But chance had intervened. He had been able to come to her rescue in a difficult situation and counted himself lucky for it. He had avoided the deadly dullness of afternoon calls and polite small talk in one swift move and become her hero, if only for five minutes.
Miss Shy turned her face up to his and said something that he didn’t hear. Her lips were rosy. Her lips were parted.
How wonderful it would be to kiss her. Right now.
He wondered if he was losing his mind. He ought not to even think about such things. A rational man would not. Josephine did not even know that he remembered her with tenderness. He had mentioned it to her brother, of course, in Miss Loudermilk’s dressing room, but only in passing.
Daniel had not told Terence that he intended to court his sister, having not had time to consider every detail as he liked to do. And Lord York prided himself on being a deliberate sort of man.
A proper courtship took time and her father would have to be asked and her mother provided with handkerchiefs of fine linen into which she might cry tears of happiness—Daniel hoped that the news would make Mrs. Shy happy—and then there was the paperwork and all that.
His mind was full of wayward thoughts and wild fancies, shooting up like weeds. Of course it was spring, he told himself … and things were thrusting up all over, tulips and the like.
He blamed the incessant rain and the sun that had burst out today for all of it.
Expect the unexpected. Terence had said as much when Lord York first contemplated investing in the theater. A worthy motto and it certainly applied at the moment. He realized that Josephine had paused, no doubt expecting some reply, and he turned his attention to her, hoping that she would continue and he might pick up the thread of what she had been saying.
“It is not Terence’s fault that I … well, perhaps I am too independent for my own good. I cannot sit still in a drawing room and occupy myself with an embroidery hoop and colored silks for very long.”
“No, I did not think so. I remember you loved to be out of doors, rambling in the lanes.”
“We all did, back in Richmond,” Jo said, a little wistfully.
“Those were happy days, Miss Shy.”
They had come to the crooked alley that led to the back door of McNeel’s workshop.
“If we go in together, people will talk,” she said, looking this way and that.
Daniel saw Molly before Jo did. Slipshod, ill-dressed, her hair uncombed, the dancer stumbled once as she came down the lane, looking as if she’d had a rough night.
A stray cat ran across her path, meowed at her, and disappeared when she cursed at it.
“Too late.” He sighed. “There is Molly. Nothing would please her more than spreading gossip about me. No, we must tell your brother that I know you spend your days at the theater and not at home. Yet you have done nothing wrong, of course.”
“I should say not,” Jo said with indignation.
Molly overheard only the last of their exchange.
“Has she done nothing wrong? Ow, our Miss Shy is pure as the driven snow. But p’raps not anymore. Oh, ye’re a wicked one, sir!” Molly laughed uproariously and jostled Lord York as she passed. “Excuse me. I am on me way to be fitted for me flyin’ harness.” She proceeded to the workshop’s back door, slamming it shut behind her.
Lord York and Josephine exchanged a look and he shrugged.
“It cannot be helped. Molly will invent a wicked tale about us, circulate it with glee, and then forget all about it. Keep your chin up.”
“Very well. No one will believe her anyway. She is a great one for spiteful rumors and petty unkindness.” Jo gave him a worried, wondering look. Her eyes were soft with emotion, no doubt the result of two mortifying encounters in a morning, one with that damned shopkeeper and one with Molly.
Ought he to offer manly comfort? And how far should manly comfort go? He put his hands on her shoulders, as if to draw her into his embrace, and then … Daniel gave in to a mad impulse, leaned down, and kissed her full on the lips.
He straightened up, looking just as surprised as Jo, and she gasped. “Why did you—oh, my—that was most improper, Lord York!”
“If people are going to talk, we might as well give them something to talk about.” He had no idea why he had kissed her, but felt not a particle of regret. He was, of course, ready to marry her in a minute. Not that he would breathe a word of that just yet. She would take him for a madman if he did.
She looked about wildly. The alley was empty. However, someone might have spied them. She had not been paying attention to anything but the delightful sensation of her very first kiss. “Did anyone see us?”
