by Maya Rodale
But now she wanted to embark on more. He didn’t know what to make of it. He needed a minute to think and she was already off on a new topic when he finally tuned in to what she was saying.
“You kissed me, Theo. Really, truly, deeply kissed me.”
“Yes.” He had some idea of doing it again. The sooner the better.
“Afterward, I looked in the mirror and saw my lips were full and red. My cheeks had the most becoming flush. My eyes were brighter. I looked beautiful, Theo, for the first time ever.”
“You are beautiful,” he said quietly. But she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. Because it was him and her and he said that and he was surprised to find he truly meant it.
“I wondered. What if a woman could look and feel like she’s always just been kissed? Like she has love on her side. Like she can take on the world.”
“There is a much easier solution, you know,” Theo murmured.
If they’d been alone, he would have kissed her.
As it was, there were half a dozen women present to act as chaperones, or, should he try anything ungentlemanly, a vigilante mob.
“But one can’t be kissing or just kissed all the time,” Daisy said. “We cannot be kissing all the time. And I should like to look and feel this way when you are not around.”
“Who says I won’t be around?” Theo dared to ask.
He was starting to like her. Desire her. She had a catalog of her perceived flaws at the ready. Yet the more Theo looked at her and learned her, the more beautiful she became to him. To him, hers was a face of challenge and opportunity, pleasure and adventure. Who wouldn’t find that beautiful?
She was the one who gave him the opportunity to do something. To take the privileges he’d been born with—wealth, connections, status, an eye for beauty, and an understanding of fashionable women—and put them to good use. Theo liked the man he was becoming because of her and her ideas, schemes, and ambitions.
But these were truths that got stuck somewhere between his heart and his mouth. Because it was him. And Daisy. And they were, until recently, enemies.
“You. Me. Our scheme.”
“Your mother has sent invitations. My father has been tasked with a monstrous champagne order. Which of course he’s having his secretary handle. My point is, it seems like there will be a wedding. Everyone is proceeding as if there will be a wedding.”
“I won’t marry you because our scheme has run amok and I expect you wouldn’t marry me for that reason, either. We’ll figure something out. In the meantime, I need you to take me to the theater.”
“Why?”
“Because greasepaint. And lip paint. And rouge. It’s not unusual for actors and actresses to wear it, especially with the new gaslit theaters. I need to understand how it works, how it performs, how I can possibly improve it.”
“Daisy, I can’t take you backstage at the theater. If we are seen or glimpsed or if someone so much as makes a fleeting glance in our direction while we are there, your reputation will be ruined.”
“And yours will be just fine,” she retorted. “It is so unjust.”
“I’m sorry that’s the way of the world.”
“When did you become such a stickler for propriety? Here I thought you were one of those Millionaire Rogues. One of those dissipated playboys who had Manhattan as your playground. One of those idle bachelors who was forgiven everything because you are rich and a man. Since when does that man shy away from a quick jaunt backstage with a girl?”
“I am as horrified as you by my sudden concern with propriety, but the fact remains that your reputation—”
“What if I don’t care about my reputation?”
“You might not. But other women do. And one of the easiest ways for a woman to raise questions about her virtue, to use an old-fashioned double standard, is for her to wear lip paint. Rouge. Whatever cosmetics you concoct. If you are going to convince enough women to start wearing cosmetics that you’ll have a profitable business, your reputation will have to be unimpeachable.” He paused and added, “Speaking as your business partner.”
Her expression darkened. “I was annoyed when you were just a pretty face but now—”
“Now that I am talking sense and reason, I am even more frustrating?”
“Precisely.” She scowled at him. “As my business partner I would think you would be amenable to a little risk in order to grow our business. To invent something new, to start a whole new industry. To show everybody who underestimated or dismissed us that we are daring and successful.”
Drat, she was right and he did not want to admit it. This new ambition of his flared. Because if they, say, could make a million or if they could, say, inspire competitors, then he might be successful enough to risk telling his father and maybe, just maybe, earn the old man’s grudging approval.
There was also one other little matter that he had to bring up.
“If we go to the theater, if we go and consort with actors and actresses, then we run a real risk of needing to marry. For our reputations. For the sake of our business. Are you willing to risk it?”
Chapter Nineteen
The greatest performance happening in New York right now is taking place at Jack Swan’s brokerage firm. One has never before witnessed such unprecedented returns.
—The New York Post
Tuesday evening
The Empire Theater
It was just a night at the theater, Daisy told herself as she dressed in a very new, very stylish gown from the House of Adeline. But this was not a dress for just a night at the theater. The midnight blue taffeta was made to fit every curve of Daisy’s body. The flourishes were minimal; burnished brass buttons, unfashionably small sleeves that suited Daisy’s face and frame more than giant puffs of the current style, and tufts of tulle around the waist and bustle to draw the eye and conceal the designer’s signature pockets.
Daisy applied a whisper of lip paint to her lips—a new formula she was testing—and slid the tube into her pocket, along with some spare money, so that she would not be beholden to Theo tonight, and a key to the house in case she wished to creep in at a late hour unnoticed.
