Dare to Love

by Jennifer Wilde

  I could imagine Duke rehearsing his specialty acts, snapping orders, making criticisms, boisterous and bullying. He had probably held many a rowdy party for his theatrical colleagues up here as well, parties with laughter and loud talk, lots of wine, impromptu boxing matches, and fencing forays. No doubt, he and his friends would behave like noisy schoolboys. There was still much of the schoolboy in his nature, I reflected, noting the boxing gloves.

  My heels rang on the floor as I crossed the room and entered the bedroom that adjoined it. It was small and snug, its plaster walls painted a very light blue; one tiny window looking out over the river. A violet-blue counterpane covered the bed. The headboard was painted white, as were the bedside table, the dressing table, and the wardrobe. The wardrobe was much too large for the tiny room, and so was the overstuffed chair covered in rather garish purple velvet. A lamp stood on the bedside table, and a white vase on top of the small bookcase held a bunch of fresh violets that had been hastily crammed into it. He must have bought them this morning in hopes of pleasing me.

  My clothes were piled on top of the bed in a tangled jumble, and all my other possessions sat in boxes around the floor. Two boxes of books had fallen over, books spilling out over the faded gray carpet with its barely visible violet floral patterns. This room was directly over his bedroom. A narrow door led into a tiny but quite modern bathroom complete with large zinc tub. Putting down my gloves, I wondered where to begin. I would have to smooth all the clothes out and hang them up in the wardrobe, place the books in the bookcase, and put the rest of the things away in the drawers of the dressing table, but first I would wash up and change into something sensible.

  I removed the rumpled silk gown and performed my ablutions in the bathroom, sponging myself thoroughly. Then I donned a dusty-rose cotton frock patterned with tiny blue forget-me-nots. The dress was old and too tight at the waist. The snug bodice had been modest enough when I was sixteen years old and the dress brand-new, but Millie had mended the neckline and it was now a good two inches lower, revealing more than I ordinarily cared to reveal. This afternoon, however, I was pleased with the plunging effect.

  Because Anthony Duke claimed that I wasn’t his type, I had a purely feminine inclination to prove otherwise, if only to have the satisfaction of rebuffing him. Retrieving my cosmetics from one of the packed boxes, I sat down at the dressing table and applied a hint of soft blue shadow to my lids and heightened the natural pink of my lips with dark pink lip rouge. With my hair tumbling about my shoulders, I thought I had a certain wild splendor that suggested windswept moors and stormy emotions. Was that the special quality he had referred to? He said that I had the ability to make every able-bodied man want to commit delicious sin with me. Well, I might not be his type, but he was certainly an able-bodied man.

  As I shook my dresses out and hung them up in the wardrobe, I wondered at the change that had come over me. Change? Perhaps that wasn’t the right word. Anthony Duke made me feel like a woman, and I hadn’t felt that way for a very long time. For the past year I had been serious and dedicated, entirely devoted to my dancing, leading a drab, nun-like existence outside the theater. I had coolly rebuffed all advances from the men who flocked around the theater, had denied all the emotions and instincts that Brence Stephens had unlocked and nourished with his manhood. I had shut that part of me off. Now, another man had appeared, and he made me feel vibrant and alive and attractive. Although I had no intention of going to bed with him, it was nice to experience the subtle glow he had awakened.

  Hanging up the last dress, I began to fold the other clothes and put them away in the drawers. That done, I arranged all the books in the bookcase and stopped to rearrange the violets in their white vase. A cheap bouquet of violets was a cheap bouquet of violets, hardly overwhelming, but the fact that he had thought to buy them was rather touching. I stroked one of the soft petals, and then stopped, forcing myself to curb the warm feeling the flowers had summoned up. What was it Millie had said? That sort would break your heart, steal your money, and laugh his head off as he walked out of the door. Millie was right. I was going to have to be on guard constantly.

