by Amy Jarecki
“I anticipated you might be more tractable—a bit of a shrinking violet.”
“Hardly. I have been on my own for five years and if I cowered to powerful people, I would presently be no more than a street urchin,” she said, stepping further into the entry, still shaking and starved.
Vaguely, Bria noted the opulent simplicity of the duke’s abode as he guided her through the entry. The immediate impression was that of masculinity. An enormous portrait of a black stallion greeted them, stark, dark-wood furniture, green and white striped wallpaper, tasteful, unpretentious wainscoting. The décor was simple, exquisite, and uncluttered.
“Pennyworth,” Ravenscar said to a man in black coattails and white gloves who could be none other than the butler. “This is Miss LeClair. She took ill on the voyage from Calais and is in sore need of sustenance. Please tell Cook we must be fed immediately.”
The man’s gaze shifted to Bria but revealed no judgement on his part. “Straightaway, Your Grace.” He had gray-streaked, thinning hair atop his head, which seemed to have migrated down to his hedgerow of eyebrows—a long nose, hollowed cheeks. He wasn’t quite as tall as his master. After bowing, the butler left them.
Bria glanced from the closed door to the very large, devilishly handsome and domineering duke who owed her a well-prepared meal. “Shall we?”
SEATED AT THE DINING table with ample light, Drake studied the ballerina from behind his wine glass. He hadn’t expected Miss LeClair to be so young, but then performers were usually young unless they were well established in their professions. Upon their arrival, she’d asked to freshen up, emerging from the withdrawing room with her hair smoothed, her face and hands washed, and a darling smile—one worthy of a halo of wisteria. Now that she’d also imbibed in a few sips of sherry, a bit of color had sprung in her cheeks. As a general rule, he preferred more full-figured women. But there was something about this dancer he couldn’t put his finger on and he had a blasted time preventing himself from staring at her.
Whisky. That was it. The color of her eyes was that of aged whisky. Soulful, expressive, and luminous, they were wideset, but not too wide. And the lady’s hair wasn’t brown. It was more like cinnamon with wisps of fairer blonde framing her face. Her eyebrows were expressively defined, and her eyelids drooped a tad as if she were tired, which anyone would be after an arduous journey. A straight nose suited her face. But was it her mouth that enticed him? Her lips weren’t thin as were many of the constant stream of heiresses introduced by his doting mother. On the contrary, Miss LeClair’s lips were full, and the corners turned up a tad in repose.
She held her glass in a dainty hand and took a sip. Those whisky eyes met his for the briefest of moments before she blushed and set the glass down. Seeming to study the cut of the crystal, she traced her finger along the stem. “I mustn’t drink any more.”
As if on cue, a footman arrived with pastries and a soup tureen.
“Ah, sustenance. This will set you to rights.” Drake sat back while they were served, pleased to see Miss LeClair select the largest pastry on the platter, take up the correct knife, slice it in two, then try to look well-mannered while she shoved it into her mouth.
“Mm,” she moaned, her eyes losing focus.
Good God, the dancer’s enraptured face looked as erotic as a woman pleasured. Drake shifted in his seat. Miss LeClair posed a picture of feminine innocence, not one of Aphrodite. He would stop staring this instant.
“Coming to London when so many patrons have quite high expectations must be unsettling,” he said.
She gulped down her bite. “Somewhat, though I am thrilled to be given a chance.”
“How long have you known you would be dancing in Mademoiselle Taglioni’s place?”
“I was only told two weeks before we left Paris, though I have been Marie’s understudy since La Sylphide opened last March.”
What was this? She was advised a fortnight before, yet Monsieur Marchand hadn’t bothered to send word ahead? The man most likely had known of Taglioni’s intentions months in advance. The bloody backstabber had set him up for failure. Well, Drake wasn’t about to lie down and allow a Frenchman to take advantage. First thing after the holidays, he planned to have his solicitor renegotiate the contract at the very least.
If only Miss LeClair had given him some tidbit of information to make patrons curious, he might be able to assuage a riot before opening night. “Tell me about your childhood.”
