“No!” she shouted. “We will not consider returning to Paris.”
In quick succession, Monsieur Travere rapped his baton on the edge of the stage. “You say that, Mademoiselle LeClair, and yet your performance today has been abysmal. Just like everyone else’s.”
She gripped her arms across her midriff, internally berating herself. The dance master was right. She’d been awful. If she didn’t pull herself together, she would let everyone down—the troupe, the duke, and, most of all, herself. If she danced like this during the performance, she might as well go throw herself in the Thames. She would be worthless, a fallen woman with nowhere to turn, as helpless as she’d been when she’d been cast out of her home by her assumed uncle. This was her chance. If she failed, Monsieur Marchand would never allow her to set foot in Salle Le Peletier again.
“Pardon me, Monsieur Travere,” said the conductor. “But the orchestra is done for the day. We’ve already exceeded our contract by an hour.”
“Are you out of your minds?” the dance master shouted, throwing his baton out to the parterre. “Your performance has been the worst of the lot. How can we open tomorrow with the rubbish you played this day?”
The conductor slammed his score closed. “You, sir, are a hothead, and I will remind you I will be standing here in front of the stage, commanding the tempo when the curtain opens tomorrow. Fear not. I am, and my musicians are virtuosos. We have taken your direction, made changes accordingly, and now we are leaving.”
While the musicians walked out, Travere kicked a music stand, sending it clattering to the floor. Then he glared up at the stage. “At whom are you staring?”
Bria glanced at the others over her shoulder. They all looked as haggard as she felt. “We go again,” she said, assuming her position. “That is what you asked.”
He swept his arm through the air. “One, two, three, four, five, six…”
Spinning across the stage, she steeled her mind to the pain. Her blisters had bled before, and it would happen again. Later she’d soak her toes in brine and tomorrow night she’d wrap them, but right now she would endure the pain and show the Duke of Ravenscar exactly how much she wanted, needed, desired to play the role of the Sylph. No one would smite her opportunity. Bria’s toes could bleed through her slippers and she would not utter a word of complaint. Grand jeté, fouetté and pose in attitude. On and on she danced, willing herself to be strong. After a simple pas de bourrée, she stumbled, her toes torturing her efforts. Recovering quickly, Bria didn’t stop. She didn’t grimace. She endured through to end of the finale. Only then did she dare to glance at the dance master.
Travere pursed his lips, disappointment broadcast in his stance, his frown, his sullenness. “Enough!”
Everyone exited the stage while Bria dropped to the floor and removed her slippers. Good heavens, six of ten toes were bloodied. I cannot allow a few tiny blisters make me founder. Not again. Tomorrow must be perfect!
“Do you have a salve for those?” She looked up to find Mr. Perkins offering her a stoppered jar. “Put this on after you soak your toes tonight, and then ensure you apply a healthy dollop before you wrap them for tomorrow’s performance.”
Accepting the gift, she stood. “Are you familiar with toe dancing?”
“No, but I am familiar with blisters.”
“Thank you.” She assumed the position to rehearse the scene yet again.
“What are you doing?”
“Practicing. I cannot go home this night until I am satisfied.”
“You’ve practiced enough.” He offered his elbow. “Let us take a walk.”
“But—”
“Just a brief stroll through the theater. In my experience, an artiste who has been working all day will only see her performance decline until she has rested.”
“Your experience?”
“I’ve been involved with theater management all my life. Though, as I’m sure you are aware, this is the first time toe dancing has been performed in Britain.” When she took his arm, he strolled down to the parterre. “Why are you a dancer?” he asked.
Bria almost laughed aloud. “I love ballet with my whole being. I cannot imagine doing anything else.”
“I can tell you’re passionate about it by the way you dance from your soul. I’ll wager you want to be successful so badly you ignore your own needs.”
She nodded, deciding not to tell him about swooning into the Duke of Ravenscar’s arms.
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
Had His Grace told Mr. Perkins about the swooning incident? She hoped not. “I ate a good breakfast.”