  There were two more boxes of my things left to unpack. As I picked them up and set them on the bed, I heard footsteps crossing the studio floor, and a moment later Anthony Duke was standing in the doorway, observing me. He noticed the dress, and the neckline. He didn’t say anything about it, but he noticed. His blue eyes glowed with appreciation, and his lids drooped slightly, giving him a sleepy, sensual look. A half smile curved on his lips. I knew what he was thinking, and I was pleased with myself for having scored a small triumph. Ignoring him, I began to remove things from the boxes.

  He looked at me, wanting me, and then he sighed and shook his head and assumed his customary stance of cocky self-assurance. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned his shoulders back against the frame of the door, lounging there like some idle ruffian.

  “See you’ve decided to stay,” he remarked.

  “It would seem so.”

  “Good. Thought you might put up another fight.”

  “I really haven’t much choice, Mr. Duke. You saw to that.”

  “Indeed I did. Dastardly conduct, mine. I’m doing you a favor, though. You’ll discover that soon enough.”

  “We’ll see. At least I’ll have a roof over my head.”

  “I say, did you notice the violets?”

  “Violets?”

  “Over there on top of the bookshelf. I bought ’em this morning, paid a fortune for ’em. Outrageous what that old crone charged me.”

  I glanced toward the bookshelf. “How sweet.”

  “You don’t like violets?”

  “Not particularly, but it was thoughtful of you to buy them.”

  He scowled irritably. “Shouldn’t have wasted my money,” he muttered. “Women. Damnable creatures.”

  I repressed a smile. He strolled over to the bed and began to poke about in one of the boxes, taking out my castanets, examing them, putting them down and reaching for the framed watercolor of my father, the one my mother had painted such a long time ago. He studied it intently.

  “Striking chap,” he said. “Quite handsome in a fierce sort of way. What kind of costume is that he’s wearing?”

  “It—it’s not a costume. He was a gypsy.”

  “Friend of yours?”

  “My father.”

  He arched one brow in surprise. I took the picture from him and put it in the drawer of the bedside table.

  “His name was Ramon. My mother ran away with him. He was killed in a knife fight. My mother was an aristocrat, very beautiful, and she scandalized everyone by falling in love with a gypsy. Her family disowned her. I was born out of wedlock.”

  “Happens to the best of people,” he said casually. “So you’ve got gypsy blood? Hmmm, that’s very interesting.”

  “I’m quite proud of it. I knew the gypsies well. I used to run across the moors to their camp. They were … they were warm, wonderful people. They taught me all the gypsy dances, and—”

  “Dances?” he interrupted.

  “Spanish dances.”

  “With castanets? Heels, stamping, guitars strumming, flamboyant, uninhibited?”

  I nodded. He looked suddenly excited.

  “You remember ’em?”

  “The dances? Of course I do.”

  He snapped his fingers, nodding vigorously. “I’m beginning to get something, luv. Gypsies, castanets, knives flashing in front of a blazing fire! I’m beginning to see a picture in my mind. You’re wearing a Spanish outfit. The skirt has lots of different-colored ruffles. You’re stamping your heels and clicking your castanets and—”

  He grabbed up the castanets and seized my wrist and moved toward the studio, dragging me after him. I stumbled. He shot me an impatient look, pulled me over to the piano, and stood there frowning, blue eyes intent on his own thoughts. Then he focused on the brightly colored Spanish shawl and nodded to himself again, his f
ingers still clamped tightly around my wrist.

  “Gypsies are out, love,” he said. “No offense, but the picture isn’t quite right. Spanish. That’s what you’ll be, an exotic Spanish dancer, fierce, fiery, seething with passion. They’ll love it!”

  “I don’t speak a word of Spanish,” I protested.

  “Doesn’t matter. You can learn a few phrases. I think we might just be able to pull it off. Your hair’s the right color, and your eyes—well, who said all Spaniards have to have dark, flashing eyes? With the right makeup, the right kind of costumes—”

  “You’re hurting my wrist!”