She took two spoonsful of soup before she said a word. “Must you know more? I’ve already explained my past.”
He watched the candlelight flicker in the reflection of his silver knife. “Taglioni is the daughter of a renowned choreographer. She pioneered toe dancing. That, in and of itself, would have ensured Chadwick Theater would be sold out for the Season.”
With a turn of her head, Miss LeClair’s chin rose, delicate eyebrows arched pridefully. “As you saw, I dance on point as well. We’ve worked to reinforce the slippers to make dancing appear more effortless. In fact, I’d like to think I was instrumental in perfecting toe dancing.”
“Interesting point. But what else? Go back to your time in Bayeux.”
“As I said before, I didn’t even know I was a foundling until the couple who cared for me died.”
“Both passed at the same time? Was there an accident?”
“Smallpox. Those were the darkest days of my life.” Her shoulders fell a tad. “I was the only one in the village who would tend them—not even the physician would come.”
The memory of Miss LeClair in his arms weighed on him. She’d seemed frail. Though he suspected her will might be forged from iron. Drake’s gut twisted. Her past had been haunting, and it made him want to cradle her to his breast and vow to be her protector from this day forward. “How awful for you, and at such a young age. ’Tis a miracle you survived.”
“A miracle, perhaps, but the people of Bayeux branded me a demon.” She took another spoonful of soup, leaving a tad of moisture glistening on her lip.
“Is that when you went to Paris?” Drake’s tongue slipped to the corner of his mouth. What would it taste like to kiss her? Would she respond with the same passion she showed on stage?
Good God, I will stop forthwith!
“Oui.” She glanced away as if there might be more to her woeful story.
Drake thought of more important matters while the tureen was cleared and replaced by a roasted goose and leg of mutton. At least he tried to think of more important matters.
“Another course?” Miss LeClair asked.
“There will be three. Eat your fill.”
Drake stared at the candle flame, pondering the possible headlines for Tuesday morning’s paper. Ballerina and toe dancer extraordinaire who escaped the grips of the Angel of Death? A foundling who rose from the bowels of Paris like a shooting star? He tapped his fingers. Such statements would whet the appetites of the curious. He would dispatch a letter to Mr. Maxwell at the Post straightaway.
Drake finished his wine, suddenly curious to know her given name. Was it something exotic like Brielle, Evlina, or Alegra? By the way she danced, lively Alegra would suit her ideally. But he wouldn’t be so bold as to ask. The mystery would be solved as soon as Mr. Perkins had the programs reprinted.
A footman bowed with carving knife and fork in hand. “What is your pleasure, miss?”
“A bit of both, please.”
Drake held up his glass to be filled. “I’ll have the same.”
“With a side of cauliflower?” asked Pennyworth, giving a nod to a footman who’d just entered with the vegetables.
“Thank you,” Miss LeClair mumbled, her mouth already full. For such a diminutive person, the woman could eat like a prize fighter.
Entranced, Drake hardly touched his food, watching her consume a goose leg, a quarter of a breast, three slices of mutton, and the entire bowl of cauliflower. “Fascinating.” He only realized he’d spoken aloud when she glanced up.
Her eyes enormous, she drew ele
gant fingers over her mouth. “I beg your pardon?”
Food certainly had a way of brightening her complexion.
“I do not believe I have ever seen a small woman eat with such robust abandon.”
“Oh, dear.” She swallowed with a gulp. “Forgive me. I was so hungry I forgot my manners.”
“Not at all. ’Tis refreshing to see a lady with a healthy appetite.”
“Truly, I never shovel food into my mouth like a starved dog. I have no idea what came over me.”
He offered her the last slice of lamb. “I think anyone who dances as vigorously as you must need more sustenance than, say, the daughter of a nobleman who sits in her withdrawing room and embroiders or reads all day.”
Miss LeClair frowned. “I cannot imagine such idleness.”
“Quite.” Drake couldn’t imagine the lady at his table doing anything but dancing with the vigor she’d demonstrated that day.