Convenient things, pockets.
There was no hope of slipping out of the house unnoticed—not as a young woman of means, with a mother like hers—and so their faux engagement was spectacularly convenient as Theo came to call and collect her for their evening out.
“Oh, hello, Theo. How lovely to see you.” Mrs. Evelina Swan was in fine, fawning form. Her delight in seeing her marital scheme making progress to the altar was barely concealed.
By barely, one meant not at all.
Daisy almost felt guilty for deceiving her mother and taking this supposed triumph from her. Then she remembered that her mother had no qualms about forcing her daughter to marry against her wishes and found her conscience remarkably soothed.
But then, as some sort of torture, Daisy had to stand aside and watch as Theo and her mother—two pretty people—acted all pretty toward each other.
“Good evening, Mrs. Swan.” Ever the charmer, Theo gave her a roguish smile and kissed her extended hand. A bit much in Daisy’s opinion but 1) no one asked her and 2) her mother was lapping it up. “I swear you look younger every time I see you.”
“Oh, Theo, you know just what a woman wants to hear.” Her mother batted her eyelashes. Good God. He was potentially her future son-in-law.
“We don’t want to be late,” Daisy said. With all the nuance and romance of a pipe bursting at a construction site.
Because her mother.
Was flirting.
With her pretend fiancé.
“Where are you two young things off to?” her mother asked.
“We have tickets to see It Had to Be Her,” Theo answered.
“I haven’t heard anything about that performance.”
They had deliberately selected an unfashionable, unpopular production to see in order to minimize the risk that they might be spotted.
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br /> Regardless, the only aspect of the theater that interested her mother was what one wore to it. And with that in mind, she cast an appraising eye at her daughter. It wasn’t something Daisy hadn’t endured a thousand times before. This time she felt different. Tonight she had a purpose beyond just enduring the evening. So she straightened tall and showed off this fabulous frock to its best effect.
Theo’s palm resting at the small of her back didn’t hurt, either.
“How fun. Daisy, you look . . .”
“Beautiful,” Theo declared. There was no hiding the appreciation in his eyes. She could almost believe he meant it, too. She knew he desired her; after that heated carriage ride there was no pretending otherwise. But she hadn’t thought he might also think her beautiful, even standing in the drawing room next to her mother, who was once named eighth out of the ten most beautiful women in Manhattan. It didn’t matter, but it did mean that something had changed. She didn’t know what to make of it.
Her mother, however, took this compliment as not just a compliment but a sign that her plans would soon be successful. They would have a devil of a time getting out of the wedding now.
“Don’t encourage her,” Daisy muttered as she took his arm and they took their leave. Her maid, Sally, would join them in the carriage and they would meet Harriet at the theater, who would act as their chaperone.
Her mother thought they were off to the theater as some sort of thing that couples did to enjoy each other’s company and ensure that everyone else knew it. She would have fainted if she’d known their real plans. Any mother would.
The show was merely an excuse.
At the conclusion of the performance, Daisy and Theo bid good-night to Harriet, exited with the crowds, and then promptly swung around to the back of the theater and clung to the shadows as they searched for the back door.
“I never imagined I’d be skulking around back alleys with you,” Theo remarked.
“I think we’ve done a lot of things together we never imagined,” she quipped.
All he did was reach out and hold her hand.
Just like that the moment was suffused with romance. There, in some dirty back alley with just the glow of streetlights and the thrill of danger and the promise of adventure.
Just like that without any words, he said, I feel the same.
And, I’m glad.
And, “We should get going.”
“Right.”
The reason they were attending a less popular play at a theater that Theo didn’t usually frequent was because they determined it would be better for everyone if they didn’t run into his friends who were prone to being idiots and gossips, and this mission had to be stealthy. Word could not get out that Daisy Swan was cavorting backstage. Word could not get out that they were embarking on schemes like this together.
It was also because of Eunice.
“Tell me again who Eunice is?” Theo asked. Eunice was a member of the Ladies of Liberty Club. She was a playwright and representative of actors and actresses and lived an exquisitely Bohemian existence. A woman like Daisy should have no business knowing a woman like Eunice. So she simply answered, “A friend.”
He rapped at the back door to the theater.
Theo knocked again and the door finally swung open to reveal a rather tall woman wearing gentleman’s attire.
“Ah, there you are,” Eunice said. “I was getting nervous. Delicate, sheltered flowers such as yourselves skulking around the stage door is a recipe for disaster.”
Theo cleared his throat. It was a very strong, manly clearing of his throat, which served to remind Daisy to provide introductions.
“Theo, this is my friend Eunice.”
“And who do we have here?”
Daisy introduced him. “This is Theodore Prescott the Third.”
“The fiancé.”
“Allegedly,” Daisy replied.
“Rumor has it,” he added.
“People are saying,” Daisy said.
“And how are you two acquainted?” Theo asked politely.
“If we told you, we’d have to kill you.” It was not clear if Eunice was joking. She was not known as the joking type. But then she propped open the door and motioned for them to follow her in.