“So, you’re tired, you’re hungry, and your feet hurt like they’ve been branded by a red-hot poker. Am I right?”
“Yes,” she whispered, scraping her teeth across her bottom lip.
He took her by the shoulders. “I’ve been watching you rehearse all day. Believe me when I say the conductor has noted the musical issues, you are the most excellent ballerina London has ever seen, and if you do not go home and take care of your feet, Chadwick’s patrons will not witness what I have seen. Do you understand?”
No matter how much she wanted to object, she let out a long breath and nodded. As they turned back toward the stage, she asked, “Of all the operas, plays and ballets, why did Chadwick Theater choose to open with La Sylphide?”
“Ravenscar wanted a spectacle that would be unmatched for the Season. He saw the opening debut of the ballet last year in France and knew then he had to have it. I must say, however, I do not think he would have chosen La Sylphide if Monsieur Marchand had told him Marie Taglioni’s understudy would be taking her place.”
A lump the size of her fist expanded in Bria’s throat. If the ballet failed, only she would be to blame. “And I have disappointed him royally.”
“Not you, my dear. If the blame lies with anyone, it is Marchand.” When they arrived back at the stage, Mr. Perkins patted her hand. “Now take my salve, have a good rest, and give us a stellar performance tomorrow night. Promise?”
“I promise to do my very best. I give you my oath I will not disappoint you or the duke or the patrons of this theater.” She curtsied while her heartbeat rushed in her ears—her entire body tense with nerves. On the morrow she must face the most important day of her life. “Thank you, sir.”
Chapter Six
Chadwick Theater, Tuesday, 9th April, 1833
Drake had spent the better part of the day avoiding the uproar that came with the first Morning Post released after the holidays. Well aware there was a five-minute overture, he arrived at the theater two minutes after the performance began, looked no one in the eye and hastened straight for his box. Mother was already seated with her usual friends: widows, Lady Anabelle and Lady Eloise, and Mr. Edwin Peters, a well-to-do gunsmith who kept company with Drake’s mother far too frequently.
He kissed her on the cheek. “You look lovely this evening.”
Mother rapped his arm with her fan. “I was about to think you had decided not to come. It’s not like you to move to the rear of the guard in battle.”
“Only avoiding being mobbed by hundreds of livid patrons.” Regardless of his attempt to smooth things with the papers. The dashed headlines had read, “Ravenscar’s Fortune in the Hands of a Foundling”. He’d strangle Maxwell if the man ever again dared to show his face. Drake greeted the other guests and took his seat, opening his program for the first time.
Britannia LeClair.
Fancy that. The Sylph was named for his beloved Britain. That was one which hadn’t crossed his mind. Britannia? For a French lass? But he liked it. The name suited her tenacity.
He sat back and focused on the curtain while angry stares from boxes across the theater fixated on him. No, Drake didn’t need to look to see people staring. Some dared to boo, while the hiss of whispers singed his ears, as did the rumbling murmurs from the gallery. Above the orchestra, the tension in the air was as charged as a courtroom trying a murder case.
When the curtain opened to a danseur dressed like a Scotsman sleeping in an armchair, the tension eased a bit. But everyone in the theater gasped when Britannia LeClair danced onto the stage with a pair of graceful leaps. Though flawlessly executed and extraordinarily lofty, her grands jetés mightn’t be the reason for the audience’s reaction. The hem of her winged costume was so short, it almost revealed the ballerina’s knees. Yes, in France, Taglioni had shortened her skirts a bit, but LeClair’s gossamer gown, in and of itself, was scandalous.
Along with Drake, everyone in the theater leaned forward, their jaws dropping while the Sylph flitted about the sleeping Scotsman on the tips of her toes, barely skimming the floor. Her leaps were like watching a feather sail on the breeze, her feet only to brush the stage before flowing into twirls and arabesques—a nymph with wings.