“No.”
“Would you mind very much … doing it again?”
“Not at all.”
Too agitated to think straight, and truly not wanting to give anyone anything to talk about, Jo sent Lord York round to the front of the theater and let herself in the back of McNeel’s workshop.
She would have to occupy herself with work immediately, and not think of that extraordinary kiss, or rather, kisses. What had possessed him? Why had she allowed it? What would Molly say?
Do shut up, she told herself. You enjoyed it. She could think about it later, when she was not at the theater.
“Mr. McNeel!” she called. “Where are you? Oh, dear, you have gone green all over. I did not see you against the backdrop.”
“I am paintin’ over Arlecchino’s jungle.”
“But there is no need. I have persuaded—that is to say, Lord York persuaded—I mean that he paid the bill—at Samuel Picard’s shop. We have acres of canvas to work with.”
McNeel broke into a greenish grin. “Very good, Miss Shy!”
“It will be delivered today.”
He picked up a rag from a basket that overflowed with them and wiped his face. “Then I will leave the tiger where it is. Ye never know what Hugh Newsome will come up with next, and it is not such a bad tiger as all that. I do like the way the eyes glow.”
“What about the bears? Or were they dogs? Did we decide?”
McNeel shrugged. “It don’t matter. They are already painted out, as ye can see.”
He waved a hand at the backdrop she had been looking at all along, and Jo felt like a fool.
“So they are.”
“Yer brother wants to see ye, by the way. He is in the theater with Hugh. The auditions for the blacksmiths have begun.”
“Thank you, Mr. McNeel, I suppose I must go then. But I did want to let you know that you have what you need.”
“Bless your heart.” He waved good-bye with the paint-smeared rag and watched her depart.
She entered the theater and saw her brother sitting in a comfortable armchair in one of the boxes nearest the stage. Hugh Newsome sat next to him, whispering into the ear of her … her kisser. Lord York was frowning but his face lit up with a tender smile when he saw Jo.
She pressed her lips firmly together.
Surely he had said nothing of the kissing episode to her brother. Would Terence be bound by honor to call him out? She could not imagine her brother fighting a duel. He would probably insist in his whimsical way on feather dusters at thirty paces, and leave it that.
“Jo!” her brother called. “Do come and sit with us. I should like to have your opinion. There are many blacksmiths in the world and many singers, but we cannot seem to find a man who is both.”
“Coming,” Jo called back. She made her way across the pit to the staircase that led to the boxes.
Terence spotted Tom Higgins in the wings. “Tom! How many more are waiting?”
The stage manager looked behind him and counted on his fingers. “There are three, sir. And the last of them towers over all the others. If the brute can sing, I think ye have yer man.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Lizzie Loudermilk said, walking out upon the stage. “I have to sing with him and I will decide.”
Terence rolled his eyes heavenward. “Of course, Mis
s Loudermilk, whatever you say.”
Lizzie sniffed. “I am glad that we agree.”
Jo entered the box and stood in back just as Terence leaned over to whisper to Lord York. “Daniel, we might as well let her choose.”
“Next!” Tom called into the wings.
A very short blacksmith with enormous arms walked onstage. He studied his music, opened his mouth, and sang a particularly sonorous bit, good and loud.
“My, my,” Hugh said, “he has a fine voice. And he is able to convey the poignant feeling and the emotional power of my work. This song positively drips with longing.”
Terence laughed. “How revolting. No dripping, Hughie, please. Now that the damned rain has stopped and the leaks with it, I don’t want to hear that word again.”
“Did you ever fix the roof, Terence?” Lord York asked.
Josephine’s eyes widened but she said nothing. Surely he would not offer to pay for that. Tom and McNeel had climbed out upon the roof and determined that the whole thing was in need of replacing, not just repair, at horrendous expense.
“No,” Terence said. “If we are lucky, it will not rain again until after opening night. Then we can fix it, if we have the money.”
