Dare to Love

by Jennifer Wilde

  “It sounds very interesting,” I conceded.

  “Fascinating work. Loads of responsibility.”

  “I take it you think the company would fail if it weren’t for you.”

  “Probably would, if The Barber of Seville is any indication. We don’t even have a name singer, just some garish sets and moth-eaten costumes rented from an outfit that’s going out of business. You can see why I’ve got to come up with a stellar attraction.”

  “Me,” I said.

  “You.”

  “You really are mad, Mr. Duke.”

  “Anthony, luv. Tony if you’re feeling chummy. The minute I saw you, I knew you were it. You’ve got star quality, Mary Ellen. Got it in abundance. Couldn’t take my eyes off you. I saw the possibilities immediately. More pheasant?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “More champagne,” he said, refilling my glass.

  “You’re trying to intoxicate me.”

  “Get you nice and tipsy so I can have my way with you? I wouldn’t dream of it. When I have my way with you, and I shall, it’ll be because you want it as much as I do.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, Mr. Duke.”

  “Anthony. Drink up. Tell me about yourself.”

  “You seem to know everything already.”

  “I did do a lot of investigating,” he admitted. “I know you come from Cornwall, no living relatives, know you’ve been studying with Madame Olga for a year, working hard, getting nowhere, buoying yourself up with false hopes. Know you’re flat broke, been skipping meals, walk to and from the theater because you can’t afford a cab. You never go out. There are no men in your life. The future looks bleak.”

  I was silent. He grinned.

  “Looked bleak. That’s all changed now. Anthony Duke has discovered you. He’s going to be your personal manager. He’s going to make you a star. Have faith in me, luv.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I have faith in you. I know what you’ve got. I know it’s a very rare commodity. That kind of presence, that kind of sensuousness is far more valuable than talent. The fact that you’re a gorgeous woman makes it even more valuable.”

  “I’m not a gorgeous woman.”

  “You’re not pretty,” he said. “Thank God for that. You don’t have a pink-and-white complexion and clear blue eyes and pale blonde ringlets. You don’t look like an aristocratic milkmaid. You don’t meet the current standards of beauty at all. You’re individual, exotic, and, believe me, you’re going to make the men in this city forget all about pretty blonde milkmaids.”

  “I want to go home,” I said.

  “You’re not having a good time?”

  “I’m sad.”

  “You’ve had too much champagne.”

  “I know. I’m sad. You’ve ruined me with Madame Olga and wrecked my career in ballet in one fell swoop. Everything you said about my dancing is true. I’ve never admitted it to myself. I hate you. My head is spinning. Why did you do it? Why me? I tried so hard. I worked so hard. I’m not used to champagne.”

  “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Anything I hate, it’s a teary-eyed woman.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Everything is going to be fine, Mary Ellen.”

  His voice was gentle and melodious as he got up from the table and came around to where I was sitting. Standing behind me, he began to massage my shoulders, kneading the flesh, his strong fingers easing the tension. I closed my eyes, and my head whirled around and around. Then he was pulling me up and holding me against him, his arm around my waist, and I felt warm and secure and safe, and my head was against his shoulder and he was stroking my hair.

  “Brence,” I whispered.

  “Easy, luv. Christ, you’re smashed.”

  “It’s your fault. It’s all your fault.”

  “Absolutely smashed, and we haven’t even begun to discuss things. I can really pick ’em. Got a bloody innocent on my hands.”

  “I … I don’t know what happened.”

  “The champagne. It hit you all at once.”

  I was spinning in darkness, delicious darkness, and his arms were so very strong and he was so tall, so gentle, holding me, stroking my hair, tender, comforting, protective. It was marvelous to have someone holding me again after such a long time. Suddenly, I was limp, falling, falling, and he swept me up into his arms. I opened my eyes, but the room was spinning, a blur of shapes and colors that whirled around and around.

  “What are you—”

  “I’m putting you to bed, Mary Ellen.”

  “Help!”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “I know what you’re going to do.”

  “You weigh a ton! Stop kicking!”