  “Stop caterwauling! We’ll invent a colorful background. Doesn’t matter what we say. Who has any idea what’s going on in Spain? You could have royal blood. No, no, that sounds a bit stuffy. I have it! You’re a notorious Spanish temptress, a celebrated dancer expelled from Spain because of your dangerous liaison with a crown prince.”

  “Does Spain have a crown prince?”

  “Who knows? Who cares? Don’t bother me with details. I’m a promoter. That’s my business, and no one does it better! With my ideas and my connections I could make a star out of a mud fence. In your case I have considerably more to work with.”

  “Thank you,” I snapped.

  Anthony Duke grinned and let go of my wrist. I reminded myself again to be wary. The grin was disarming, yes, and the boyish enthusiasm very appealing, but beneath that attractive facade was a hard, ruthless man with very few scruples and, I suspected, very potent masculinity. I was acutely conscious of his virility, and it alarmed me.

  “We’re going to work beautifully together, you know, and we’re going to make lots of money. Here, take the castanets. Do one of your dances for me. I need to get some idea of what you can do. After seeing your ballet performances, I’m not too optimistic, but your dancing isn’t really what we’ll be selling.”

  “I couldn’t,” I said modestly.

  “Couldn’t what?”

  “Dance. Not here. I—well, there isn’t music, for one thing, and I—I’d be frightfully embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “I have to be in the right mood. I have to—”

  “Dance!” he ordered.

  I took the castanets and stepped out to the center of the floor, painfully conscious of his eyes watching me. Sunlight streamed in through the enormous skylight. I needed starlight and fires glowing in the darkness and painted caravans looming out of the shadows. I needed raucous laughter and husky voices and hands clapping in a savage beat, but here there was only this ponderous, expectant silence. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the piano and looked at me with impatience. I began to move, slowly, hesitantly, very ill at ease.

  As I clicked the castanets and swayed, I began to remember, and the sunlight seemed to melt into darkness. I saw the caravans, the fires, the faces of my friends. The memories came rushing back, now, and I was very young again, elated- to be with these people, free, uninhibited, belonging, dancing; really dancing, the music in my mind growing loud and lively and fierce. I stamped, I swayed, I swirled, I was afire with feeling, tossing my head, my hair flying, my skirts whirling up and around, the music growing louder, the laughter more raucous, an old excitement in my blood. I danced, forgetting Anthony Duke, caught up in the wild rhythm that seemed a part of me.

  I danced for several minutes, but gradually the music slowed and the hands no longer clapped, and the sunlight was there again and I was in the studio. Out of breath, my bosom heaving, I stopped dancing and brushed my hair back from my face. He was still leaning against the piano, arms folded, his head tilted slightly to one side. He wore a bemused expression.

  “Well?” I said.

  “You’ve got something, luv.”

  As I moved over to the piano to put the castanets down, Duke studied me carefully, examining me with an intense scrutiny I found most disconcerting. I could smell the musky male scent of his body, and I had a perverse longing to reach up and rub my fingertips across that lean cheek, to touch that full pink mouth that turned up thoughtfully at one corner.

  “Still need a lot of work,” he told me. “You’re rough, but the fire’s there, the feeling. What we need now is passion.”

  “Indeed?”

  “You a virgin?” he inquired.

  I was startled, too startled to reply.

  “Don’t look so offended. My reasons for inquiring are purely professional. If we’re going to create a passionate, tempestuous woman seething with sensuality, it’ll be much easier to do if you know what it’s all about.”

  “I know what it’s all about,” I said dryly.

  “Thought I might have to give you a few lessons. There’s a lot of allure there already. After seeing you dance—” He hesitated, eyes sparkling. “If I weren’t such a gentleman, we’d be over there on that sofa this very minute.”

  “You think so.”

  “I know so. I can be very persuasive. Don’t worry, I won’t try to seduce you. I promise.”

  “It would be wasted effort, I assure you.”