Vigor that could make any man’s loins stir. He ignored his own inopportune ping of desire. His loins stirred fifty times a day, just like any red-blooded Eton graduate. Lustiness was part of being male, which was why God created Sunday service...to be reminded they were not barbarians. The Duke of Ravenscar had the responsibility to be a gentleman. To respect others just as he commanded respect. And Miss LeClair, possibly the most gifted dancer he’d ever seen, would receive his respect tenfold.
Clearing his throat, he finished his second glass of wine while he pondered the differences of the fairer sex. Drake abhorred the idea of entertaining a mistress. He’d tried it once. Never again. On the other hand, his mother was unduly anxious for him to marry, a topic that detracted from appreciation of any female, including the feminine form sitting beside him. In truth, now he’d spent a bit of time with Miss LeClair, she was far prettier than a dormouse.
Far prettier.
The final course arrived—stewed plums with cream and brandy sauce, and the ballerina showed no signs of slowing down. Holding her spoon like a practiced duchess, she took the tiniest of nibbles, closed her eyes and moaned. Well, so much for being duchess-like. Nonetheless, Drake preferred Miss LeClair’s unfettered expression of delight to any of the debutantes his mother had introduced.
A grin stretched the corners of his mouth. How refreshing to see a woman display such unabashed pleasure. Such a simple thing, eating. But Miss LeClair brought to the table a new sense of passion for well-prepared food.
Her gaze lazily shifted until it collided with his. “This is so good, it must be sinful.”
Drake picked up his spoon and tasted, not quite able to look away. “Cook is a master at tantalizing the palate, but I assure you, nowhere in the Bible does it say that eating stewed plums is a sin.”
“I will trust your word, then,” she said, a bit of mischief dancing in her eyes as she scooped a larger bite. “You said your mother resides in a grand mansion. Do you live here alone?”
“I do, though I keep a small staff of servants.”
“In Bayeux, we had a housekeeper and a cook which was ample for the three of us.”
Drake employed hundreds of servants, but he considered his Half Moon Street town house to have a modest staff. A stable manager, a coachman, two stable boys, a valet, Pennyworth, who went with him whenever he moved houses, two scullery maids, a cook, two footmen, and a housekeeper. If Miss LeClair grew up in a manor with two servants, he wasn’t about to tell her his smallest estate merely supported twelve.
When nothing remained of her dessert, Drake asked, “Are you still hungry?”
“Not at all.” She clutched her palms to her midriff. “In fact, I can barely breathe beneath my stays.”
“See? I told you I would ensure you were filled to the brim before I took you home.”
“Thank you for your kindness.” Sitting back to allow the footman to clear her bowl, she dropped her hands to her sides. “I do have one question for you before I go, however.”
“And what is that?” His heart stuttered as he met her whisky gaze with curiosity. Pretty wasn’t the right descriptor for Miss LeClair. Beautiful? Remarkable? Both good, but not precise.
She clasped her fingers and regarded him with a sober expression, luminous, yet ever so astute. “I want you to know that I understand how important the opening of La Sylphide is to your reputation. If there is one thing I can do to endear myself into the hearts of Chadwick’s patrons, what would that be?”
His answer took no time to ponder. “Your opening performance must be flawless. You have no name, no pedigree upon which to lean, and yet you’ll be dancing in place of a woman who has both. People will be looking for reasons to discredit you. Do not let them.”
Chapter Four
ENJOYING A GAME OF billiards, Henry Somerset up-righted his cue stick when his man entered the salon. A chill always managed to charge the air when the former Bow Street Runner made an appearance. With a gaunt face and dark features, had beheadings still been a form of corporal punishment, the runner would have fit the bill for the king’s headsman.
“Your Grace.” The man removed his hat and bowed. “My informant has advised that Miss LeClair will play the leading role in La Sylphide.”
“God save us.” Henry pounded the butt of his cue onto the floorboards while heat flared up the back of his neck. “Why didn’t your people stop the imp in France?”
