“Good God, Mother. He’s a bloody gunsmith. He has no title, no lineage.”
“He has money.”
Drake batted his hand through the air. “New money.”
“Yes, well, after you put my house up as collateral for your risky theater venture, I needed some assurances, did I not?”
What the devil? His stomach squeezed. “You knew about that?”
“Please.” Mother wielded her fan as if it were a saber. “I have more social connections than anyone in London. I knew what you were up to before the ink dried on your contract.”
“Forgive me.” He sauntered over and dropped onto the settee. “I never intended for Ravenscar Hall to be on the chopping block. At the time of signing, I was convinced I couldn’t lose.”
“And you didn’t.”
“No.”
“But you were worried.”
“I was.”
Mother tucked the damned fan up her sleeve as if she’d won the battle. “If your theater venture had failed, Mr. Peters was my insurance.”
But Drake wasn’t surrendering that easily. “Explain.”
“I had a wager of my own. Had you lost my beloved home, I would have married Mr. Peters.”
“Married his money, or the man?”
She patted her perfectly styled coiffure. “Both.”
“Do you care for him?”
“I do.”
“But not enough to marry him?”
“Well, as you said, he has no title. Such a union would be egregiously frowned upon.”
“So is taking a lover.”
Mother huffed. “I am a widow and have been for ten years. Would you have me live as a nun? Besides, rules are not as strict for widows as long as they are discreet.” With an indignant air, Her Grace poured another glass of cordial. “I am entitled to live a bit before you dig my grave.”
She held out the pitcher with a questioning glance and Drake refused with a wave of his hand. “Live, yes,” he bit out. “But entertaining a gunsmith with such intimacy is…well, in poor taste.”
“Oh, you believe so?” She flicked her hand in the direction of the library. “And what about the strumpet you brought to Brighton? Are you bedding Miss LeClair?”
“No, I am not, and how dare you ask.”
Mother sipped daintily, though the gesture minimized his outrage. “Surprising—though people are talking, regardless. Thank heavens the ballet is coming to an end and, soon, Miss LeClair will be returning to Paris. You will never settle down as long as that woman holds your attentions.”
Drake provided no reply. Yes, Britannia commanded his attention. Since she’d pirouetted into his life he hadn’t given a second look to any other women.
“I cannot believe you look fondly upon that chit.”
“You’re dancing a precariously thin line, Mother.”
“At least Mr. Peters has made a name for himself and he’s nearly as wealthy as we are.”
“If you haven’t noticed, Miss LeClair has made quite a name for herself as well.”
“A foundling? A ballet dancer? That girl was ruined from the day she was born.” Mother shook her head. “The best you can hope for is to keep her as your mistress as much as I hate the idea.”
“Why?” Drake asked through clenched teeth. She dared criticize him when she was out carousing with Mr. Peters? Wasn’t there a widowed nobleman out there who could take her fancy? And how dare she say a single judgmental word against Britannia?
“Because you will be a husband and have a family soon. ’Tis not easy on a family when the father’s eyes stray, no matter how nobly born. Thank heavens your father never wandered far from the path.”
“You were fortunate, then.”
“I was and will always consider myself blessed.”
Before he lost his temper, Drake stood.
Mother seemed not to notice. “I suppose it would be no surprise to you that Lady Blanche is engaged to be married.”
“Is she?” he asked in a monotone.
“I knew she would be.”
“Then I wish her and her suitor well.” Drake bowed and stepped out of the drawing room in time to see Britannia sprinting for the front door.
Chapter Twenty
“Britannia, wait!”
Bria paid Ravenscar no mind as she fled out the door. She mightn’t have heard it all, but she’d heard enough. His Grace’s own mother thought her a trollop.
“Where are you off to?” the duke demanded, gaining as he followed, blast him.
“Leave me alone!” Spotting a park, she changed course, picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could. How could she have been so dimwitted? She’d told herself a hundred times not to lose her heart to the duke. He could never be hers. The man was dallying with her in the carriage and every other time he’d ever offered a kiss.
Well, no more! Bria refused to stay where she wasn’t respected for one more minute.
“Britannia,” Ravenscar called again.
As she dashed under a canopy of trees, she glanced behind. “Go away,” she yelled just as her toe caught the root of a tree. Throwing her arms forward, she tumbled to the ground. Searing pain shot up her wrist. She clutched her arm to her midriff as she rolled to her derriere.
Curses! The blasted duke stood over her like a court judge.
“Why the bloody hell didn’t you stop?” He dropped to one knee and reached for her wrist. “Are you injured?”
She jerked away, the movement making her arm hurt all the more. “No.” She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears. “Please. Leave me alone.”
“I’m afraid I cannot do that.” He sat beside her. He, a duke, sat on the ground, not only in public, but in broad daylight.
“By the way you’re holding your wrist, I suspect you may have answered my question a tad hastily.”
“I did not. And what do you care if I am injured? Are you afraid to see your greatest commodity bourrée onto the stage wearing a sling?”
“Greatest commodity? What the devil are you talking about?”
