With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Rouge pot in hand, Florrie leaned closer to the mirror. “That’s why a girl must strive to please her benefactor, then she’ll have nothing to worry about. If you continue to keep your legs crossed, you’ll be finished by the age of six and twenty with nowhere to go.”

  But Florrie hadn’t been abandoned at the age of fourteen. In the past five years, Bria had scratched and clawed for her hard-won success, learning the brutal lesson not to rely on others for anything. “Who knows, perhaps someday I’ll be lucky, fall in love, and marry.” If there was one thing Bria craved more than dancing, it was to have a family of her own. But she wasn’t about to say that in front of Florrie—who knew how the girl would use such information against her at the most inopportune time? Goodness, she hadn’t even told Pauline about her dreams to be a mother, have a hoard of children to love and cherish, to no longer be alone.

  “I’ll always have somewhere to go,” Bria added, trying to sound self-assured. Bless it, she would struggle for the rest of her days if she must.

  “I wish I had your confidence,” said Pauline.

  “I’d call it arrogance,” Florrie added.

  Bria didn’t care to argue. Was she confident? Yes, she had to be in order to withstand Messieurs Travere and Marchand. Toes bleeding, she had worked hard every day to ensure she kept a place in the corps de ballet, and it was no windfall last year when she’d earned the right to be Taglioni’s understudy. What would she do when she was six and twenty? Heaven’s stars, that was seven years away. How could she think that far ahead when there was so much to concern herself with now? She tied a knot and snipped the thread. A woman of six and twenty was still in her prime. Bria practiced more and worked harder than any of the others. Why would she not be able to continue dancing at least until she found a decent man with whom to raise a family?

  Still, doubt pulled at her insides. What if something happened? What would she do if she were gravely injured?

  I know what I would not do.

  “Come.” Pauline tugged Bria’s arm. “We’re all tired. Let’s go see the boarding house we’ll be calling home through August.”

  “You go ahead with the others.” She pulled away. “I must rehearse.”

  “You cannot be serious,” said Florrie. “Everyone is exhausted. You have dark circles under your eyes. If you stay any longer, you’ll make yourself ill.”

  Bria held up her hands. “I disagree. My legs are stiff from traveling and I’m not about to step on stage for our premiere without being in peak condition.”

  Pauline looked her from head to toe. “No one is in better condition than you.”

  “That’s because I practice more than everyone else.” Bria sighed, giving her friend an appreciative smile, grateful to have someone who cared.

  Pushing to her feet, she headed for the stage while the other two followed.

  Florrie tapped her shoulder. “It isn’t safe to venture out alone.”

  “The boarding house is only three blocks away. I’ll be fine.” Stretching her arms over her head, Bria bent from side to side.

  “Very well, mon amie.” Pauline gave her a peck on the cheek. “But do not stay for more than an hour. Someone needs to look after your care and, since you’re averse to it, I’m taking a stand.”

  “Thank you.” Bria squeezed her friend’s hand. “I do appreciate your concern.”

  With a snort, Florrie flounced out behind Pauline, much the same as she had flounced into the dressing room. Bria shook her head. Truth be told, Florrie, a daughter of two principal dancers, had loads of natural ability but the girl was lazy. Both Pauline and Bria had to work like beasts of burden to earn their places in the company, though even Pauline had a better pedigree. Her father was a composer.

  Honestly, Bria had no idea what her pedigree might be. Once she’d started earning a meager wage, she had made inquiries and was still clueless as to the identity of the woman in the miniature from the wooden box she’d found the day before she’d been mercilessly turned out of the home she loved. The box had contained no memorandum, only a brass plate engraved with one name, “Britannia”. Not long after she’d arrived in Paris, she asked Monsieur Marchand what he knew about Sarah Parker and had only learned that the woman she’d once believed to be her mother had, indeed, been a member of the corps and was the daughter of an English vicar and had been well educated.