  “That a challenge?”

  “Mr. Duke—”

  Grinning, he thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and strolled away from the piano. He began to pace back and forth across the floor, shoulders hunched, head lowered, a thoughtful expression on his lean, attractive face.

  “We’ll have to start work on your Spanish immediately,” he said. “I’ll hire a chap to tutor you. Lessons every day. The language isn’t all that important, it’s the accent. Spanish music—I’ll find some. I’ll accompany you on the piano myself. No need to worry about guitars and such at this point. We’ll start work tomorrow.”

  He paced, frowning now, immersed in thought. “We’ve got to have a name. Something striking, easy to remember, dramatic. Mary Ellen Lawrence is out. Something Spanish, of course. Marie Elena? Sounds like a nun. Elena. Hmmm, I like that by itself. Elena what? Elena … Elena … I’ve got it!”

  He stopped his pacing and rested his hands on his hips and looked at me with a triumphant glow.

  “Elena Lopez! That’s it. It’s got the right ring. It’s got allure! From this moment on Mary Ellen Lawrence ceases to exist. From this moment on you’re an exotic creature who drives men mad. Fiery, tempestuous, smouldering with passion! You’re going to be a sensation! Elena Lopez will be the most exciting thing this town has ever seen!”

  “Will she?” I said doubtfully.

  “She will indeed, luv,” he exclaimed. “Take my word for it.”

  XV

  Hyde Park was green and spacious and lovely with great open spaces bathed in sunlight. Above us, the pure, pale sky had only the faintest suggestion of blue. Millie and I strolled past neat flowerbeds, squares of violet, white, and blue with dramatic touches of red. In the distance we could hear children playing and water splashing and carriages rumbling up and down the drives, but here all was serene, with only a few people strolling across the wide lawns. About noon, I had fetched Millie in a cab and we had lunched at an inexpensive restaurant and come here afterwards. It must be well after three now, I realized.

  I should be studying my Spanish. Anthony Duke had left at eleven, saying he wouldn’t be back until six. So, instead of poring over the Spanish grammar and practicing my accent, I had decided to see Millie. I was determined not to feel guilty. For the past few weeks I had been working night and day, it seemed, and I felt entitled to an afternoon off. If Duke found out about it and objected, that was just too bad. He was a merciless slave driver, making incredible demands, and the nervous tension was almost more than I could bear. I needed some relaxation and, most of all, I needed a few hours of freedom.

  “The ’ole set-up seems fishy to me,” Millie announced. “’E ’asn’t made a single advance?”

  “Not one,” I replied.

  “’Asn’t touched you?”

  “Oh, he’s touched me, all right. Yesterday he seized me by the arms and shook me until I thought
my head would snap off, and he slapped me last week. I slapped him back, of course. He grabbed me by the throat and bared his teeth and said that if he hadn’t invested so much time and money in me already he’d choke the breath out of me. He becomes a monster when things don’t go well.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Most of the time he’s very patient, but—well, I get very tense, and he gets tense, too, and these little explosions happen. They don’t mean anything. He’s usually rather considerate. He’s hard on me, but then he’s very hard on himself as well. He believes in me, Millie, and he’s staked everything on my success.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s already gone into debt, and he’ll have to spend a lot more before I make my debut. If I fail, he’ll lose everything. These past few weeks have been like a living nightmare in many respects, but in some ways they’ve been the most exciting weeks of my life. He’s very dynamic, very forceful. When he’s working, he’s all business—that breezy charm entirely vanishes.”

  “’As you eatin’ outta ’is ’and, don’t ’e?”

  “Not at all,” I retorted. “I’ve no illusions about him. He’s doing this for himself, because he believes I’ll make his fortune. If I’m successful, he can give up his position with Dorrance and devote himself to being my personal manager. He’ll be rich, but I’ll be rich, too, Millie. And famous.”

  “That matters a lot to you, don’t it?”

  I nodded. “I have my reasons.”