A London crowd had never seen such precision, such effortless grace. Drake gulped. Neither had they seen a woman’s skirts so short. His mouth grew dry—such shapely and muscular legs. What would such sleek calves feel like wrapped around him? He glanced to the faces he could see. Every man in the theater was thinking the same, and every woman looked thunderstruck, including Ladies Anabelle and Eloise. Only Her Grace smiled, her hands folded, poised like a queen.
The reactions were expected, though Drake’s trepidation didn’t ease. He wanted to strangle every last man for their lewd thoughts. How dare they? Miss LeClair was an innocent, performing only to delight Chadwick’s patrons with her grace. Fortunately for the women in the audience, the danseur in his kilt showed more of his legs than did Miss LeClair. His leaps were high and exciting, though his candle was but a flicker compared to the torch that shone when Britannia commanded the stage.
By intermission, he’d heard everything from tepid applause to gasps to cheers. Miss LeClair’s dancing thus far had been vigorous, though somewhat more reserved than a few days prior. Then again, the scene with the sylphs which Drake had viewed at rehearsal was in the second act. He rubbed his fingers, anxious to see her dance it again. Was she as stupendous as he’d remembered?
Britannia. The name does suit her.
As the curtain closed for intermission, the theater erupted in an uproar. Drake couldn’t make out a single conversation from down below because everyone was talking and shouting. The gallery was louder than a boxing match.
Mother leaned in. “I see what you mean. The young lady certainly is no Englishwoman.” She patted her chest. “Heaven forbid.”
“She is quite talented,” said Mr. Peters, his eyes glazed.
Both Lady Anabelle and Lady Eloise looked on as if they were tongue-tied. Most unusual for the pair of chatterboxes.
Drake stood. “If you’d care to join me, I will venture down to the vestibule and brave the critics.”
No sooner had he offered his hand to his mother when the Earl of Fordham and Viscount Saye filed into the box. Her Grace remained seated.
“Ravenscar, you dog!” piped Fordham. “When I read this morning’s paper, I was certain the theater would be empty and the only good use for it would be firewood.”
“What happened to Taglioni?” someone hollered from the corridor.
“Is it true you only found out she wouldn’t be honoring her contract when the ship moored?” asked Saye.
“It is true.” Drake raised his voice while the box was mobbed. “Our only option was to carry on with Miss LeClair. I say from experience, she is as talented as Taglioni.”
“The same?” Saye asked. “I may need to book passage to France.”
“As good, but different. Livelier and more graceful in my estimation.” Drake grabbed his friends by the elbows and whispered, “What is your opinion? Will I be crucified come morning?”
“I like her,” said Fordham.
“But will polite society?” cautioned Saye.
Drake gave them each an exasperated look. “We are polite society.”
“Monsieur Bonin is quite good,” said Lady Annabel from her chair.
“I agree, he is very dynamic.” Drake returned his attention to his friends. “Perhaps the male lead is proficient enough to interest the fairer sex.”
“Then I feel sorry for the ladies,” said Fordham with a lecherous grin. “Will you introduce me to Miss LeClair after the finale?”
Splaying his fingers, Drake regarded the earl with a furrowed brow. “You’re coming to my mother’s soiree are you not? Did you receive my missive?”
“Saye and I will be there…and Miss LeClair?”
“She has been invited along with the other principals.”
Fordham grinned and thwacked Drake on the shoulder. “Perhaps it is time for me to acquire a new mistress,” he whispered.
Clenching his fist, Drake considered how the earl might look with a swollen nose. Thankfully, Mother and the ladies were engaged in conversation. “What happened to Mrs. Walpole?” Drake asked, his whisper straining through his teeth.
“A man can have two mistresses.” Fordham smirked like a lecherous cur. Regardless if he’d been Drake’s roommate at Eton, the man could be as shallow as a mudpuddle. “Where is it written we must keep only one?”
“Agreed,” said Saye, who was between mistresses, and also a miserable rake.
A blast of heat spread across the back of Drake’s neck. “Give it a rest, gentlemen,” he said, raising the tone for all hear. “Chadwick’s ballerina has only just arrived in London. Let the poor dancer have a chance to settle before you wolves start chasing after her skirts.” He started for the box’s exit, but the corridor was still mobbed with people voicing their opinions quite openly:
“I didn’t know a woman was capable of leaping so high.”