  As Bria moved to center stage, she looked over each shoulder to ensure she was alone, then she slid down until her legs were stretched as far to the sides as humanly possible. She lay her stomach on the floor, holding the position, willing her mind to embrace the pain. No, sliding into this pose was not ladylike for a female dancer but, in private, Bria worked through a number of exercises of her own design to improve her flexibility and strength. Some she’d learned as a child and others she’d copied from the male dancers and made them her own, each intended to give her an edge against her competition.

  After four years in the corps de ballet, Bria had fought her way past protégés like Florrie, though she’d only stepped in for Taglioni a few times at the famous Salle Le Peletier. This trip to London was Bria’s chance to prove she was worthy—worthy in her own right. This was her opportunity to prove she was as good as everyone else out there who knew who their parents were, who had a sense of identity. Bria’s mother—the only mother figure she knew—had introduced her to dance, and she’d embraced it with every fiber of her being. Ballet had become her sole master. It possessed her, drove her, consumed her.

  After stretching and already warmed up from rehearsal, she started in on changements, one hundred of them, followed by grands battements then leaps, one after another in quick succession around and around the stage as she breathed life into her limbs and willed away the stiffness caused by the past days of traveling. Her last grand jeté took so much effort, she landed with a huff. Crouching, her hands on her knees, she panted and fought to catch her breath. “Merde, je suis fatiguée.”

  “Je comprends porquoi,” said a deep voice from the wings.

  Britannia jolted upright, her heart racing. “Who’s there?”

  The Duke of Ravenscar meandered from the abyss of black curtains and onto the stage, his gaze trained on her. Bria clasped her hands under her chin and scooted back as he neared. The man was nearly twice her size, black hair, startling eyes—vibrant blue like the color of a shallow sea. When he’d been speaking to Monsieur Travere on the parterre, he’d appeared poised and severe but now, looming so near, he was nothing short of dominating. “Parlez-vous anglais?” he asked, his French practiced, but not Parisian.

  She stood her ground and lowered her arms. She must not show fear, not to the man who held her future in the palm of his hand. Bria had faced powerful men before and the only way to earn their respect was to project an air of confidence no matter how much her insides quaked. “I do, Your Grace. Latin as well.”

  “Surprising for a…” His voice trailed off as he rubbed his neck and glanced away. Goodness he was imposing and, as everyone had noticed, well-formed.

  “A ballerina?” she ventured, too aware of the poor opinion society harbored for artisans. Truth be told, the Paris Opera Ballet was infamous as being the “nation’s harem”. Nonetheless, what was true for some did not apply to all, and Bria’s love of her craft would not be sullied by falling victim to the wiles of men.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “women in your profession are not known for their…ah…intellect.”

  Her spine shot to rigid with a jolt. “I emphatically disagree with you on that point. To be proficient one must be shrewd and learn quickly.”

  “Ah…perhaps that’s why you’re dancing the lead role. Forgive me if I was unduly coarse.” Dark, expressive eyebrows drew together. Heavens, his gaze disarmed her. “Your English is very good.”

  “’Tis better than your French, if I may speak boldly, Your Grace.”

  Full lips formed an “O” for a moment before he bowed his head. “Why not? And generally speaking, I do not
believe I’ve ever met a dancer who was well-versed in Latin.”

  “True. I am an oddity in many ways.” Bria’s stomach squeezed while she studied him—virile, confident, aloof. Commanding. What was he up to? Hadn’t he already left the theater? “Forgive me, but have you come to see Monsieur Travere? I’m afraid he has retired for the evening.”

  “Actually, I was hoping to gain an audience with you, if I may.” The duke took a step forward, his cane tapping the floor.

  “Me?” She gulped, eyeing the weapon before she shifted her gaze back to His Grace. He had the stature to wield the silver ball on his cane like a medieval flail—pillaging his way through England, winning the hearts of damsels who fell victim to his smoldering gaze. She could imagine him as a black knight riding an enormous stallion, leading his army in the crusades—

  “Indeed,” he said, drawing Bria from her musings. He seemed not to notice any trepidation on her part. In fact, his lofty demeanor relaxed a little with a half-smile…well, at least she didn’t feel threatened—a tad muddled was more apt.

