He wondered what Lucia was doing now. He’d always been a man comfortable with his own company, but he’d grown so accustomed to the pleasure of having her beside him that he felt lost now without her. She’d been right. Books really weren’t the same, and chagrined, he gave up the pretense of reading and closed the book on his lap. Was she dressed and waiting for his summons? Was she studying the play one more time, making certain she knew every word? Or was she, too, watching the rain?
He was so lost in his thoughts that he started when the footman knocked to announce McGraw’s arrival. Quickly he glanced at his watch: to his surprise, the manager was right on time, and Rivers called for them to enter.
“Good day, Mr. McGraw,” he said as the manager came forward and bowed more grandly than was necessary. Sleepily Spot rose, wagging his tail and stretching his head forward to sniff at the newcomer. “I hope your journey was not too arduous. Who expects so much rain in June?”
“It was nothing, my lord, nothing at all,” McGraw declared, his smile broad in his round, ruddy face as he glanced about the room in swift appraisal. During McGraw’s few steps from his hired carriage to the door, raindrops had speckled his serviceable gray suit and florid orange waistcoat, but clearly had not dampened his personality one whit. Only a hint of the good looks that had once led him to acting himself remained in his face, but in their place was an unabashed shrewdness that likely served him much better as a manager than any actor’s perfect profile.
“I am honored, most honored,” he continued effusively, “to be invited here by your lordship, and for such an exciting reason, too. I am always on the hunt for new faces and novelty to cast before the ever-ravenous public.”
“Mrs. Willow shall be entirely new to London, that is true,” Rivers said, motioning for McGraw to sit in the straight-backed chair across from his. Spot, too, resettled; having decided McGraw passed muster, he promptly fell back asleep. “She is most eager to perform for you as well.”
McGraw flipped the skirts of his coat up and deposited himself heavily on the chair.
“She must be new, my lord,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Her name is entirely unknown to me, and I am not merely flattering myself when I claim that I am aware of every young actress, good, bad, and indifferent, traipsing upon the London stage.”
“Mrs. Willow’s performances have been limited in the past to the north and on the Continent,” Rivers said, falling back on the final version of Mrs. Willow’s biography that he and Lucia had agreed upon. “She had in fact retired from the stage with her marriage.”
“Most ladies do,” McGraw agreed sagely. “Husbands don’t care to have wives on the stage.”
Rivers nodded in agreement, hoping that he was relaying Mrs. Willow’s fictional past convincingly. It was impossible to tell if McGraw was trustworthy or not, given the general blather with which all theatrical people swathed themselves. Spot had the best method, deciding worthiness with a brisk sniff, but that would not work for Rivers. Instead he forced himself to look somber, and plowed on ahead.
“Mrs. Willow herself would not have agreed to the notion of this benefit were it not for the unfortunate death of Mr. Willow, and the change in her circumstances,” he said, omitting all references to tigers. “I need not say more.”
“A lady should always be able to rely upon her closest friends in times of need, my lord,” said McGraw with a knowing smile. “What gentleman wants to see a poor delicate creature suffer, I ask you?”
“Indeed,” Rivers said coolly, determined to offer no more details about his friendship with Lucia. He didn’t like how McGraw said the word lady, emphasizing it in a way to show that Lucia must be anything but a lady, and more likely a whore—exactly as she’d predicted. “That is why I have convinced Mrs. Willow of the wisdom of a benefit performance of Hamlet.”
“Oh, yes, yes, my lord, it’s a wise plan indeed for any lady in her circumstances.” Pointedly McGraw looked about the room as if hoping to spy Lucia hiding beneath one of the stag heads. “Mrs. Willow herself is present today, my lord, isn’t she?”
“She is.” Rivers lowered his voice for emphasis. “But I wished to speak with you alone first, Mr. McGraw, before she joins us.”
McGraw smiled again, that sly and knowing smile that Rivers did not like.
“Oh, I know how important it is to keep a lady content, my lord,” he said, “especially where money’s concerned. Most especially, my lord. They get greedy, don’t they, my lord? I vow I won’t reveal a word to her about your, ah, support of the production, if that’s what concerns you.”