“The only reason you’re nice to me is because I saved your theater. If I’d come to London and had been an embarrassment, you would have sent the entire troupe back to France. And do not deny it. I heard what you said to Monsieur Travere.”
Ravenscar leaned his elbows on his knees, looking even less like a duke. He didn’t respond right away, and Bria didn’t expect him to. He didn’t care for her, not in the same way she cared for him, and it was time she stopped fooling herself.
“Initially, yes,” he said slowly, contemplatively. “If you hadn’t proved you were capable of dancing the Sylph I would not have allowed the ballet to premiere. But that was before I came to know you.”
“Know me or not, we can never be more than master and servant.”
“Until the Season is over, no.”
“Oh, please. Spare me the inkling of hope. Your mother was right. I was ruined on the day I was born. I can never be more to you than an amusement.”
“You’re wrong. You already mean far more to me than any woman I have ever met.”
Her heart melted. “Then I pity you because you can never have me. Not because I’m unwilling, but because your class will not allow it.”
“Sometimes I would give away my fortune not to be a duke.”
“But you are and there’s no changing the fact.” Bria groaned, picked up a pinecone and threw it. “And why are we discussing that which cannot be when we ought to be talking about how to approach Lady Calthorpe?”
“Because this, us, we…needs to be discussed.”
“I think not.”
“Perhaps not in the open. But, mark me, I am by no means giving you a pass.”
A couple strolled by, arm in arm. Bria’s insides twisted in a hundred knots. Why couldn’t Drake be a normal man? Someone with whom she could start a family? Why couldn’t she fall in love with a stage hand or a dance master or the blasted orchestra conductor?
“And Lady Ca
lthorpe?” she asked, praying the duke wouldn’t forbid her from mentioning the baroness.
A furrow formed between those black eyebrows. “I will have a word with her first.”
“Do you think it best?”
“It would be the proper thing to do. Allow her to explain how you might have come into possession of the miniature.”
“What if she lies?”
“Then she is a lesser person than I believe her to be.”
“Me as well.” Now that the throbbing in her wrist had eased, Bria plucked a daisy and began pulling out the petals. “Ever since I met Her Ladyship at the soiree, I thought her gracious, perhaps more so after the incident with the wine.”
“Well then, neither of us care to see her hurt.”
“Definitely not. I only want a private audience with her. Once. We never have to discuss the issue again. After which, my lips will be forever sealed.”
“I hope she is willing to talk.”
“I pray she is.”
Scraping her teeth over her bottom lip, the sound of laughter turned Bria’s attention to a pond. Three children played with wooden boats—a girl dressed in yellow with lacy pantaloons peeking beneath her hem. Bria guessed the boys with the lass were her brothers. One taller and one shorter.
Using sapling limbs, they pushed their boats as they skipped along the shore.
When the girl inched up and took the lead, the larger boy pushed her out of the way and jumped ahead. Bria straightened, about to spring to her feet when the girl clonked her brother on the backside with her stick and ran for the finish line.
“I won, I won!” she hollered, jumping up and down.
“She reminds me of Ada,” said Drake, a distant glint in his eye.
“It must have been fun to have a sister.”
“She was a vixen.”
“But I’ll wager she loved you.”
“Aye.” He snorted thoughtfully. “She did—still does.”
Bria watched as the children squealed, now playing an impromptu game of tag. “I’d like to have a family of my own one day.”
Drake plucked one of the daisies and brushed the petals along her jaw. “And give away your life on the stage?”
“Not today, mind you.” She shivered at the light touch. How could she remain angry with him when he had done so much for her? “But yes. In a heartbeat, I’d give it all away to have children, a husband, perhaps live in a provincial cottage.”
“Every time we are together, something new about you amazes me.”
“I wouldn’t think a girl expressing her desire to have a family would be astonishing to you in the slightest. Isn’t the marriage mart full of such women?”
“None like you.”
Bria plucked Drake’s daisy from his fingers and twirled it. She guessed there were fewer men like Ravenscar. And yet, she harbored no doubt that he was as attracted to her as she to him.
Why not allow herself an affair—an interlude? She was nearly twenty years of age. What was she saving herself for if not someone she loved?
Out of the corner of her eye, she examined her duke. Who would have thought a man as powerful as he would sit in the grass beside a dancer and speak with her as if she were a confidant? With his arms across his knees, he might look like a normal fellow, aside from his neckcloth perfectly tied in an Oriental knot, the exquisite cut of his coat, silk waistcoat, not to mention gleaming Hessian boots topping off his traveling buckskins. One look at Ravenscar and anyone within miles knew he was a member of the aristocracy.
But right now, sitting beside her, caring about how to approach the baroness, Bria saw him not as a duke, but as a dear friend. He’d hitched up his carriage and took her to Brighton just to ask Her Grace if she could identify Bria’s mystery mother…woman…relative. Whatever role Baroness Calthorpe ended up playing in all this, it was a relief to know, at long last, Britannia could put a name to the lovely face in the miniature.
