by Alicia Ryan
“Oh. Well, that’s fair, I guess. Tell him not to worry. I won’t parade around with Darren here at the club.”
“And don’t let people see you leaving with him.”
She frowned, but saw the sense in it. “All right. Discreet is the word of the day.”
“I could take you out for a bit if you want. I heard you tell Phillip you wanted to see the city.”
“Oh, that’s so nice of you, but you look dead on your feet.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I was thinking more like tomorrow. I could come in a couple hours early—say, around two. I’d have to be back for my shift at 4:30, but at least you’d be out of here for a while.”
She couldn’t stop a grin. “I’m looking forward to it already.”
He gave her a nod. “Goodnight, then. I’m off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Night, Jack.”
She stared at the dark doorway after he departed, but then turned around and ran her hands along the keys, and they sounded out the expected scales. They were smooth under her fingers. Just like they would be in real life.
And that’s the problem, she thought. Everything here is either too real to be doubted or too fantastic to be believed.
Darren alone was the proof. Time travel. Vampires. It was completely nuts. Somewhere along the way, she’d had a complete mental breakdown, and now she was stuck in some weird reality her brain had cooked up to keep her occupied. She’d heard of that happening to people.
How the hell she’d managed to have a nervous breakdown in the middle of the night when the last thing she remembered was going to sleep, she didn’t know. But there was no other explanation for Darren—the way he needed her, the way he knew what she needed. That didn’t just happen. At least, not outside of a girl’s dreams. On the other hand, last night hadn’t been like any fantasy she’d had before. Hell, she’d never had a fantasy that good.
Her brain was outdoing itself. That was all.
Then why does everyone think you’re a whore?
That was no kind of fantasy.
She’d had two boyfriends in her life, the first of which she’d made the mistake of thinking was serious. But she’d only been seventeen at the time. After boyfriend number two, she’d had a few flings she wasn’t particularly proud of, but, even in her worst moments, she’d never thought of herself that way. That wasn’t her.
So where is that coming from? she wondered.
She put her head in her hands, but after a few moments decided her most immediate need was lunch. Figuring Myrtle would be at work in the big downstairs kitchen by now, she headed into the back to try to score a sandwich or a bowl of soup. Preferably both.
***
To say she was disappointed when she woke up from her nap and found herself still in the tiny bedroom was a dire understatement. But, fantasy land or not, she didn’t see as she had any other choice but to play the thing out. So she looked through the dresses she had to choose from—pearly yellow, the translucent white, a dark green she had yet to debut, and the black.
It was hanging over the end of the bed where she’d dropped it earlier in her haste to get changed, but she grabbed it up and put in on. Only black seemed to suit her mood.
She brushed her hair with the brush Padworth had provided along with the mirror. He’d also sent some basic linens and a note saying he expected her to wear her hair down.
She supposed that made her a bit more scandalous, but she didn’t care. She never wore it any other way. If anything, her hair was her one vanity.
And tonight, it looked especially touchable. She leaned toward her reflection. And was her skin smoother?
Her eyebrows shot up, and she gave herself a wondering stare. Maybe drinking vampire blood was good for one’s complexion. For some reason, that made her want to laugh.
Leaving her room, she headed straight for the stage. She’d expected a smaller crowd on a Tuesday, but most of the seats in the room were filled. Many of the gentlemen turned to face forward when she stepped into the room.
Every few moments, a uniformed footman would make his way along the back wall, shuttling a tray of drinks from the bar back out to the other rooms. No such thing as waitresses here, apparently.
She saw Phillip’s blond head out of the corner of her eye. She turned to see him standing in the doorway to the bar, a drink in his hand. She cocked a questioning brow at him, but he just shrugged and brought it over to the piano with him.
“Ready?” he asked, turning to her.
She sighed. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
He gave her a frown she might have interpreted as concerned if she hadn’t been in such a rotten mood.
Which led to her choice for her first song—“Bitch” by Meredith Brooks. It would be a fitting shocker for this bunch of woman-haters.
When it came to the bit about not being perfect, about being a little bit of everything—sinner and saint—she cast a pointed glance at Phillip, emphasizing the next line about not being ashamed.
The final refrain asserted that her lover really wouldn’t want her if she were any different, and from the front came a vigorous “hell no!” from a smiling Lord Hartley.
“How open-minded of you, your Lordship,” she said, rewarding him with an earnest smile.
He nodded. “Thank you. Please continue to open my mind.”
She laughed. “Is that a challenge?”
“I believe it is,” said the one named Everett, who seemed to be Lord Hartley’s constant companion. She couldn’t remember his title.
“Very well. This next song’s called ‘Womanizer’.”
Lord Everett chortled and raised his glass to her.
She bent toward Lord Hartley and let her voice ring out how he was a charmer, but she had to call it the way she saw it—and pretty much just called him a womanizer through two more choruses. She didn’t even know if the term “womanizer” had been invented yet, but the crowd seemed to get the drift because when she was finished, the whole room clapped.
