing one essential element every actor needed. Talent.
The only woman to agree with Claudine was her good friend Tilde, whom she suspected might have joined Mr. Hawke’s enthusiastic devotees if her lover didn’t require her attention most of the day. When Tilde had ventured from Lars’s side while he rested, she had been guilty of ogling Mr. Hawke a time or two. Claudine knew this because her friend felt compelled to confess her bad behavior.
Of course, Tilde never allowed her guilt to keep her down for long. As soon as she cleared her conscience, she would pose a question Claudine would rather not answer.
Doesn’t he have the most delicious mouth? I bet his kisses would curl your toes.
Claudine always answered that she hadn’t noticed. It was a lie.
She tried very hard not to think about what his sinful lips would do to her. His nearness already wrecked havoc with her ability to breathe normally. She might just die if he ever touched her.
Oliver nodded, and she realized Mr. Hawke had caught his eye.
“When did the two of you become so chummy?” she grumbled.
Oliver didn’t respond. “Ladies, I’m afraid you might be distracting Miss Bellerose and Mr. Hawke. I must ask you to allow them to rehearse in peace.”
“Merci,” she said, suddenly feeling less irritated with him.
A few of the women complained at being given the boot, no matter how politely the manager had asked, but they did as he bade. Natalia smiled at Mr. Hawke as she passed in front of him. “You were near perfect today, sir. You’ve a natural inclination toward acting, I believe, but if you need someone to read lines with you, you know where to find me.”
His magnanimous smile returned. “Thank you.”
More compliments followed, and the naive man gobbled up every word of praise while Claudine seethed over Natalia’s implication. How would Mr. Hawke know where to find her unless he’d already visited her dressing room?
Once the auditorium cleared, Claudine exhaled in relief. It was about time Oliver put a stop to this nonsense and step into the role. If Lars was truly better by the end of the week, he was a quick study, and he would be ready by opening night.
She and Oliver met Mr. Hawke on stage. For a long time, Oliver stood silent, shaking his head slightly. “Something is missing. I cannot put it into words exactly.”
Thank God, he was finally going to tell him the truth. Owner or not, Mr. Hawke must be removed from the production unless they all wanted to become laughingstocks. She sent a sympathetic smile in his direction. Rejection was an unfortunate way of life for actors and actresses, but the first few times could be devastating. She appreciated Oliver’s attempt to soften the blow.
Mr. Hawke’s gaze darted toward her then back to the manager. “Yes, I wondered if you had noticed.”
She touched her stomach where nervous flutters were stirring. “Perhaps I should allow you privacy.”
As she eased away from the men, Mr. Hawke swung toward her. “Please stay. Since this pertains to you, I believe you should be included in the discussion.”
She blinked. “How does this pertain to me?”
“Well...” Mr. Hawke’s shoulders lifted toward his ears and his smile was too disarming by half. “I don’t know how to say this without causing offense.”
“You are afraid of offending me?” His response was baffling, as she was unaware of any fault he could find with her performance. She looked to Oliver for guidance, but he looked away. She crossed her arms. “Whatever this is about, the two of you have spoken already.”
“Claudine, you know I don’t become involved in disputes between my actors and actresses,” Oliver said. “I will leave you to work it out between yourselves.”
Before she could respond, Oliver stalked away, leaving her to face her leading man without support. “Coward,” she grumbled.
Mr. Hawke grinned, showing his dimple. “Perhaps we should discuss this over a meal. Would you like to join me at the Clarendon?”
He had been inviting her to dinner every night since their first rehearsal, and she had refused every invitation. He didn’t surrender easily.
“We have a performance in less than two weeks,” she said, “and we are far from prepared for opening night.”
He nodded. “Of course, you are right. Could we sit?” He gestured toward a bench, a prop for the garden scene where the main characters share their first kiss. They hadn’t gotten to that scene yet, and she didn’t want to think about kissing him when she suspected they were in for a row.
“I will stand. Thank you, Mr. Hawke.”
He sighed, signaling he was giving up the pretense that this was a friendly matter. “I’ve noticed you address everyone by their given names. I would like it if you called me Russell. I don’t wish to be treated differently because of my station.”
She felt her eyebrow inch up. He was already receiving special consideration. If he were not the owner, he wouldn’t be in the play.
He pretended not to notice her dubious stare. “May I call you Claudine?”
“May I decide after you insult me?”
“Fair enough, although I want to make it clear my intention is not to inflict insult. We are both invested in seeing this play succeed and saving the theatre.”
“As I recollect, you wanted to close the doors. That does not speak to your interest in the Drayton or the welfare of the company.”
“I wouldn’t be discussing plans for winter if I didn’t want to make a go of it.”
“But you just decided against selling a few days ago. How do I know you won’t change your mind again in a few weeks?”
“You don’t, and I refuse to make promises I might be unable to keep. If the theatre begins to turn a profit, I see no reason to sell.”