  “Whilst I was walking in the rain,” he continued, “it came to me that I needed a meaty tidbit of information about you to dangle before society to include in Tuesday morning’s papers. Something to make them salivate.”

  “I hardly see lords and ladies salivating.”

  “Madam, we are about to open my new theater with ballet billeted to be the London debut of the most famous dancer in the civilized world and, as of tomorrow, all of society will find an understudy has come to perform in her place.” Those vibrant eyes grew dark, his countenance serious again. “The nobility to whom you refer are like dogs to a bone when it comes to gossip. And they will be gnashing their teeth to see me fail. I need something upon which to direct their attentions. What about your parentage? Are you the daughter of a great choreographer perchance?”

  Her mouth dropped open. What should she say? Help! “I am not,” she squeaked.

  “A famed composer, a renowned danseur?”

  Bria shook her head, lead sinking to her toes. She couldn’t lie, but the truth might mean the end of her dreams.

  “What about the offspring of a count or someone of note?” he continued, oblivious to her discomfort. “That must be it. Your English is far better than most Parisians I’ve met on my travels. Come now, you must give me something—something astounding.”

  She backed away, shifting her gaze to her toes while her lowly birth hung on her neck with the weight of an anvil. “I’m sorry to disappoint you but my life to date has been rather dull. I was raised by an Englishwoman and her merchant husband in a provincial French village.”

  “Raised, did you say?” His eyebrows slanted inward. “Who were your parents?”

  Praying His Grace wouldn’t do something rash like cancel the premiere, Bria raised her chin and squared her shoulders. If she didn’t tell him, someone like Florrie would be all too happy to impart the brutal truth. “I never knew them. I thought Monsieur and Madame LeClair were my parents until their deaths, whereupon I discovered I am a foundling.”

  “Foundling?” With a grumble, he chopped his cane through the air “That simply won’t do.”

  Bria’s stomach chose this moment to growl loudly. Feeling a bit lightheaded, she started to slide toward the wings while Ravenscar paced and raked his fingers through his thick black hair. “Dash it, you could have at least been raised by an abbess…or a king from the Orient. That would have been exotic.”

  Watching the silver ball on his makeshift weapon, she stole another step toward the exit. “Is the truth not scandalous enough?”

  “It is not,” he said as if she’d just failed her exams. “I daresay, ‘Come see the new mystery ballerina, progeny of the Duke of Anjou,’ would be far more interesting than, ‘Come see the foundling who was hidden in provincial France by an English woman for fourteen years’.”

  “When you put it that way, I think my past does sound mysterious and scandalous. In truth, I much prefer the latter to your conjuring of Anjou.”

  His eyebrow shot up. “Opinionated are you not?”

  “I’m told ’tis my most annoying trait.”

  “Hmm. But I’d still like something more.” Stroking his chin, his dark gaze spilled all the way from her head to her toes. “Tell me about your education.”

  “Maman, er, Madame LeClair was from a gentle family. She taught me everything from mathematics and languages to history and dance. When I entered the Paris Opera Ballet School, I continued my studies when I wasn’t dancing, of course.”

  Ravenscar resumed his pacing. “Well, that’s about as exciting as reading The Mirror of the Graces.”

  “The Mirror of the…?”

  “Graces. It is a lady’s journal of correct form and, by my oath, the person who wrote it must have been a humorless crone.”

  The man was insufferable. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you. I hope my dancing will be far more inspiring.” Bria curtsied. “If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I’m very tired.”

  “Apologies.” He bowed, his action every bit as poised and controlled as a danseur. “I have been thoughtless. I shouldn’t have kept you.”

  For a moment, she tried to think of a witty remark to prove her determination. After all, they both had a great deal riding on Tuesday’s debut. Wishing him well would sound trite. Telling him she would do her best might come across as pallid. What if she let them all down? What if the London crowd detested her?