“It is remarkable.”
“It is scandalous!”
“It is obscene,” said a lady.
“You’re only saying that because you are a prude.”
“Well, I’ve never!”
“Ravenscar,” someone hollered, Drake had no idea who. “Are you sending them back to France?”
“No!” yelled a man. “I’ll be back on the morrow. You cannot see this ballet just once.”
“I’m cancelling my box,” complained a man with a gravelly voice.
“I’ll take it!”
Drake scratched his head and sank back into the chair beside his mother.
She patted his arm. “I venture to guess you have a success on your hands.”
“Good God, I hope so.”
Mr. Perkins’ salve had worked wonders. With her toes wrapped, Bria focused on the dance, her breathing, the music. This was her chance—possibly her only chance—and she would do her best to show all of London she was worthy of being the Sylph just as much as Marie Taglioni who was performing this very night in Paris. Pulling from the depths of her soul, she danced as a woman possessed. Nothing else mattered, not the other dancers, not the crowd, nothing but doing her best to please and, as the second act progressed, so did her effort.
Bria’s only distraction was the presence of His Grace in the grand-tier center box. The intensity of his stare cut through the darkness of the gallery. And every time she stepped on stage, she heard the power of his voice:
“You are not the only one who will be ruined if La Sylphide is a failure.”
“Your opening performance must be flawless…”
“The nobility are like dogs to a bone when it comes to gossip. And they will be gnashing their teeth to see me fail.”
She couldn’t fail. On stage this night, she wasn’t dancing for the love of ballet, she was dancing for her very breath.
Dancing for him.
Dancing because he had made her see the grave importance of this single night.
Monsieur Marchand had repeatedly told her to build her performance and save the crescendo for the end. Bria had learned that lesson well, and by the final scenes, her leaps had grown higher. Her arabesques were perpendicular with the floor rather than horizontal. Yes, all of society expected an arabesque lower than the hip
s, but she could go higher—craved to stretch the boundaries of her abilities. That is why Marchand and Travere had chosen her for the lead. That is why she was on stage in a fabulous new theater in London. Marie Taglioni had shocked Paris by dancing on her toes and shortening her skirts. Well, Bria did the same and more. On the road to success, a woman must prove herself to be exemplary. To push margins and deliver a performance from the depths of her soul.
When she pirouetted and dipped into her final curtsy, Bria’s breath rushed in her ears. The strings played their final note. Listening for applause, the air in the theater grew heavy with silence.
Silence.
Bria’s heart sank to her toes as she dared to glance up.
Straight ahead, Ravenscar stood in his box. “Bravo!” he bellowed, clapping his hands.
As if his acceptance was what the patrons needed, they followed his lead. Suddenly, with a raucous cheer, the entire theater erupted in applause. Her eyes stung as she straightened. Smiling at His Grace, she blew him a kiss, praying all she had given was good enough. Praying he would not send them home in shame.
Gérard Bonin, lead danseur, grasped her hand and pulled her off the stage for the curtain call. “You were fabulous, ma chérie.”
“You as well,” she said, catching her breath.
After the corps, Bria followed Gérard on stage to take her final bow and the applause grew louder. Even people in the boxes were on their feet. Five curtain calls were made before the applause faded. And when it was over, Gérard wrapped her in a smothering embrace. “After that performance, I doubt Ravenscar will be shipping us back to France before our contract ends.”
Monsieur Travere hastened on stage from the wings. “Bravo, both of you. Change quickly. The principals have been invited to a soiree at the duke’s home.”
Bria glanced to Pauline. “Only the principals?”
“Oui, you, Gérard, Florrie, Nanci and Claudio.”
Pauline shrugged and turned away. The rest of the cast was heading to the Welcome Inn to celebrate the opening. Dashing to catch up with her friend, Bria grasped Pauline’s hand and pulled her toward the dressing room. “I’m sorry.”
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 181