Lord Hartley was smiling and not looking the least bit embarrassed.
“I shall endeavor to live up to your opinion of me, Miss Collins.”
Another round of laughter. Maybe the night was looking up.
And then she saw Darren at the door, his tall frame blocking out the meager light seeping in from the card room. Neither of them smiled, but she felt her skin sizzle under his gaze.
She didn’t wait for him to get to his table before she began to sing. Only he would know “Cold Man’s Nightmare” was meant especially for him. And that she was indeed a warm girl afraid of getting burned.
When she finished, he smiled at her. A warm, welcoming smile. From the cold man.
The next song, “Feel”, just demanded that she sing it. She didn’t know why. So she started out as it required—low and slow, then gave the chorus about wanting to feel real love all the power her voice could bring. Which was a lot. This was a song she could do justice to.
Halfway through, Darren had dropped his gaze and begun staring at the candle on his table.
Ha, she thought. The vampire has commitment issues.
She took pity on him and launched into John Mellencamp’s “Hurt So Good”. That got him smiling, and she smiled back and winked at him.
After that, she was feeling brave.
She looked down at Hartley. “Up for another mind-opener?”
He raised his brows but gave her an enthusiastic nod.
She walked over to the piano and leaned toward Phillip. “I haven’t done this one with you, so feel free to follow along or just sit and be shocked. No need to join in until the chorus anyway. The first part is more or less spoken.”
His face looked pained. “Whatever you say.”
“Atta boy.”
She moved back to center stage. Here goes.
She lowered her voice and began the story of how, hallelujah, it was about to start “Raining Men”.
She looked defiantly around the room as she sang. All
eyes were on her, and even Lord Hartley was gaping.
She threw her arms up in mock celebration when the last versed thanked Mother Nature, being a single woman herself, for raining men down from the sky above.
With the last “Amen”, she dropped her arms and looked around. It took a moment, but grins began to break out, and she gave a silent sigh of relief. She looked over at Phillip, who’d never joined her. He was frowning. No surprise.
Deciding enough was enough for one night, she finished her set with less provocative numbers, though Sinatra’s “Witchcraft” did raise a few brows.
When her set was over, she headed straight for the bar, where she found Jack serving up the drinks.
“What happened to the old guy who was here earlier?” she asked.
“Oh, that’s Thomas. He’s been here forever, but he can’t stand the late hours anymore. On nights when he works, I take over at midnight.”
“Is there anything you don’t do here?”
He shrugged. “Makes it harder for Padworth to fire me. What can I get you?”
“Oh, just water. And lots of it.”
She looked down at herself. “You wouldn’t happen to have a clean towel back there would you?”
He bent down and handed her a thin cotton bar towel. She wiped the sweat from her brow with it and swiped it down her chest and between her breasts. She lifted her hair to do the same to the back of her neck, but the towel was prized from her hand.
“Let me.”
Darren.
She held her hair up a little higher as he wiped her damp skin.
Jack returned and put her water glass on the bar with a little more force than was strictly necessary.
“Remember what I said,” he cautioned.
“Ah, right.”
She turned to Darren. The way he was looking at her made her not want to say what she had to say. “We are to keep our public displays of affection to a minimum. Padworth thinks my being taken might dent the appeal.”
“To hell with Padworth. You don’t have to stay here.”
She laughed at that. “Oh, yes I do. I need a roof over my head, for one.”
“You know I’d give you that.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve known me for less than a week. I think Padworth’s profit motive might be more long-standing.”
“Hardly.”
“Besides, I need to sing.”
“There are other things you could do.”
“Oh?” She furrowed her brow at him. “What do women do here, actually? Respectable women? I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“Well, they manage their households if they have them. Unmarried women—I don’t know. They’re schooled in needlework, music, drawing, cooking—and etiquette and deportment. Maybe also some history and geography.”
“Well, I sure as hell don’t do needlework. I can’t sew a button back on. I can’t draw, and I think we both know I couldn’t even fake whatever ‘etiquette and deportment’ might be.”
“I like you the way you are.”
“The way I am is a singer.”
“I guess you’re telling me there’s a limit to the demands I can make?”
“I’m not a big fan of demands, no.”
He smiled. “So I may be reduced to begging?”
She snorted. “Somehow I doubt it.”
“Cold Man’s Nightmare—that was funny, by the way. But I like being warm when you leave.” He cocked his head at her. “How do you come up with all these songs?”
She shrugged. “I have kind of a photographic memory for songs. If I hear it, I know it.”
Lowering her voice, she leaned toward him. “Comes in handy when stranded in the freaking 19th century with no sheet music.”
“Phillip doesn’t seem to have any problem either.”
“No, he’s quite gifted.”
Behind them, Jack cleared his throat, and Roxanna put a hand on Darren’s chest and pushed him back a step.
“Come on, maybe we should mingle,” she suggested.
“I thought you weren’t allowed to mingle?”
“Fine. Then you should mingle and make a conspicuous exit without me.”
“So you’re not coming with me tonight?”