“There wasn’t time.”
“There never is. Damn it all, this should have been avoided years ago. You assured me the child would be brought up to become a governess or at least something respectable.”
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed while he stood at attention, saying nothing.
“Fie and double fie,” Henry continued, “I blame Sarah Parker for the girl’s disgrace. You never should have trusted her. Thespians are banes of society, women of ill repute.”
“Agreed,” the headsman’s features grew even darker. “They are all debauchers of the worst sort.”
Henry slapped a billiard ball, watching it slam into the bumper. “And you let that foundling come here, blast you.”
“She knows nothing.”
Inclining the cue stick toward his man, Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Mind you, your duty is to see it remains that way.”
“Nearly twenty years have passed.” The runner showed no inkling of fear. “King George is dead. The trail is wiped clean.”
“You’d best ensure it remains so, else we must take matters into hand.” Henry lowered his voice. “You know what I’m saying.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that, though I am and will always remain your servant. Meanwhile, rest assured I shall continue to be vigilant whilst LeClair is in London.”
“Good. And find out what she really does know.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Returning his attention to the table, Henry reached for the billiard rack. “I have avoided a scandal all this time and I am not about to sit idle while the ugliness of the past rears up and smears my family’s name. I am fifth in line to the throne. My daughter has moved on—married a peer, a good man. I will not see her ruined in his eyes.”
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Pauline jumped off her bed and thrust her fists into her hips. “I was about to inform the stage manager that you’d gone missing.”
Bria’s jaw dropped. “How could you think of doing such a thing?”
“I expected you back hours ago. For all I knew, you’d been kidnapped by an English highwayman or worse.”
“I don’t think there are any highwaymen in London.”
“Well, there are plenty of scoundrels.”
Bria spotted her portmanteau on the bed across from Pauline’s. “Oh good, my things have arrived. Have you been to the bathhouse?”
“I was waiting for you. And you haven’t told me what happened. For heaven’s sake, we’ve been here less than a day and I’m already at my wit’s end.”
“Forever the mother hen.”
Pauline tapped her foot. “Britannia.”
Groaning,
she locked the door, took Pauline by the hand, and pulled her onto the bed. “Very well.” Thank heavens only they were sharing the room together. Some of the girls in the corps had to share four to a room. They may have chosen an attic chamber all the way up on the fourth floor, but at least they had privacy. “You mustn’t tell a soul.”
“Do I ever?”
“No,” Bria stood and opened her portmanteau. “But this is different.”
“Mon Dieu.”
“Um...” She took out a clean chemise, trying to think how she could omit as many details as possible. “When I was practicing on stage I grew so hungry I managed to fall into the arms of the Duke of Ravenscar.”
Pauline’s eyes practically popped out of her head. “You did what? How? Didn’t he leave the theater?”
“He came back.” Rolling the chemise around her hands, Bria explained all to her only friend, including the reason why Ravenscar had returned, the unbelievably delicious food and what he’d told her she needed to do to be successful. The entire time he’d acted gentlemanly and had been rather annoyed when she’d asked his coachman to leave her a block away from the boarding house. He’d allowed it, though he did insist on riding along and watching until she was safely inside.
When Bria finally took a breath, Pauline was gaping like she’d just opened a present filled with gold coins. “You were invited into His Grace’s town house? Scandalous!”
“Tais-toi! Who sided with Florrie about the virtues of being promiscuous?”
“You know I was teasing.” Clapping her hands, Pauline giggled. “What is it like? Is he as handsome up close as he appeared from the parterre?”
“Ah...the house is very stately, but not overdone—masculine décor.”
“He is a bachelor, I suppose one would expect the interior would appeal to manly tastes.” With a rapt glimmer in her eyes, Pauline clasped her hands. “But what about him?”
Bria gulped, not wanting to divulge too much. Good heavens, she couldn’t admit that the man set a new standard for attractiveness. Though they had no secrets, this once it might be prudent to be vague. “I imagine with a face like his, the duke has a mistress for every day of the week.”
