With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “I must—”

  “She wasn’t on the ship.” He didn’t like that he was growling at the Frenchman, but nothing save the famous ballerina would be astounding enough for the London crowd. How in God’s name did Marchand expect him to meet the first payment due his lenders with an understudy?

  “Mais non, but—”

  “And you thought it was but a trifle to bring a substitute with no experience in her place?”

  “Your Grace, you must—”

  “Do you believe the English to be daft, uncivilized, and uncultured? Exactly how do you plan for a mere understudy to compensate me for my losses? You received payment in advance for Taglioni, the most famous ballerina in the history of dance, and you send me an untried, inexperienced, clumsy—”

  “Your Grace!” Travere had the audacity to stamp his foot.

  Annoyed by the man’s arrogance, Drake stiffened before the dance master continued, “If you will allow me to speak, I shall ease your concern. Our replacement is every bit as talented as Mademoiselle Taglioni, possibly more so.”

  At the surge of blood thrumming at his temples, Drake took in a deep breath. “I doubt your claims are true. I saw the diva’s performance at the Paris debut of La Sylphide and it was nothing short of stellar, hence my invitation for the privilege of opening what will become the most acclaimed theater in Britain.” Drake threw up his arms, gesturing to the tiers of boxes festooned with gilt filigree and red brocade drapery. Even the ceiling had been painted with the final scene from Romeo and Juliet by England’s own Thomas Webster. “No expense has been spared. Damn it all, sir, I paid for a grand spectacle!”

  “And that is what you will receive.” With an upturned palm, Travere curtly gestured to the aisle. “Please, if you will allow me to return to my duties, I have little time and much to accomplish.”

  Gaping, Drake exchanged flabbergasted glances with Perkins. Was the Frenchman completely dicked in the nob? Did he know he was addressing not only a duke, but the man who held his future success by the cods? Drake could ruin Travere—see to it the only position he could hope to attain was that of a dance master in an Australian penal colony.

  “If I must remind you,” he seethed through his teeth, “I am holding the purse to this production and I will remain where I stand until I have my due.” He slammed the silver ball of his cane into his palm. “I ought to call an end to this sham and send you back from whence you came.”

  “Ahem, I’m afraid that would leave us in a quite untenable situation,” Perkins edged in.

  Drake folded his arms and gave the dance master a pointed frown. No one needed to tell him he was in a scrape with no place to go. If he sent the Parisians back to the Continent and demanded damages for the loss of his investment, he doubted he’d see a halfpenny. If he allowed the performance to go forward without Marie Taglioni, his self-respect would be damaged beyond repair. Mother had no idea the Pall Mall mansion had been put up for collateral. A matriarch of the ton, it would destroy her to move into a lesser home. And to add salt to the wound, Drake’s wager with Percy would be forfeit.

  He looked to the stage where three dancers halfheartedly marked their steps, doing nothing to calm his ire. “I’ll need to see this fledgling whom you deem remarkable.”

  “I’m afraid that is not advisable.” If Travere could pose any greater a buffoon, he’d just crossed the line. “Mademoiselle LeClair has been a day on a rocking ship in foul weather and before that, two days riding in a carriage from Paris to Calais. She will not be in ideal form until she has had a night of rest.”

  About to swallow his spleen, it took five and twenty years of practiced restraint to keep from wrapping his fingers around Travere’s neck. “If I do not have the pleasure of witnessing a performance by your prodigy within the next quarter-hour, I will have you and your band of miscreants escorted off the premises with no passage home.”

  “All right then.” Travere scratched his head, making his hair stand on end. Most likely, the man needed a good tot of rum, given these circumstances were presumably not of his doing. Nonetheless, he was the responsible party who had been sent to ensure the ballet was fit for the premiere opening of a grand theater. “If you will take a seat, I shall arrange for a demonstration.”

  “Thank you,” said Perkins, though Drake wouldn’t have wasted his breath.

  “Mind you,” the dance master added, “there will be no costumes and we will be working only with a rehearsal pianist.”

  “Good God, man!” Drake’s spleen had finally burst. “Stop spitting excuses and see to your obligation.”

