by Eva Shepherd
When the newspapers arrived, they spread them out on the table and leant over next to each other so they could peruse the entertainment sections together. Arabella forced herself to focus and ignore the fact that she was now standing close to Oliver, so close that their arms resting on the table were nearly touching, as they scanned the list of theatrical establishments.
She moved her arm slightly away from his in an attempt to stop the tingling that being this near to him always elicited. ‘The best ones to look for will be ones where the play is coming to an end.’ Her voice came out unnaturally high. ‘That means they’ll be casting for the next play and starting rehearsals soon.’
Oliver picked up another piece of paper and dipped his pen in the ink pot. ‘Right, I’ll compose a list of likely candidates.’
He pointed to the advertisement for the Lumière Theatre. ‘We should add that one as well. I know that their lead actress has recently left because she ran off with a viscount. I heard they’re living together in Italy, so they’ll be needing a replacement.’
He wrote that on the list and leaned back over again to survey the ads.
He showed her another advertisement. ‘And the Neptune Theatre is probably a good bet, but they prefer actresses who can also sing and dance.’ He leant on one arm and looked at her. ‘Can you sing and dance?’
She quickly stood up. He was now far too close for comfort. ‘You seem to know more about this business than I do,’ she said more curtly than she’d intended.
He smiled up at her. ‘Well, I have known a few actresses over the years and my father knew even more. I almost grew up in the theatre, you could say.’
Arabella’s body tensed and she fought hard to stop her lips from compressing in a disapproving scowl. Of course he knew a lot of actresses. She already knew that. And it was not something she should care about. It was something she didn’t care about.
‘Yes, I can dance and sing,’ she said as evenly as she could.
‘Right. Well, let’s put the Neptune Theatre on the list as well.’
He turned back to the newspaper and added a few more to the list. Arabella told herself to stop being so sharp. She knew that she was married to a rake. If she reacted like that every time she was reminded that he’d had countless lovers she was going to drive herself mad. So she breathed slowly and steadily, forced herself to smile and pointed to another advertisement. ‘Add the Savoy Theatre to the list, it’s worth a try, and I’d love to perform in a Gilbert and Sullivan production.’
When they reached the end of the advertisements, she realised Oliver had been right. There really were a lot of options available if the Limelight turned her down. And they’d only covered the theatres in London. If they got no response from them, then they could branch out and try the other cities, even the smaller towns. Her father might have forced her to marry, but in one respect he couldn’t have chosen a better husband for her. Oliver really was determined to help her in her career.
He stood up, held up the list and smiled at her.
‘Right, now we need to compile a list of your previous performances, so they know how versatile you are. Do you have any clippings of your reviews? We can include a few good quotes from them. And I’ll arrange with a photographer to take your portrait and we can send copies to the theatres.’
Arabella laughed. He looked so serious and committed to what he was doing. ‘You really do know the industry, don’t you? Perhaps you should manage my career.’
He smiled back at her. ‘That’s not a bad idea. I’d prefer that to being your secretary.’
‘I’m not joking, Oliver. Sarah Bernhardt and Lillie Langtry and all the other successful actors and actresses have theatrical agents. They deal with theatre managers, publicity and so on. It would put my career on a much more professional basis. What do you think?’
He tapped the end of the pen against his teeth as he considered her proposal.
Arabella instantly regretted her suggestion. If he was her agent, he would be in the company of a lot of actresses. Would she be able to bear it if he took one of her colleagues as a lover? She doubted she had such strength that she could bear such humiliation.
‘On second thoughts. I don’t think that would be a good idea. After all, we did agree to live separate lives.’
He lowered his pen and frowned. ‘Yes, you’re right. We did agree on that. But I do know a lot of people in the industry, so I’m sure I can be a help to you.’
It seemed he was disappointed that he wouldn’t be spending his days in the company of young and available actresses. But he was right. He could help her career and she would be unwise to let her ridiculous jealousy get in the way.
‘All right, you can be my agent,’ she said tentatively.
‘Excellent.’ He smiled and held out his hand for them to shake on their new arrangement. As if putting her hand into a fire Arabella forced herself to extend her hand. At the touch of his skin a burning sensation ripped up her arm, causing heat to explode throughout her body. Her heart was beating so loudly he must be able to hear it, as Arabella could hear nothing else.
Why did his touch always do that to her?
She drew in a strained breath and looked up at him, fighting to keep her face impassive so she would not expose to him to her reaction.
But looking into those deep brown eyes was the worst thing she could do. Her heart thudding fast, she knew she should look away, but she couldn’t. They imprisoned her. She held her breath as his gaze moved from her eyes to her lips, then back again. When his gaze returned to her eyes, she could see a change had come over him. He was no longer looking at her like a helpful friend, but like a hungry man staring at a feast. Her frantically beating heart increased its fierce tempo. She was the feast. He wanted her. He desired her.
She dragged in a slow breath and held it, waiting. Wanting him to do more than just look, to act on what he was feeling, to satisfy his hunger.