She placed her hand atop His Grace’s. “Thank you. You have been generous and kind and I am truly grateful.”
He smiled, a faraway look in his eye. “You must know, regardless of your worth to Chadwick Theater, I would have willingly brought you to Brighton.”
“But…”
He took her hand, closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her skin. Soft, moist, warm, and filled with intense and unspoken emotion. “There is something I need to ask. But I do not want you to misunderstand.”
“What is it?”
“You have been very clear about maintaining your virtue.”
She bit her lip, her stomach squeezing. “I have and—”
He held up his palm. “Please allow me to continue.”
“Very well.”
“I’m not going to profess that I haven’t had impure thoughts. All men have them. But I will always honor your wishes whatever they may be. Just help me to understand: When so many women as well as men in your profession take lovers, especially the French, why are you so averse to it?”
“Do you have all afternoon? Because it will take some time for me to explain.”
“I have as long as you need. Please. Humor me.”
“First of all, you may remember I was raised in a nice manor in a good Catholic home.”
“Catholic?”
“Oui. I had my first communion before Monsieur and Madame LeClair perished and, when I was turned out, I swore I would always honor them for the love they showed me.”
“Respect for the dead. That is justification enough.”
“But it is far from the only reason.”
“Go on.”
“I need to be true to myself, my dreams.”
“But you have already achieved far more than most dancers could ever hope to.”
“You do not understand. Not at all.”
“Then help me.”
“Monsieur Marchand nearly turned me away.”
“When?”
“After I left Bayeux, the Paris Opera Ballet was the only place I could think of to go. I know I mentioned that Maman had been in the corps de ballet.”
“Yes.”
“When I arrived in Paris I waited outside Monsieur Marchand’s studio for hours before he granted me an audience. When I explained about Maman—Sarah Parker was her maiden name—he laughed at me. ‘So now you think to follow in her footsteps?’ And then he pointed to the door. ‘We only take the elite. Children who have been born to the master performers or who show uncanny ability. Mademoiselle Parker was merely a member of the corps. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.’”
“You must have been frantic,” Ravenscar said, rubbing her hand and kissing it.
She squeezed his fingers as she continued, “I was ready to drop to my knees and beg, but I blinked away my tears, squared my shoulders, and insisted he watch me dance.”
He brushed a wisp of hair away from Bria’s face. “And he thought you were brilliant, just as I did.”
“Not exactly. Marchand even tried to grab me. But I twirled away and danced a passage from a scene in the opera Nina, ou La Folle par Amour, one I’d perfected, a part Maman had thought was stunning.”
Drake chuckled. “I’d wager she was right.”
“I don’t know about that. Monsieur Marchand began to object, but before he could stop me I executed an entrechat cinq, a jump only ever performed by a danseur…that’s when he asked my age.”
“You showed him, did you not?”
“No, he told me fourteen was far too old, I needed polish, and I would never be a ballerina.”
“The uncompromising mule. I knew I didn’t like the man from the outset.” He slammed his fist into his palm. “So, how did you convince him to give you a chance?”
“After a fair bit of groveling and pleading, he gave me a challenging combination—one I believe was meant to confound me.”
“Nothing could confound you.”
“Right.” Bria couldn’t hold in a laugh. “And when Monsieur Marchand saw how quickly I learned, he gave me
a month to prove I was worthy of becoming his student.”
“I’ll wager you didn’t look back after that.”
“The journey was never easy. Remember when you asked about my pedigree?”
“How could I forget?” The dashing duke hung his head. “My moment of shame.”
“I wouldn’t say that, but you were right. Everyone at the school has one but me. Most have famous parents. Many are wealthy. I had neither parents nor wealth. Dance became my master, the only consistent thing in my life.”
“And you feel you must remain true to your art?”
“I do. Dance was my first love. There were times when it was the only thing standing between me and utter misery. You cannot know what it is like to watch your schoolmates join their families for the holidays while you stay in the cold and silent corridors, alone with nothing to do but practice.”
“That must have been awful for you.”
She shrugged. “At least I had a roof over my head, which is a lot more than many foundlings can claim. But I digress.” The rest was so painful, Bria couldn’t look him in the eye. “From fourteen to eighteen I was scorned for being different. Teased, of course. And dance remained the only consistent thing in my life. I watched the others more than they thought I did. As time passed I observed as they became distracted by wealthy men who promised to take care of them and, in time, they lost sight of what was truly important.”
“Dance?”
“Yes. Ballet, the theater, the body’s movement as a form of art.”
He tapped his pointer finger on her hand. “That’s why you dance with more passion than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ll admit, performing is in my soul. I cannot walk away from it, just like being a duke is your duty.”
“Perhaps to you they are the same, but I may be more trapped by my station than you are by yours.”
“I don’t understand. Have you not heard me?”
“I have, and I respect your dedication. But, let’s say you were offered another position—say a—”
“Patroness of an elite ballet school?”
“Excellent, let’s go with that, and you decided to leave the stage—perhaps you are getting on in years and you decide it is time for a change.”
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 194