  Marching across the parterre, he opted not to sit in his second-tier center box. Rather, he stood at the back of the pit with his arms crossed. Mr. Perkins followed suit. Together, they waited without a word between them while Travere waved a baton and shouted orders in French, making dancers scurry about. The rehearsal pianist fumbled through pages of music as if he had no idea what he was doing. The stage had cleared by the time the accompanist flipped out his coattails, sat erect, his fingers at the ready, his gaze focused on the dance master.

  Travere gave the man a nod and, after a few measures of introduction, a circle of ladies bourréed from stage left, their arms swaying above their heads like wheat. A cascade of scales accompanied each dancer as she, in turn, bent at the waist emulating the opening of a flower until only one remained in the center, her arms held in first position. Without the illumination of the gaslights, details blurred into silhouettes. The shadowy and remaining figure was smaller than the others and wore a dark traveling dress. The outline of her hair was disarrayed as if she had returned from the midst of a tempest.

  “The unveiling of a dormouse,” Drake growled behind his fingers.

  Disastrous. If my mother suffers one day from the consequences of Marchand’s backstabbing, I will call him out and show no mercy.

  The music paused for a moment, then continued into another set of tumbling scales while Miss Dormouse appeared to float forward, opening her arms. Admittedly, her port de bras was reminiscent of the graceful revealing of a peacock’s tail.

  Drake ignored the whisper of tingles along the backs of his arms. He even considered calling a halt to the performance until his jaw dropped. With a whirlwind of notes, the ballerina commenced a mesmerizing display of twirls on the tips of her toes as Taglioni had done in Paris. However, Miss Mouse extended her leg so high in the air, Drake reached forward as if to prevent her from snapping in two. On the dance continued with a flurry of effortless grace. Then his heart stopped as she leaped so high in the air, it was as if a breeze had captured the woman and took her sailing aloft until she elegantly descended and performed a glissade into an arabesque, finishing with a pirouette.

  When the music ended, a void spread through Drake’s chest and refused to stop expanding until Perkins began to applaud. Suddenly realizing he’d just watched a woman dance so passionately that polite society would consider her movement lewd, he elbowed his theater manager in the arm.

  “Did Travere mention the ballerina’s name?” he whispered.

  “LeClair, if my memory serves.” Perkins waggled his brows. “She is astounding.”

  “Shocking is more apt.”

  The man grinned, deviousness filling his eyes. “Yes.”

  “But she’s still plain.”

  “I disagree. I would classify the woman as perhaps…” The theater manager adjusted his spectacles thoughtfully. “An enchantress.”

  “Hmm.” Drake shifted his gaze to the ornate painting on the ceiling which alone had cost a fortune. It’s a damnable risk, but such beauty deserves to be seen. “Lord save us, I will allow the premiere to go on as planned.”

  “Shall I inform Monsieur Travere?”

  “It may lead to my ruination but do so.” Heading for the door, Drake intended to slip home and drown his misery in a bottle of brandy. A theater bearing his name was opening four days hence with a young woman who danced like Beelzebub’s mistress and who looked
like… Not a dormouse.

  Who knew what the gaslights would reveal come opening night?

  Damnation, I am doomed.

  Before he made it outside, a man dressed in full-length trousers and a woolen doublet stepped from the shadows, his neckcloth uneven and hastily tied as if he could ill afford a valet. “Yer Grace, Maxwell with the Morning Post ’ere.”

  Drake stopped. Wonderful. The vultures had already begun to descend, posturing to pick the remains of his carcass.

  “Is it true Marie Taglioni gave ye the slip?” The meddler sounded as if he’d just arisen from the bowels of the East End.

  Drake should have ignored the impertinence and kept going but he didn’t. “Where the devil did you hear that?”

  “Sailors off the ship, Yer Grace. Said ye’re in more trouble ’an King Charlie at Whitehall.”

  “They are mistaken, I assure you.”

  “I’ve seen the passenger manifest. Taglioni wasn’t aboard. Wha’ ye aim to do? Will Chadwicks still open come Tuesday?”