He inhaled long and deep, then looked away, released her hand and took a step backwards. Her burning hand now free from his grasp, she wanted to sink to the ground, her legs too weak to hold her. She had expected him to kiss her again. Had wanted him to kiss her again. To do more than kiss her. But he hadn’t.
Humiliation and disappointment engulfed her. Why did she have to expose her need to him? He quite obviously did not want her. Hadn’t he proven that last night? Hadn’t he just shown her yet again?
Yes, he had fleetingly been interested in her, but just as quickly that interest had disappeared. And if he had satisfied his hunger, wouldn’t he have then moved on to his next conquest?
Why did she keep forgetting that? Yes, his kisses had been earth-shattering. But they would be, wouldn’t they? Of course he was a good kisser, a man who’d had an endless stream of lovers would be.
Arabella smoothed down her skirt and coughed delicately. ‘As my theatrical agent you’ll probably need to know all about my career to date.’ Her voice was a little breathless, but there was nothing she could do about that.
He nodded his head rapidly, sat down and picked up his pen again. It was all business now. ‘Yes, the first thing we need to do is make a list of all the plays you’ve appeared in and all the theatres you’ve performed at. You’ve worked in America so we’ll also be able to say you’ve got international experience.’
She sat across the table from him. With a table between them she would hopefully not reveal to him just how much his touch, his look, affected her. ‘Well, there was the Atrium Theatre in New York. It’s just a small amateur theatre, but no one in England will know that. I played Lady Macbeth.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I can’t imagine you as someone capable of plotting murder, you seem too sweet for that.’
‘I’m an actress, remember? I can be lots of different women,’ she retorted.
‘And do you have any reviews from that?’
‘Yes. They were very good reviews. And not one of the reviewers said I was sweet.’
He sent her a long, appraising look, causing heat to rush to her face. Why was it so important to her to convince him that she wasn’t a sweet little girl, but was as much a woman as every other he had known?
She looked away and in a garbled rush listed all her other performances until he had to ask her to slow down so his writing could keep up with her torrent of words.
At a slower pace she repeated the list of productions she had appeared in, and the parts she had played, while he wrote it all down.
When she had finished, he held up the page and smiled at her in satisfaction. ‘That’s quite a list. We should get it printed so it looks professional. We can send it out, along with your picture, then sit back and wait for the offers to come flooding in.’
Arabella smiled back at him. He really was being helpful and he would be a great asset as a theatrical agent. It was just a shame that she couldn’t trust herself to keep her traitorous reactions to him under control.
A footman knocked on the door and entered. ‘Your Grace,’ he said with a bow, ‘Cook would like to know when you would like dinner served.’
Oliver looked over at the engraved brass clock ticking on the oak mantelpiece and Arabella followed his gaze. To her surprise she realised they had spent the entire afternoon together and it was now late in the day.
‘Tell Cook we’ll be ready in an hour.’ He looked in Arabella’s direction and she nodded her agreement. ‘And we’ll dine on the terrace tonight. There’s only the two of us and I believe it’s warm enough.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The footman bowed and withdrew.
Oliver put his pen and ink away and picked up the lists they had compiled. ‘I believe that is what you’d call a productive day. We’ll have you back on the stage before you know it.’
He smiled at her. She smiled back. It was what she wanted with all her heart, to return to the stage. So why was that anticipation tinged with an edge of regret?
Chapter Thirteen
Oliver never felt nervous and certainly not because of a woman. Never. And yet, as he sat on the terrace and waited for Arabella, nerves were indeed getting the better of him. Ridiculous. Perhaps it was simply the unfamiliar situation of having dinner with a woman with the simple intention of eating, of making polite conversation and nothing more. Usually when he dined with a woman, both of them knew it was just a precursor to their time in bed together. And their conversation would be far from polite. It tended to consist of sexual innuendo, flirting and teasing.
But tonight, there would be no flirting, no teasing and definitely no sexual innuendos. And this dinner was most certainly not a precursor to bedding Arabella. It was to be food, drink and polite conversation, only. Nothing to be nervous about at all.
The footman opened the doors to the terrace and Arabella emerged. He rose slowly from his seat as if transfixed and took in the vision that had appeared before him. She looked stunning, wearing a light yellow, low-cut gown. There was more of her enticing soft flesh on display than he had seen before. He fought and lost the battle to stop his eyes from straying to that delightful décolletage, to those enticing cream-coloured mounds, rising and falling with each breath. How could he not look? After all he was just a man, a weak man, powerless in the face of such tempting beauty.
Exercising supreme willpower, he forced his gaze to move up to her face, her beautiful face. She had made quite the effort for tonight’s meal. Not just with that wonderful gown, which exposed the tops of her breasts and the soft skin of her shoulders to his appreciative gaze, but also her midnight-black hair, which had been intricately styled. Although he had to admit, he preferred to see her with her hair in a long plait flowing down her back, as it had been today. Or, better still, he would like to see it loose, free from all restraint, so he could run his fingers through it, before...