“You cannot run a theater on luck,” Lord York began, “and as far as the money, I really ought to examine the books—” He was interrupted by a halloo from the stage.
“Mr. Shy!” boomed Lizzie in the direction of their box. “This blacksmith will not do!”
“Excuse me, Daniel. Why not, Lizzie?” Terence called back.
“Open your eyes. The man is a head shorter than I am.”
“But he can sing!” Hugh cried.
“He can’t play the part on stilts, Hughie dear. Not when he has to pick me up.”
Miffed, the dramatist said nothing more and slumped in his armchair.
“Jo, do you not agree?” Lizzie called. “Mr. Shy, is your sister with you? Jo! Jo! Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Terence turned to look toward the back of the box. “Oh—hello. Do sit with us. Take the chair on the other side of Daniel, that’s a good girl.”
Good girl? If only her brother knew what had happened in the alley. But he didn’t. Molly must not have had a chance to tittle-tattle.
As she walked to the chair by Lord York, Jo reflected on the odd fact that being a little bad could feel deliciously good. She sat down, folding her hands primly in her lap and refusing to look at him. Considering what had happened only moments ago, she thought it best to concentrate all her attention on the stage.
Lizzie awaited another singing swain, with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. “Next victim,” she called to the stage manager. “Keep them coming, Tommy.”
Another fellow edged out from the wings. He was tall, thin, and stooped. He took one look at Lizzie and dropped his music, then tripped over his feet as he tried to retrieve the pages.
“Oh, no,” growled Lizzie. “Next!”
“You haven’t even heard him,” Hugh said rather peevishly. “Give the poor man a chance.”
Lizzie shrugged. “He can barely pick up pieces of paper. How is he going to carry me over the threshold of the cottage when we sing our duet? The fellow is spindly, not like a blacksmith at all. He won’t do either.”
The thin man gave her a reproachful look, and slunk away.
“There is one more. Says he is a real blacksmith, too. Harry Longwood, step forth,” Tom said, looking into the wings.
A gigantic man answered his summons and strode onto the stage. The theater reverberated with each of his steps, and the group in the box sat up straight. Hugh leaned forward on the balcony rail, resting his head on his folded arms.
“Oo!” said Lizzie with evident satisfaction. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” She came forward to look him over.
Harry Longwood stood as staunchly as if he had been carved from English oak, his massive arms folded over a very broad chest.
It was easy to imagine him in a leather apron, wielding a huge hammer with all his might, forging red-hot iron in a shower of brilliant sparks. His thighs seemed ready to burst from his tight breeches, and his neck was a thick column of muscle, springing from shoulders that were impossibly wide.
He looked Lizzie right in the eye, unmoving, even when she boldly put a hand on his chest.
“Oo! Like a brick wall!”
He made no reply.
She moved her hand to the thick, curly hair on his head, stretching up to run her fingers through it. “Oo! Taller than I am, too. Why, he makes me feel like a kitten.” She caressed his rugged jaw and moved closer.
She seemed to be—Jo strained to hear—yes, Lizzie was purring in his ear.
The man grinned as if it tickled but still made no reply.
“He’ll do, Mr. Shy,” she said, stepping back with a huge smile on her face.
“You haven’t heard him sing!”
“Oh, right. Go ahead, tra-la-la to your heart’s content, Mr. Longwood.” She picked up a few sheets of music from the floor and thrust them into his hands. “But my mind is made up, Terence. He is a real man and no mistake.”
The man nodded, cleared his throat, and rattled the sheets of music.
“Need a note?” Lizzie asked. She sang out high and clear and strong. Laaaaaaaa.
The man cleared his throat again and let out a note that matched hers perfectly. Laaaaaaa.
Lizzie cast a worried look at him. “What was that squeak?” she asked. “Is there a mouse in the house? That can’t be your voice.”
“It is, madam,” the blacksmith replied in a dignified, high-pitched voice. “I am a counter-tenor.”
Her face fell. “And I was expecting a bass.”