  Well, the bird had already flown and a day hadn’t yet passed. May as well set things in motion and cause a real stir. “Did the sailors not tell you?” Drake leveled his gaze with the journalist’s.

  “Can’t say they did.” Licking his lips, the man leaned in, clearly hungry for a scandal and all too eager to report the news of His Grace’s impending ruination. Once Drake’s lenders caught wind of imminent disaster, they’d be pushing for early payment, eager to claim the premium real estate occupied by Ravenscar Hall.

  “I’ll only say this once.” Drake tapped the tip of his cane on the floor. “Chadwick Theater will open as planned, debuting a mystery ballerina.”

  “Cor.” The man gaped with wide eyes. “But people ’ave paid to see Taglioni.”

  “They have, and I will not honor one single request for an advance refund. If, after the performance, Chadwick’s patrons are not satisfied, the theater will consider any reasonable appeal for reimbursement.”

  “She’s that good, eh?”

  “We shall find out Tuesday evening, shall we not?”

  “If ye please, can ye give us ’er name?”

  “Mademoiselle LeClair. I tell you here and now, London will be dazzled with talent never before seen on the stage.” Drake tugged up his gloves. “Good day, sir.”

  He strode away, swinging his cane as if he hadn’t a care. Unfortunately, the tempest swirling in his chest was as ominous as the thunder overhead. And droplets slapping his face served as dancing pixies sent from Satan come to laugh at his demise.

  Chapter Two

  Bria dropped onto a chair in the backstage dressing room and rubbed her neck. Traveling had taken its toll, but she mustn’t give in to exhaustion. For the first time in days, she was finally able to stretch her legs and dance. Being confined in a carriage and then the steamer packet across the channel had all but suffocated her. And then Monsieur Travere had been cajoled into giving a demonstration for the Duke of Ravenscar and Mr. Perkins. Did they not know dancers couldn’t step off a ship and deliver their best? Goodness, she’d spent the entire sea leg of the voyage on deck with her head over the rail.

  To her chagrin, she’d given the worst performance of her life. At least it felt miserable. Wearing soiled traveling clothes, weary, and half-starved, who would not feel miserable? She’d been astounded afterward when Mr. Perkins came forward and told them the ballet would open as planned. Throughout the demonstration, Bria was convinced the duke would make good on his threats and send them away. And all because of her. The man had spoken harshly when he’d confronted the dance master—had judged her before she’d been given a chance to rest and perform at her best. Of course, His Grace couldn’t know dancing the lead role was her life’s ambition. Neither did he know she would expel every ounce of strength she possessed to ensure the theater’s debut was a success.

  If Chadwick Theater failed, she would fail, and Britannia LeClair had worked too hard and fought too many battles to be humiliated and sent back to Paris as a national disappointment.

  Removing her slipper, she massaged her toes. She should have realized the proprietor of Chadwick Theater would be angry, though neither Messieurs Marchand nor Travere had indicated the Duke of Ravenscar had not been informed that Marie had decided to stay in Paris. No wonder His Grace was furious. But his fury burned as if a flame had burst inside her. His words instilled doubt in her abilities.

  And he’d made her so self-aware standing in the parterre looking as noble as the King of England—no doubt passing judgement like a king as well.

  Somehow, in the next four days she needed to recondition and regain her polish lest she not be ready for Tuesday’s debut. If Ravenscar had truly been deceived, then she had naught but to give a performance as never before seen on the stage either in Paris or London. If he sent her home, her dancing career would be ruined—a travesty that would crush Bria to her very soul.

  What would she do then? Without a reputation behind her, if the London debut of La Sylphide failed, all hope would be lost. Thespians without prestige and notoriety were not trusted anywhere in Christendom. They were looked upon as vagabonds and thieves. She’d end up destitute, lucky to find a position as a serving wench in an alehouse, destined for a life of poverty.

  “Ah, here’s the fille who kept us from a wretched disaster,” Pauline, Bria’s only trusted friend, walked into the dressing room, her arms filled with gossamer and tulle costumes.