  He stumbled and hurtled forward and muttered a curse and dropped me, and I landed on something soft and bouncy. We were in another room. I was on the bed. Standing over me with a disgruntled expression, his brows pressed together, he muttered another curse. I closed my eyes and my head seemed to spin and the darkness returned and I welcomed it, the delicious dark. Someone was pulling off my shoes, having a very difficult time with it. I smiled and floated away into the darkness.

  XIV

  The dazzling sunlight seemed to be drilling into my brain. I groaned and struggled to sit up, but it took far too much effort. Watery reflections danced on the walls and ceiling, shimmering silver bright amidst the yellow sunlight. Pressing my hands against my temples, I took a deep breath and tried to sit up again. I managed it. Just. There was a horrible crash overhead, a series of dull thuds. My head seemed to explode. I shuddered. Another crash occurred. Bits of plaster flaked off the ceiling and came drifting down like dusty snow.

  Several minutes passed. When the sunlight no longer hurt my eyes, I looked around the bedroom, an undeniably male abode. A cane leaned against a chair, a black silk top hat perched jauntily atop it. The room was cluttered and untidy and bore the unmistakable stamp of its occupant. Newspapers and clippings were piled on the desk. Theatrical posters leaned against the wall in a heap. A half-eaten apple lay in a chipped blue saucer. A sleazy periodical devoted to wrestling was on the bedside table, and a pair of old and oily boxing gloves hung from a nail on the wall. Though my slippers were on the floor beside the bed, I was still wearing my pearl-gray watered silk. It was deplorably crumpled.

  I put on my shoes and stood up. My head felt as though it were caught in a vise, and my stomach was in an even worse condition. Not certain that I wasn’t on the verge of death, I stumbled over to the mirror. What I saw was not at all reassuring. My cheeks were flushed. My hair was a wild tangle. My bodice had twisted down, almost uncovering one breast. I pulled the sleeves up, adjusted the cloth, and reaching for the ivory-backed brush on top of the dressing table, I began trying to put my hair in some kind of order. Each stroke of the brush was like torture.

  A door opened and closed with a deafening retort. I fought back a scream. Bright, bouncy footsteps sounded in the next room. Anthony was humming merrily as he appeared in the doorway, looking dapper in a brown-and-white-checked suit and a topaz satin waistcoat. The impudent blue eyes were bright and mischievous, the boyish grin playing on his wide lips. I glared at him, not trusting myself to speak.

  “How do you feel?” he inquired.

  “Wretched.”

  “Really shouldn’t drink so much. If you can’t handle it, leave the stuff alone.”

  “What happened?”

  “You passed out on me.”

  “I—how did I get in here?”

  “I carried you in, dumped you on the bed.”

  “And then?”

  “I removed your shoes. Spent the night on the sofa myself. Dreadfully uncomfortable. Lumpy. Wouldn’t want to make a habit of it. A drunken woman sprawling all over my bed, snoring something awful, and me trying to get a few honest winks on a sofa two feet too short—”

  “I did not snore!”

  “Touch
y, aren’t we?”

  “You plied me with champagne. I knew what you had in mind. I’m not naive. I’ve heard all about men like you. Will you wipe that disgusting grin off your face?”

  His expression sobered immediately. “Sorry, luv.”

  The grin sprang back of its own volition. The blue eyes sparkled. He sauntered over to the bed and smoothed down the dark tan counterpane. I put down the hairbrush and winced at the noise as it touched the dresser.

  “Glad to see you up and about,” he remarked. “I was just on my way to roust you out. Today’s an important day. Can’t have you sleeping till all hours.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Two o’clock. When you sleep, you sleep.”

  “Two o’clock! I don’t believe it.”

  “Take my word for it. I was up bright and early myself, on the move before the first cock stopped crowing. Accomplished wonders. Got all of your things packed up, got ’em moved in upstairs.”

  “My things?”

  “The old harpy with the brassy hair and gin on her breath was very obliging, gave me the key, didn’t give me a bit of trouble. Wanted to come up and help me pack. I thought I was never going to get rid of her. Cleeve and I packed everything up. Never could have done it without his help. All those bloody books!”

  “You—you took my things?”

  “Moved ’em in upstairs. Told you last night. You have your own room, with bath. Right next to the studio where we’ll be working. Thought you understood that.”