“It is not,” Rivers said, his displeasure gathering into anger. The man was damnably presumptuous, and insulting as well. Money had never been an issue between him and Lucia, nor had she even once displayed a hint of greed. “Not in the least.”
“Ahh.” McGraw lowered his head toward his chest, with the same demeanor as a man who’d inadvertently poked a stick into a large nest of snakes. “I intended no offense, my lord.”
“I am glad of that,” Rivers said, each word clipped. “Because I expect you to show only the greatest respect to Mrs. Willow, and treat her with the regard due a lady, and an artist.”
“Oh, of course, my lord, of course,” McGraw said, attempting a recovery, and failing. “Clearly she is a special, ah, lady to you.”
“She is my friend, Mr. McGraw,” Rivers said, “and I hold her in the highest regard, and with the greatest respect possible. And if I ever learn that she has suffered any insult or slander whilst in your company or elsewhere, then you will answer directly to me. To me. Is that clear?”
“Entirely, my lord.” McGraw nodded vigorously. “You have my every assurance, my lord, that I shall offer the lady every opportunity for her gifts to shine, with no offense whatsoever.”
“As it should be,” Rivers said, only a little mollified. “As she deserves.”
He could tell exactly what McGraw was thinking: that Lucia was a talentless and inconsequential bit of fluff, and that Rivers himself was blinded by desire into believing she was more than that.
But Rivers had had enough, and briskly he waved for the footman to summon Lucia. He was confident—more than confident—that Lucia herself would prove to McGraw exactly how wrong his assumptions about her were; he could not wait to see it.
The footman reappeared so quickly that he suspected Lucia must have been waiting not far from the door. He would have been surprised if she’d been late. Not only was she as prompt as he was himself, but he knew how eager she was for this audition.
“My lord, Mrs. Willow,” the footman droned, holding the door open wide for her to enter.
And enter she did.
Gone forever were the awkward dramatics that she’d shown three weeks ago, and gone, too, was the self-effacing maidservant who’d begged for his attention. Instead she entered the parlor with the exact mixture of confidence, grace, and elegance that many noble-born women spent their entire lives striving to achieve. Her gown was the palest blue silk, painted with scattered wildflowers, and she’d tucked some manner of filmy lace kerchief around her shoulders and into the front of the bodice. The neckline was cut very low, yet the lace kerchief was more tantalizing than modest, with the fullness of her breasts only faintly veiled. Resting against the hollow of her throat was the only jewel she ever wore, her mother’s necklace with the little cameo.
The pale silk of her gown floated around her as she walked, or perhaps she truly was floating. Rivers couldn’t say for certain; she was so achingly desirable that he couldn’t say much of anything, and beside him Spot thumped his tail on the floor with approval of his own.
Her dark hair was swept up and away from her face, with glossy curls falling at her nape. She wore no powder nor other paint, for she didn’t need them. Her cheeks glowed with a natural vivacity, and her large, dark eyes with their thick lashes and arching brows were filled with the kind of intelligence and beguiling amusement that could make a man fo
rget everything else.
At least that was the effect she had on Rivers as he automatically rose to his feet to hold his hand out to her. She didn’t take it at first, but curtseyed instead, exactly as Mrs. Willow should have done to the son of the Duke of Breconridge, and exactly the degree of curtsey that was proper for a third son. Then, finally, she took his hand, letting him guide her back to a standing position with a smile that seemed to have forgotten their earlier disagreements.
Happiness surged in his chest as his fingers gently pressed hers, only to be tamped down once again as she slipped her hand free. She might have thought that one touch was enough to show she’d forgiven him, or she might have been behaving as Mrs. Willow would, politely accepting his support as she rose and no more. Damnation, he could not tell. How much was acting, he wondered, and how much was the truth?
She turned toward McGraw, and at once the man seized her hand, not bothering to wait for Rivers to present her.
“Mrs. Willow, your servant,” he said, bowing and kissing the air over the back of her hand. “I am enchanted to make your acquaintance at last. I have heard so much about you.”
“This is Mr. McGraw of the Russell Street Theatre, madam,” Rivers said brusquely, introducing them even though it was now unnecessary. “Mr. McGraw, Mrs. Cassandra Willow.”