And so began their backstage adventures. For, ahem, research.
Research indeed. Daisy was here for a reason, one reason only, and it wasn’t to watch scantily clad actresses throw themselves at her fiancé. Her alleged, rumored, but definitely pretend fiancé.
But—oh, look!—Theo had scarcely made an appearance when he was encircled by a throng of nubile young women with the perfectly formed, symmetrically arranged features that a girl like Daisy could only dream about. Without any overt effort being made to cut her out of the circle, Daisy found herself standing off to the side, watching, with only Eunice to keep her company.
Theo did not look disappointed by this turn of events. This made her feel . . . things.
Greasepaint.
She was here to learn about greasepaint.
“I had not expected everyone to be so . . .” Daisy’s brain flailed around, trying to find a proper word but in the end she could only say, “Naked.”
“They’re not naked, Daisy,” Eunice pointed out. “They’ve got their shifts on. Marianne is even wearing a robe.”
“Well, then,” Daisy huffed. “If Marianne is wearing a robe.”
She had no reason to feel . . . something that might have been either jealousy or possessiveness. Because they were here for business, but it looked an awful lot like Theo was here for pleasure. She knew they were in a fake engagement but all of a sudden she was confronted with the reality of it: he had no obligation to be faithful to her. And she wanted him to be? What did that even mean?
Eunice leaned against the wall and gave Daisy a once-over. “Hadn’t pegged you for the prude matron type, to be honest.”
Daisy just sighed. “I hadn’t, either, until I caught sight of all these pretty, young, nearly naked women flitting around my fiancé.”
“Your alleged fiancé.”
“Right.”
“Rumored fiancé.”
“Right.”
“You told us that you don’t even like him.”
“I take your point, thank you.”
“Well, go on, then.” Eunice gave her a gentle shrug. “Go get him. Or go do what you came here to do. If you and I wanted to chitchat about boys and girls and birds and bees we could do that at our club meetings.”
“Right.”
Daisy squared her shoulders. Thank God she was wearing this House of Adeline dress. She took some comfort from the lip paint she had reapplied (again, she really had to work on that). But it was worth the effort, she thought. By making her mouth seem larger she would swear it made her nose seem smaller. She felt almost pretty. She definitely felt more confident.
Confident enough to approach Theodore Prescott the Flirt with some idea of staking her claim. As his business partner, of course. And his fiancée, even if it was a sham. No other reason at all, of course. Or so she told herself.
“Daisy! Let me introduce you.” He introduced her to Marianne of the robe, Claudette in a blush-colored chemise, Cordelia in a blue silk tea gown. “And this is my fiancée, Miss Daisy Swan.”
That word fiancée wasn’t enough to dim the heated, craving glances of women who liked what they saw—Theo—and hoped for more. They wanted his attentions, his kisses, the contents of his purse, jewels, and prominence by association and . . . kisses. The way they regarded Daisy indicated that they didn’t think a fiancée was any sort of obstacle at all. And why should they? Everyone knew their engagement was a forced match. Daisy and Theo hadn’t exactly presented themselves as an adoring couple in love.
So she tried not to take it personally.
“It is so thrilling to see the backstage area,” Daisy remarked. “But you, Theo, must also be accustomed to all this.”
By this she meant the actresses. The fawning
. The beautiful bare flesh on offer. The beauty she could not compete with. Especially not with lip paint that didn’t last.
“This is not my first time at the theater, no.”
“How delicately phrased.”
One particular woman, late to the small party that had gathered, strolled over and draped her long, bare, waifish arm around Theo’s neck. Interesting. What Daisy found more interesting were his slow reflexes when it came to removing said arm. Her confidence started to waver.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite Rogue of Millionaire Row,” she cooed. “I’ve missed you, Theo.”
“Esmerelda, hello. May I present my fiancée.”
“I thought that was just a rumor,” Esmerelda said with a laugh.
“Allegedly,” Daisy muttered.
“People are saying,” Theo quipped.
Still. That arm though. Right there. She felt a flare of jealousy so hot and fierce it scared her. That meant . . . she did not want to consider what that meant. Not now. It was such an effort to get here, so risky to be here, that she couldn’t waste her opportunity to learn.
“I’m actually just here to learn about the greasepaint,” Daisy said. “If you don’t mind pointing me in the direction of someone I could speak to about that? Possibly even someone fully clothed? Theo, why don’t you remain here? You look like you’re having a splendid time.”
The actresses found this curious.
“Theo, you have brought your fiancée backstage with the likes of us—”
“And she wants to go off and learn about greasepaint.”
“While you leave him here with us.”
“And you’re not at all threatened.” They peered at her. Daisy thought it was best to let them think that. There was not enough lip paint in the world for Daisy to feel like she could compete with these women. Not yet anyway. Most of all, she hated that she felt in competition with them.
Even in the clamor and glamour of the backstage it wasn’t difficult to discern what she was feeling, though it was hard to admit. She did feel the hot flares of jealousy and possessiveness as she watched other women touch her alleged, rumored, utterly fake fiancé.