  “I’m going to be very calm,” I said firmly. “I’m not going to be angry. Anger would be wasted on you. I’m going to go downstairs and go outside and find the nearest Bobby and have you arrested.”

  He looked hurt. “Whatever for?”

  “I simply refuse to believe any of this. Last night—last night was like a hazy dream. I scarcely remember what took place. I must have been insane to let you bring me here.”

  “You put up a splendid fight,” he reminded me.

  It was foolish to try to argue with him, and I was in no mood to do so, in any case. I had a lot of thinking to do, serious thinking, and I needed a clear head. Coffee was what I needed. I told him so, and he grinned, looking very pleased with himself.

  “There’s a pot waiting. A place all set for you at the table. Buttered toast and jam, too. Had Cleeve set everything up for you. You see, I can be thoughtful and considerate. Don’t believe in starving my women, not as long as they behave themselves.”

  I followed him into the next room. A place had indeed been set, and there was coffee in a slightly tarnished silver pot, a rack of buttered toast, a small silver dish of strawberry jam, and a single long-stemmed red rose in a slender crystal vase.

  “Nice?” he inquired.

  “Nice,” I agreed.

  “I’m a cruel taskmaster,” he informed me, “and I’ve a wretched temper, but you’ll discover that I can be a very likable chap, given half a chance. Sit down and drink your coffee.”

  I sat. I poured coffee into my cup. The aroma was rich and fragrant and lovely. Duke stepped over to the mirror, tugged at the bottom of his rich topaz waistcoat, and straightened the lapels of his brown-and-white-checked jacket. Finally satisfied with his appearance, he turned and began to pull on a pair of dark brown gloves.

  “What was that dreadful noise I heard?” I asked. “I thought the whole ceiling was going to come crashing down.”

  “I dropped a couple of cartons of books. Damned heavy, almost broke my back carrying them up the stairs. Everything you own is upstairs in your room, waiting to be put away. I decided to leave the putting away to you.”

  “How thoughtful.”

  “When you finish your coffee, go up and have a look at your new home. I’ve got to pop round to the theater on very important business, but I’ll be back in an hour or so. Oh, Cleeve’s lurking around somewhere. Don’t be alarmed if you run into him.”

  He left then. I could hear his footsteps as he hurried downstairs like some exuberant schoolboy. When I finished my coffee, I poured a second cup and ate two pieces of toast. The pain in my head began to recede. I felt very sober now, frightfully so. Sunlight spilled through the opened windows. I could smell the river. My coral-pink velvet gloves were thrown across the back of a chair where I had left them last night. Last night seemed to have happened a very long time ago. Here I sat in a strange room, wearing my most elegant gown—one coral ruffle dangling, dark grass stains soiling part of the skirt—calmly drinking coffee. In fact, I was calmer, it seemed, than I had ever been in my life.

  Anthony Duke had burst into my life and taken it over, just like that. Madame Olga would never forgive me, never take me back, so he had wrecked my future in ballet, but I wasn’t even angry. I accepted it. What he had said was true. I had been buoying myself up with false hopes. I wasn’t a good dancer. I would never be. Desire and determination were of no avail if that certain brilliance was missing, and it was, would always be. I didn’t have it. Today, as the breeze from the river ruffled the curtains and sunlight spread over the carpet, I could face the truth. For a year I had been deceiving myself, working frantically, refusing to allow that tiny seed of doubt to take root.

  I would never get on in ballet, no matter how long I studied with Madame Olga. I had no money, as Anthony Duke had pointed out, and there were very few respectable jobs open to a woman of my age, with my background. Giving dancing lessons sounded all very well, but there was an abundance of failed ballerinas in London and teaching positions were avidly sought. The chances of my obtaining one would be slim indeed, particularly as I could no longer use Madame Olga as a reference. I could become a governess, perhaps, but my youth and my physical appearance would be definite drawbacks, and I had no desire to moulder away in some dim attic nursery.