“We all were,” Terence whispered after a minute. The group in the box was convulsed with silent laughter. “I fear that this brawny blacksmith has suffered a dreadful injury. It is a dangerous trade. Poor fellow.”
Hugh shook his head. “I don’t think so. I happened to glimpse Longwood at the piss-pots backstage—I beg your pardon, Miss Shy, but I must speak frankly. He is, uh, entire. As much of a man as a man can be.”
Lizzie was walking about the stage looking rather agitated. “May I speak to you privately, Mr. Shy?”
“Of course, Miss Loudermilk.” He turned to the dramatist. “Hugh, come with me and chat with Longwood while Lizzie and I have it out. I have an idea but she might not like it.”
Their departure left Jo and Lord York alone. True, they were in full view of the people on the stage and anyone who might wander into the box. But they were out of earshot and could talk with perfect freedom—if she seemed inclined to talk, which she was not. They sat some minutes in uneasy silence.
He glanced her now and then, thinking about what he might say. At last he spoke, in a calm, measured tone that gave no hint of his inner agitation. “Forgive me, Miss Shy. I should not have kissed you.”
“A kiss is just a kiss.”
That was not the response he had expected. She sounded … positively blasé. He wondered again, feeling annoyed, just what she had learned in this damned theater.
“Did you, um, enjoy the experience?” he asked.
“I did,” Jo said, still refusing to look at him.
Lord York was immediately heartened. So she was not blasé about his kisses, just kisses in general. Still, he thought it best to stick to apologizing.
“Then I should not have kissed you more than once.”
“Pshaw. I asked you to,” she said lightly.
“So you did, Miss Shy.”
“And did you enjoy the experience, Lord York?”
He had certainly not expected a question like that. Yet he was not fooled by her worldly air, which seemed put on somehow, as if she had learned lines and was merely playing a part. Was she doing it to attract him or to keep him at a distance? Lord York could not, at the moment, decide upon an answer to that subtle question. “Yes, very much,” he said hastily, “but decency requires that I�
�”
“Decency be damned,” she said with the faintest trace of a smile upon her pretty lips.
“Miss Shy! Wherever did you pick up that expression?”
“Lizzie—I mean Miss Loudermilk.”
Lord York raised one eyebrow. “I see. And do you assist Miss Loudermilk as well as your brother? Terence did not tell me that, either.”
“I do.”
She still would not look at him. Lord York saw the color rise in her cheeks. He understood the cause of her blushing embarrassment. “Ah, that explains much. Miss Loudermilk is hardly a proper friend for a modest young gentlewoman.”
She turned at last and glared at him. “Whatever do you mean? I suppose a prig might consider Miss Loudermilk disreputable, but she is a good soul with a warm heart.”
“Of course,” he said hastily, wondering whether Jo thought of him as priggish. “Yes, she is, in her way. But your reputation … Oh, Miss Shy, what I did was enough to compromise you.”
She only shrugged. “If you are worried about that, I do not consider myself compromised and no one was looking.” She hoped she sounded sophisticated. “It was an amusing interlude but it meant nothing to me.”
He sighed in a deeply unhappy way. Another minute passed in which neither of them spoke.
Perhaps, Josephine thought, she had sounded merely heartless. She remembered how gallant he had been when coming to her rescue in Picard’s shop and began to feel ashamed of her flippant reply.
“Is that true, Jo? I had hoped otherwise,” he said at last.
“Hoped for what? Please explain. I find that I am thoroughly confused.” And that I am wildly attracted to you as well. Jo wondered what explanation he would offer. But she could not imagine having to explain her own actions—most of all, why she had kissed him back and asked for another. It had seemed like the thing to do at the time, of course.
“Ah … where to begin?” he said slowly.
“Just begin. Perhaps it will make sense when and where we least expect it.”
He cleared his throat. “I, uh, was most happy to hear from Terence that you were living with him in London. I knew that—I hoped that—I would see you again. I was not expecting that to happen at a shopkeeper’s counter, of course.”
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