  Florrie, who danced the part of Effie, flounced in behind, carrying nothing, of course. “Oui, if it weren’t for your grand jeté at the end of the sequence, I think the duke would have sent us away before I got to know him better.” The girl was forever prowling about for a benefactor. Bria believed the only reason Florrie continued to dance supporting roles was to find a wealthy nobleman to set her up in lavish style. In truth, most of the girls in the troupe were waiting for opportunities to charm a gentleman into establishing them in comfortable accommodations.

  She switched feet, working her fingers from the arch to her toes. “I cannot believe he spoke to Henri Travere disrespectfully. I’ve never seen anyone be so bold before.”

  “I agree, though it was rather fun to watch,” said Pauline. “If His Grace weren’t such a large man, I believe Monsieur Travere would have escorted him outside. Besides, did you see that weapon he was carrying?”

  “His cane?” Bria asked. She’d noticed the piece, elegantly finishing off the duke’s pristine appearance. In truth, every dancer on stage had audibly sighed when the man boldly strode through the parterre, elegant beaver hat in hand, elaborately tied neckcloth, well-cut coat and skintight pantaloons trimmed by a pair of gleaming Hessian boots. Pity he wasn’t a danseur as such a masculine specimen would command the stage in any performance.

  “It had a silver ball on one end.” Pauline drew Bria from her thoughts. “A gentleman’s weapon for certain.”

  Florrie licked her lips. “Do you think it was pure silver?”

  “Of course,” Pauline insisted. “Ravenscar footed the bill for Chadwicks. Did you see the painting on the ceiling? Word is the duke is one of the wealthiest men in England.”

  “Then I’m doubly glad he was amenable in the end,” Florrie said, waggling her shoulders, the tart. “Did you see him? He looked like the prince of darkness.”

  “The prince of dreaaaaams.” Pauline twirled in place.

  Florrie clasped her hands over her heart. “I want him. Do you think he already has a mistress?”

  Looking to the ceiling, Bria jammed the heels of her hands against her temples. “Mon Dieu, you’re not here for an entire day and you’ve already set your sights on a duke.”

  “And why should I not?”

  “Because his class looks upon us as fallen women,” Bria replied. “We have absolutely no chance of marrying anyone from polite society.”

  “Your vision is full of stardust.” Rolling her eyes, Florrie snorted. “Who said anything about marriage?”

 
“Perhaps you should keep your options open,” said Pauline. “We’ll all need benefactors of some sort sooner or later.”

  “I strongly object.” Bria shoved her feet back into her slippers and stood. “I did not come to London to become someone’s mistress.”

  “Is that so, Madame High and Mighty?” asked Florrie. “Thespians do not marry outside their class and, in ballet, women outnumber the men three to one. You will not be nineteen for the rest of your days. And it is unlikely you’ll be dancing past six and twenty.”

  Bria arched her eyebrow, giving the fortune hunter a purse-lipped frown. “Whyever not? Gardel came out of retirement at thirty.”

  “For a year.” Grumbling, Florrie plopped her makeup valise on an open toilette. Brand new and smelling of lacquer and fresh paint, the dressing room for the principal women contained five toilettes with mirrors, which allowed for the three leads and two understudies.

  Glancing to Pauline for support, Bria stood her ground. “A woman can aspire to other pursuits.” She tried to sound convincing, but everyone knew if her stage debut was not a success, there would be little chance of ever being anything but a member of the corps.

  “Why are you so contrary to the notion of becoming a gentleman’s mistress?” Pauline asked, the turncoat. “Truly, all the great vocalists and ballerinas have benefactors. ’Tis the way of things, and come Tuesday you will be in the starlight. Men will be interested.”

  “Wealthy men,” Florrie added. “Excepting Ravenscar. He is mine.”

  Noticing a tear in one of her slipper ribbons, Bria fished in her sewing kit for a needle and thread and set to mending. What would she do if she were forced to leave the stage? Change her name? Forge references and become a governess? That might work until she was found out and thrown into prison. Still, if she didn’t set the bar high for herself, no one would—and nary a soul would give a fig.

  “I want no part in charming a man merely for his wealth. What happens when the dancer loses her looks or the gentleman grows tired of his mistress? She ends up out in the cold without a single silver coin in her reticule.”