And if the Drayton continued to lose money, Oliver would be on the streets. It always came down to money with men like Russell Hawke. She narrowed her gaze on him, taking his measure. He lacked that air of desperation that came with a gentleman in dire straights, but perhaps he was a better actor than she gave him credit for being. He certainly wouldn’t be the first gentleman she’d met with pockets to let. “You seem very concerned with profits. Do you have gambling debts?”
He recoiled. “What? No! Do I look like a gambler?”
She shrugged. As far as she knew, men prone to gambling were not born with any distinguishing characteristics. It wasn’t as if they bore a mark on their foreheads.
“Well, I’m not,” he snapped. “I bet on a race or two in my younger days, but nothing more. I would rather buy something that can be enjoyed.”
“But you won’t deny you have debts?”
His face flushed a deep crimson. “It is vulgar to discuss one’s finances with strangers, Miss Bellerose. Could we please concentrate on the play?”
“As you wish.” She crossed her arms, signaling she was finished asking questions, but she held up a finger when he started to speak. “Just an observation. Only the wealthy find it vulgar to discuss money.”
“The play, Miss Bellerose.” He held up his script, which he still used in rehearsal since he hadn’t memorized any scenes beyond the opening one. Lars would have been perfecting the first act by now. “I read through the play again last night, and I’ve made a few notes.”
Notes? Claudine’s jaw dropped.
“Places where we can liven it up.” He flipped through his pages. His eye
s shone as he looked up and pointed at the paper. “After Lucinda meets with James and learns her father was kidnapped, there should be an attempt on her life. James could have a sword hidden in his walking stick and an epic fight ensues. Then James can be a true hero and save his lady.”
She held up her hands to signal him to stop. “Slow down and think for a moment. This is a love story. There is nothing romantic about someone being run through with a sword.”
“Shakespeare wrote love stories with swordfights. Take Romeo and Juliette for instance.”
“Both characters died.” She pressed her hands to her head in a bid to keep it from exploding. “For heaven’s sake, how does one write a romance where the lovers die?”
“Well, you needn’t kill our characters. You do realize no one expects you to be Shakespeare.” He chuckled again, setting her teeth on edge. “Not many are capable of writing a truly memorable tragic love story.”
Her body began to shake. “Did you just say I am no Shakespeare?”
“Not in those words, but there is no reason you should be. He is one of the greatest playwrights of all time, and you are at the beginning of your vocation.”
Something in her snapped. She’d had enough of men and their blasted arrogance. It was beyond time she stood her ground. “And you, sir—” She poked a finger in his direction— “are no Romeo!”
He cocked his head. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you are the worst actor to ever stand on a London stage. The worst!” She had never cared for melodrama, but too many years of pent up anger burst through the small crack he’d made in the dam, and suddenly she was drowning in melodrama. “If I gave you a sword, your blocking is so horrendous, you would probably stab your own eye. You either mumble your lines or bellow them. And your eyebrows!”
He smoothed his fingers over one of his perfectly arched brows. “What about them?”
“One goes this way, the other goes that.” She flicked her pointer finger up and the other down. “It’s as if they are caterpillars wandering at will all over your face. I have no idea what emotion you are trying to portray, but they are highly distracting.”
“Oh. I hadn’t realized.”
“If you want this play to be a success, give up this childish fantasy that you are an actor. We only have ten days to perfect our performance, and you are still dependent on your script. Oliver can do this, even if he hates every moment, and Lars is improving each day. He could be completely recovered by opening night.”
Mr. Hawke stared at her with his lips parted. His defeated look was a far cry from the anger she had expected from him.
Now that she’d blurted everything she had been suppressing for the past few days, she realized how harsh it sounded.
He regarded her in silence. The light had drained from his hazel eyes, and her nose tickled in the way it did when she wanted to cry. How many times had she born the duke’s insults? His heartless criticism had chipped away at her soul, but she wouldn’t allow herself to become like him. The thought made her queasy.
“I’m sorry.” Truly, she was. “This play is everything to me. I’m so afraid of failing that I can’t sleep at night. My mind won’t stop thinking about what could go wrong, or how I could be making huge mistakes that could hurt everyone. I know there is no excuse for how I spoke to you, but maybe you can understand that I’m not myself lately and forgive me for speaking out of turn.”
She squeezed her hands together as she waited for a response. The trickle of worry that he might change his mind and close the theatre after all only added to her guilt. Oliver had asked her to be nice, and she had failed—epically. If her friends were displaced, it would be her fault. A heavy weight settled on her chest.
At last, he spoke. “Am I really that bad?”
“No, of course not.” She could add lying to her list of transgressions. “I was hurt when you unfavorably compared me to Shakespeare, and I lashed out. I should have held my tongue.”
“Gads. I am that bad.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “I should have suspected the women were only flattering me. They are worried I will close the theatre.”
“That’s not true,” she said with a slash of her hand. “They are fond of you, especially after you let them toss you on the ground.”