  Facing this reality, without false hopes, without illusions, I realized there was nothing I could do but go along with Anthony Duke. He wanted to make me a star, he said. The man might be an out-and-out scoundrel, but he was no fool. He knew the theater, knew the public, knew what they wanted, and he believed I had a special quality that would appeal to them. Surely, he wouldn’t have started all this unless there was a hefty profit in it for Anthony Duke. He thought he could make money, a lot of it. He certainly wasn’t after my body. A man as attractive as he had to do no more than snap his fingers to get almost any woman he wanted. He had made no effort to seduce me last night—had candidly informed me that I wasn’t his type. His interest in me was professional, and if he believed he could make something of me, then I must believe it, too.

  I felt strangely stimulated, almost excited. I should have been depressed, of course, should have been grim and despondent and angry, but I wasn’t. This past year had been long and hard and, for the most part, bleak. I had done nothing but work and hope and dream. The months had been gray with loneliness and worry, a constant struggle to hold back the sadness that threatened to overwhelm me, and Anthony Duke had come charging in with breezy determination, splashing color all around. I had to admit to myself that I had enjoyed last night, the lovely meal, his ebullient manner, his cocky chatter. If I formed an affiliation with Anthony Duke I would be letting myself in for anger and irritation and all sorts of conflicts, but things would never be dull and gray.

  “Finished, miss?”

  I turned, startled. A tall, very thin man with graying hair and a sober expression stood in the doorway, holding an empty tray. He wore a butler’s uniform that, though spotless, had seen better days, jacket and trousers both a bit shiny with age. His face was long, his mouth thin, his pale blue eyes patient and weary.

  “Oh,” I said, “you must be Cleeve.”

  He nodded. “I’ll just clear the table.”

  “I’m Miss Lawrence.”

  “I know,” he said. “You read a lot.”

  “You helped Mr. Duke move my things.”

  He nodded again and moved over to the table.

  “I—I suppose you’re accustomed to that. Movin
g a lady’s belongings upstairs, I mean.”

  Cleeve shook his head, placing the tray on the table and reaching for the empty coffeepot. “Mr. Duke has entertained many young ladies,” he informed me, “but you’re the first he’s let move in.”

  That’s encouraging, I thought. Cleeve stacked the dishes on the tray, slowly, patiently. He had to be well over sixty, I reasoned, and I had the feeling he had been with Anthony Duke for a very long time. When I asked him, he nodded again.

  “All his life,” he said. “I was with the family before Master Anthony was born. When his parents died and the big house was sold, I accompanied him to London. Can’t say that I liked the idea, but someone had to look after him. He’s always needed a great deal of looking after. Disorderly, Master Anthony is. Always has been.”

  “You must think a lot of him.”

  Cleeve looked at me with weary eyes. There was no need for him to reply. I could see that he would have gone to the stake for Duke without a moment’s hesitation. I found that reassuring. A man who could inspire such devotion and loyalty couldn’t be a thorough villain.

  “I’ll just take these things down,” Cleeve said. “My kitchen’s in the basement.”

  “You cook, too?”

  “I do all the cooking,” he replied. “Someone has to. Master Anthony can’t afford to pay a cook wages. Can’t afford to pay me, truth to tell, but we manage.”

  “He’s very lucky to have you,” I said gently.

  “Thank you, miss. I’ll be going now.”

  After Cleeve left, I stood there for several minutes, lost in thought, and then, picking up my gloves, I went out into the hall and climbed the final flight of stairs to the studio. The door was standing open, and I stepped inside, amazed at the size of the room. Brilliant sunlight streamed in through a skylight that slanted down from the ceiling, creating an airy, open effect.

  The room was enormous, so enormous that it looked bare despite the furniture. A battered-looking piano stood in one corner, a brightly colored Spanish shawl with tangled fringe draped over it. There was a rickety table nearby piled high with papers and books and opera librettos, and standing against the wall, a motheaten sofa covered in threadbare burnt orange velvet. There were lamps and straightback chairs and a low table scattered with books of costume design, two swords and two fencing masks, and yet another pair of worn boxing gloves. The floor was a vast expanse of bare polished hardwood, agleam with sunlight. The studio, which was obviously used as a rehearsal hall, smelled of sweat and smoke and leather, exceedingly masculine.