He coughed to drive out that thought before it led him to places he knew he should not go. He pulled out her seat. As she sat down he inhaled her delightful scent—jasmine. He remembered it well from when he had taken her in his arms before. He paused, his hands still on the back of her chair, his body close to hers.
He felt her grow tense, reminding him that this was just a convivial meal between two people who had been forced together against their wills and his behaviour was becoming inappropriate.
He returned to his own chair and rang the small brass bell on the table. Two footmen immediately emerged from behind the doors, one to serve the soup, the other to fill their wine glasses.
Oliver raised his glass in a toast. ‘To your brilliant acting career.’ He smiled inwardly. That was the right approach. Keep it light. Keep it friendly.
She clinked her crystal glass against his. ‘And to your new career as a secretary and theatrical agent.’
‘Well, I don’t know if it’s going to be much of a career. There’s only one actress I want to look after.’
He took a sip of the white burgundy, savoured the distinctive nutty taste, and tried to laugh off what he had just said. Yes, he was looking after one actress. But it was only Arabella’s career he was going to look after. Nothing more.
He picked up his spoon and tasted the clear vegetable soup. ‘I’m afraid there will only be three courses this evening. I hope you don’t mind, but as there is only the two of us, I didn’t want to put Cook to too much trouble.’
She smiled at him, that enchanting smile. ‘Of course I don’t mind. Compared to what actresses usually eat I’m sure it will be a feast.’
He took another sip of his wine and watched her as she ate her soup. She really was quite different from any woman he had known. ‘The life of an actress is not one I’d have expected the daughter of a wealthy man to choose. After all, it’s often long hours for low pay.’
She lowered her spoon and tilted her head in thought. ‘I don’t think I actually did choose to become an actress. I think the life chose me. The first time I appeared on stage I felt as though I had come home. It was like the other actors were the family I never had. And the audience—when they applauded it was like nothing else on earth. I felt so happy and being on stage continues to make me happy.’
They exchanged smiles. She lit up when she spoke of the stage, her blue eyes shone and her smile was nothing less than radiant. ‘But what about your father? I suspect you being on the stage doesn’t make him happy.’
She nodded and her forehead furrowed as her eyebrows drew together. ‘Fortunately, for a long time my father took very little interest in what I did. I’d appeared in numerous performances before he even realised what I was doing. If it hadn’t been for...’
She looked down and picked up her spoon again.
‘If it hadn’t been for what?’
She placed her spoon back in the soup bowl with a decisive clink and pushed the bowl away. ‘I suppose you might as well know. After all, you are my husband, even if, you know, you aren’t really.’
He waited. She had him intrigued. What on earth could she tell him that she thought he should know? He doubted there would be a scandal. And if there was, it was unlikely to be anything worse than many of the scandalous things he had done. Whatever it was, he would forgive her.
‘My father found out about my acting because I wanted to become engaged to be married to an actor.’
Oliver sat up straighter in his chair. That was not what he’d expected. She now had his undivided attention. ‘You were previously engaged? You wanted to get married? Who to? What happened?’
She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly through pursed lips. ‘It was an unofficial engagement. His name was Arnold Emerson and we appeared together in that amateur production of Macbeth in New York. I thought he was in love with me. He said he was in love with me and I believed him. When he approached my father to ask for my hand my father was horrified. He said he was a charlatan an
d was only after my money. I was sure my father was wrong and was only saying that because Arnold had no money and no status. Not exactly the sort of man my father wanted me to marry.’ She picked up her spoon and clenched it tightly. ‘But it turned out that my father was right. To prove his point, he offered Arnold a large amount of money to leave New York and never see me again. And that’s exactly what he did.’
‘That’s appalling. The man’s a complete bast—dastard.’
She looked up at him. ‘Who, my father?’
‘Well, yes, him, too, but, no, this Emerson fellow. He’s a dastard and a fool, and you’re better off without him.’
‘Yes, that’s what my father said.’
‘For once I’m in agreement with him.’ Oliver steeled himself to ask the question to which he both wanted and did not want to hear the answer. ‘Did you love him very much?’
She shrugged. ‘I thought I did. But I didn’t really know him, did I?’ She gazed at him, those big blue eyes staring into his. ‘I was angry at the time, but I think I was more angry that Father had been proven correct than because I wouldn’t be getting married to Arnold. So I suppose that means I wasn’t really in love with him after all.’
Relief flooded through him and his tense shoulders relaxed. ‘I’m so sorry, Arabella.’
She shrugged again. ‘Well, it’s all in the past now.’ She bit lightly on her lip and looked over at him. ‘So what about you? Have you ever been in love?’
Oliver couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the question. Him? In love? Never. ‘No, most certainly not. In fact, I doubt if such a thing actually exists. Countless women thought they were in love with my father, including my mother, but like you with Arnold Emerson, they never really knew him. If they did, I doubt that there would be much love in their hearts for that scoundrel.’