One of his errant eyebrows migrated north. “They like me, eh? That’s the reason they are torturing themselves by watching the worst actor in London?”
“I wouldn’t call it torture, exactly.” He was very nice to look at. There had never been so much bickering in the dressing rooms. Natalia and Rachel were looking to retire early from the stage, and a gentleman benefactor didn’t come along every day, especially one as pleasant to look at as Mr. Hawke.
A smile slid slowly across his face. “I think torture is exactly what you would call it, Miss Bellerose.”
“That word implies your performance is unbearable, and that is simply not the case.” She couldn’t help responding to his smile with a teasing one of her own. “I would certainly choose your acting over the rack or being tarred and feathered.”
“Hmm... That almost sounded like praise. Now, stop trying to protect my feelings, and tell me what the women really want. Are they hoping I won’t hold them to their contracts and take a cut of their earnings to cover room and board?”
Heat seeped into her cheeks. Surely, he was familiar with the types of arrangements made between gentlemen and their mistresses, but from the way his eyes bore into her, he wasn’t going to cease until she answered. “Some actresses are in the market for a benefactor, and flattery is but one method to gain a gentleman’s attention.”
His dimple appeared in his cheek. “I guess it is safe to assume I have nothing to worry about with you. Unless your tactic is to gain my attention by insulting me.”
“You will never have to worry about me,” she said with a slight frown. “I am uninterested in becoming any man’s mistress.”
“I see.” His forehead wrinkled. “Which ones are they?”
Of course, he wanted to know their identities. It was natural for men to be interested in beautiful women, especially ones who were easy conquests. She had no claim to him or any right fantasizing about rendering him speechless for a moment with one of the moves she had learned from Regina.
“Natalia and Rachel,” she said through stiff lips.
“Hmm...” He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket to check the time. “I am sorry to cut rehearsal short today, but I am meeting Marcus Fletcher in an hour. Would you do me a favor?”
She couldn’t very well refuse after berating him. “Oui.”
“Please look at my notes. If you hate my suggestions, I promise not to mention it again.”
“Very well,” she said with a sigh and accepted his script. “May I walk you to the door?”
Mr. Hawke offered his arm, and even though she knew contact was unwise, she linked her arm with his. At the door, he nudged her chin so she was looking into his eyes. The warmth of his fingers seeped through his glove and branded her skin. “I’m sorry for what I said about Shakespeare. Your story is lovely, and you bring it to life on stage. It is a pleasure watching you work.”
His sincere praise caused her to feel as if she were melting inside. “I have enjoyed working with you, too, Mr. Hawke.”
“You really are a bad liar.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling again. “I promise to have my lines memorized by the end of the week, Miss Bellerose.”
She gasped. “Aren’t you quitting?”
“Why would you think I am quitting the play?”
Holding up his script, she shook it above her head. “You are leaving your script. How are you to learn your lines if you leave it with me?”
“Ah, yes. I suppose it will mean extra long practices, and I should find a tutor. Was it Natalia that offered to help me with my lines?”
“No.”
He scratched his jaw. “Are you certain? Natalia is the redhead, is
she not?”
The bitter taste was back in her mouth. “Natalia is not going to tutor you.” At least not in acting. “She is a novice herself. You need someone with experience. Someone who knows what it is like to be on stage.”
“Should I ask Rachel instead?”
“No!” And because she’d lost her mind, she smacked him with the rolled up script. He flinched and laughed.
“I know how I want the role played,” she said, “so I will work with you.”
Lord help her, his smile made her forget she wasn’t supposed to like him. He was ruining her play, and he was breaking through her resistance.
“Be sure to get enough sleep tonight,” she said, shaking the script in his direction. “I need you fresh if there is any hope of teaching you anything.”
“As you wish, Miss Bellerose.” When he kissed her hand this time, he lingered a little longer than necessary. To Claudine, it didn’t feel long enough.
RESISTING ROMEO
CHAPTER EIGHT
Russell’s thoughts were still lingering at the theater when he met Marcus outside the hotel around three o’clock. “Apparently, I’m bad at acting,” Russell said by way of greeting as Marcus sauntered up to the hotel entrance.
“And this is surprising news?”
He scowled at his friend’s lack of shock. “Well, yes. Yes, it is.”
“What did you expect? You have no stage experience.”
“I know, but in rehearsals, most of the actresses said I was brilliant.”
“Most? I wonder which one disagreed.” Russell really didn’t care for the droll quality of his friend’s voice, or the way his mouth twitched as if he were trying not to smile. Marcus pulled his silver watch fob from his waistcoat and checked the time. “Are you any good at walking and talking? We are expected at half past the hour.”
“Somehow, I will manage.” Russell fell into step with his friend. “I’m sure you have already guessed it was Miss Bellerose that delivered the blow. She said I’m the worst actor she has ever seen.”
Once Upon A Regency Page 7