“I don’t think it would be wise.”
He leaned down to whisper to her. “Please don’t say that. I don’t want to feed from anyone else.”
She looked up at him. “They’re just food to you. You said as much. Go have dinner, and I’ll meet you tomorrow night. As long as we don’t leave together.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll wait. I don’t want anyone else.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
He pressed a lingering kiss to the back of her hand, making her think hard about what she was missing.
“Tomorrow, Roxanna.”
She watched him leave, appreciating the elegant grace with which he moved through the room. She wondered if that was a vampire thing. Probably not. Probably he was just perfect. She couldn’t hold back her sigh.
Behind her, Jack coughed again, and she turned to find him wearing a rather mocking grin.
“Oh, shut up,” she chided. “And get me a double whiskey.”
He quirked a brow at her. “That bad?”
“It’s not for me.” She tipped her head toward the other room. “It’s for our mutual friend.”
That set Jack to chortling. “One medicinal whiskey coming up. I hear it’s good for shock.”
She took the glass when he handed it over the bar. “Thanks. I hope you’re right.”
The sitting room had cleared out, though some patrons sat finishing drinks or conversations.
Phillip was still at the piano.
She walked up behind him and handed the drink over his shoulder.
He looked down at her hand, took the glass and downed it in two gulps.
“Oh, my,” she said.
He twisted around on the stool to look at her. “They like it when you sing to them,” he said. “That was a bit of genius. Hartley’s now a loyal fan.”
“Wow. Thanks. That wasn’t what I was expecting you to say.”
“I don’t have words for what you were expecting me to say.”
She cringed. “Was it really so bad?”
“Well, the raining men song gave me a shock.” He bent his head but then looked back up at her with a slight smile. “But it was pretty funny by the end.”
She grinned at him. “Sweet Phillip. There may be hope for you yet.”
Another voice called to her. “Miss Collins?”
She looked up to see Hartley approaching them. “Lord Hartley. What can I do for you?”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, actually, I have a little proposition for you.”
She saw Phillip stiffen.
“Sorry, Hartley. Not interested.”
“No, no. Don’t misunderstand. It’s altogether something different.”
She raised her brows. “Well, out with it then.”
He glanced at Phillip. “Might we talk in private?”
“I’d prefer it if he stayed,” she said.
“Very well.” He moved to stand behind the piano and leaned one arm over the top. “You see, I need a wife.”
She felt her eyes widen, but Hartley held up a hand. “Hear me out. I haven’t been having much success at finding anyone who piques my interest. I want you to help me find her.”
“Her?”
“Someone more like you.”
She had to laugh. “Careful what you wish for.”
“Highmore could bring you to Lady Charleton’s ball tomorrow night, and you could help me weed out the candidates.”
She gave him a pointed look. “Isn’t that a little business-like for wife hunting?”
He shrugged. “It’s the way things are done. The title needs an heir, and an heir requires a wife. And every girl over the age of 16 seems to want a title for herself.” He smiled. “I’m virtually accosted every night.
”
“How troubling for you.”
He had the good grace to laugh.
“But I won’t be attending any balls,” she said. “For one, I don’t dance, at least not in any way your set would find acceptable.”
His brows rose. “You don’t dance?”
“No.”
“Well...” He hesitated. “That wouldn’t stop me from introducing you around.”
“I’m not going to any ball, Hartley.”
He looked crestfallen, and she took pity on him. “But you don’t need me there in person. Tell me, what do you usually look for in your ‘candidates’? She used air quotes to drive home how much she loathed the term.
He shrugged again. “Pretty, preferably blonde, smiling, a good dancer. Young.”
“All genteel with downcast eyes and fluttering eyelashes?”
“Yes. I suppose that’s accurate.”
“And let me guess. They laugh with delight at all your little witticisms.”
“What’s wrong with that?” he asked. “Everyone laughs at my jokes.”
She shook her head. “Next time, Hartley, look around the room and find the woman who looks the most bored. Like she can’t even believe she’s there.”
Now he looked even more confused. “Why bored?”
“Because it probably means she has a brain in her head and knows how to use it. Even better if she gives you the cold shoulder.”
“And how is that a good thing?”
She smiled. “Means she has good judgment.”
Phillip snorted trying to hold back a laugh.
“You’re having me on, aren’t you?” Hartley asked, bringing his hand up to rest it under his chin. “I am serious about this.”
“So am I. Find the woman who’s too good for you.” She bent her head and looked up at him with wide eyes. “And then prove her wrong.”
He seemed to turn that over and then smiled. “I do like a challenge.”
“You’re actually going to do it?” Phillip asked.
“Why not?” Hartley replied. “What’s the worst thing that could happen? I pick a cold fish who rejects me in front of all my friends and acquaintances.” He shrugged. “I’m a grown man. I should be able to handle that.” One shoulder went up. “I may not be able to show my face for a week or two, but there are worse sentences.”
“Yes, I imagine your ego can withstand the blow,” Roxanna put in.