  “Good evening,” she managed before spinning on her heel. Bria hadn’t intended to swoon. But having expelled a great deal of energy throughout the day after enduring a bout of sea sickness on the paddle-steamer that ferried them from Calais, her fortitude wasn’t what it should have been. The stage spun. Unable to clear her vision, she raised the back of her hand to her forehead.

  The next thing she knew, the Duke of Ravenscar swept her into his arms. Surrounded by warmth, the power in his embrace imparted succor she’d seldom experienced. Kindness, human touch, tenderness—things she’d once taken for granted but hadn’t been blessed with in years. Turning her head toward him, she inhaled, swathed in the scent of fresh linen and exotic spice. Too overcome to push away, her eyes fluttered closed as she took one more blissful sniff of heaven.

  Drake recognized the ballerina was slight, but when she fell into his arms, she seemed as if she were made of gossamer and lace, and fragile as a bird. A foundling? How did this delicate creature manage to survive among the snakes who infested the world of ballet? “Good heavens. Are you unwell?”

  “Forgive me.” Miss LeClair’s eyes rolled back as she brushed lithe fingers across her hair. “I suffered sea sickness, and I haven’t eaten in two days.”

  Two days? Who the hell did Travere think he was, starving his dancers? Not daring to set her on her feet, Drake carried the woman to a chair, practically swooning himself as he breathed in the heady scent of female. Delicate, floral bouquets in a myriad of varieties made him dip his nose and inhale more deeply. “Why didn’t you leave for the boarding house with the others?” he asked while identifying wisteria as the most potent flower in her potpourri.

  “I needed to practice. You said yourself, the theater’s patrons will be angered when they discover Mademoiselle Taglioni will not be performing. I cannot let them down. I must not!”

  Stepping back, he straightened his cuffs. “Well, you won’t receive any ovations if you swoon on stage and are unable to dance.”

  “Please do not think ill of me.” Miss LeClair pressed a dainty hand to her cheek. One he wished to touch to see if it was as silken as it appeared. “I’ve never actually swooned before. When the ship arrived, the thought of food soured my stomach. I’m sure once I’ve eaten, I’ll be fine. I promise I will.”

  He shook his damnable thoughts from his head. His dreams might possibly crumble around his feet and there he stood musing about soft cheeks and heady fragrances. For the love of God, if this dancer did not regain her strength, he could kiss his vent
ure goodbye. Dash Travere, where was the theater’s hospitality? “Mr. Perkins hasn’t fed you? What about the others? I must order food to be catered at once.”

  “No, no. Luncheon was served. I was too queasy to eat.”

  “Let it not be said the Duke of Ravenscar ignores his performers’ basic needs. Especially the ballerina responsible for the lion’s share of my investment. I will personally see you suitably fed.”

  “Oh, no, thank you. I’m certain they’ll have a warm meal at the boarding house.” Miss LeClair scooted to the edge of the chair. “In fact, I must make haste before I miss supper.”

  “Absolutely not.” He held up his palm to prevent her from standing. “I forbid it. I will take you where you can find a proper meal.”

  “I beg your pardon? You may be the owner of this theater, but it is not your place to dictate where I choose to dine.” Squaring her shoulders, the imp swayed on the seat. A bit outspoken, but she demonstrated a backbone. Usually people held their tongues when confronting a duke. Miss LeClair seemed quite oblivious to the norm.

  “At the moment, I disagree. You are not the only one who will be ruined if La Sylphide is a failure.” Planting his fists on his hips, Drake leaned toward her for added emphasis. “And I’m not accustomed to failing.”

  “Nor am I.”

  “I am glad we agree. Come now, as your employer, I insist.”

  She met his gaze with an indignant strength he rarely ever saw in any woman—she might be petite, but he guessed she had the heart of a lion. How else did she end up playing the lead in my theater? Drake swallowed, studying the power of her will as it radiated about her. The foundling who should be queen.

  The light on stage was rather dim, but the woman had the most soulful eyes. Were they brown? Unable to ascertain for certain, he offered his elbow. “I’ll hail a coach.”

  She hesitated.

  The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Or I can simply toss you over my shoulder.”