“I am honored, Mr. McGraw,” Lucia murmured. Her accent was impeccable in those few words, and even Rivers would have sworn she’d been raised in Portman Square. “You are most kind to come so far from London on my account.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Willow,” McGraw said. He was freely ogling Lucia’s breasts, and it took every last scrap of Rivers’s willpower not to strike the man senseless. “The honor and the pleasure are entirely mine.”
“Indeed,” said Rivers curtly. “Pray do not forget our earlier discussion, McGraw.”
At once the manager released Lucia’s hand, and he smiled blandly at Rivers. “I recall it, my lord. My memory for such things is surpassingly good.”
“I trust it shall continue that way,” Rivers grumbled. McGraw had no right to stare at Lucia like that, and yet Rivers himself had no real right to regard her as his to defend, either.
He should be concentrating on her audition, looking for any little ways he could assist her and letting her show herself off to the best advantage. He’d anticipated this moment as one more important step in her education and the culmination of his teaching, as well as the wager. He’d expected it would be a triumph they’d share. He’d expected to enjoy it, too, and celebrate like any proud tutor would with a prize student.
Yet instead he was behaving like a bad-tempered, defensive, selfish boor, out of sorts and possessive and generally miserable. He’d always prided himself on doing and saying the right thing, but today, where Lucia was concerned, he couldn’t seem to do anything right.
Frustrated and disgusted with himself, he looked down, and felt her hand lightly on his arm. Swiftly he glanced at her, her dark eyes bright with the familiar anticipation and eagerness that was hers alone.
“Shall we begin, my lord?” she asked softly, the flicker of uncertainty in her voice unmistakable, and enough to melt his own misgivings. “That is, if it pleases you.”
“It does,” he said, and it did. If he loved her, he could do nothing less. He forced himself to smile, the warmth of her gaze making everything better. “Begin whenever you please, Mrs. Willow.”
Lucia smiled in return, her heart racing. For a few awful moments, she’d felt sure Rivers had intended to stop her audition before it had begun. After they’d parted earlier this morning, she’d worried that he might lose interest in this part of the wager and not bother to welcome McGraw when he arrived.
What she hadn’t expected, however, was that he’d suddenly become so overprotective, even territorial; her thoughtful, genial golden lion had shown his teeth when McGraw appeared, and the transformation shocked her. In the tiring room she’d seen what happened when men became like this, blustering and posturing over a woman, and it never ended well. It made no sense to her for him to behave like this now, especially when so much was at stake, and his tight-lipped smile did not comfort her.
“You are certain, my lord?” she asked, striving to keep the anxiety from her voice as she pressed her hand lightly on his arm. She had planned to keep physically apart from Rivers in McGraw’s company, wanting things as formal as possible between them for the sake of the audition, but she couldn’t help herself now. She wanted to reassure him as best she could, and herself, too. “You are ready for the audition to proceed?”
He covered her hand with his own, and his smile thawed a fraction. “Whenever you are ready, Mrs. Willow, and the best of luck to you.”
“Yes, Mrs. Willow, let us begin,” McGraw said, impatiently clapping his hands together. “According to his lordship’s letter, you have prepared the tragic role of Ophelia, from Hamlet. I assume you know both the monologues and the dialogues for the part, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” Lucia said. She slipped her hand away from Rivers’s arm and turned toward the manager. She must focus on her audition now, and concentrate on everything McGraw said to her. “I have learned the entire play by heart, sir, and not just my own lines.”
“Very well.” McGraw pulled a battered, unbound copy of the play—the antithesis of Rivers’s elegantly bound edition—from inside his coat and smoothed the curled edges flat over his knee. “A small test of your memory. I’ll say one line, and you say the one that follows.”
“That’s hardly a useful test,” Rivers protested. “She’d never be called upon to speak lines that were not hers.”
“I can do it, my lord,” Lucia said quickly, determined to prove it not only to McGraw, but to Rivers as well. “You know I can. Try me, Mr. McGraw.”
McGraw nodded, flipping through the pages. “ ‘How can that be, when you have the voice of the king / himself for your succession in Denmark?’ ”
“ ‘Ay, sir, but, While the grass grows,—the proverb / is something musty,’ ” Lucia said without hesitation.
McGraw grunted. “Here’s another, then. ‘What act / That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?’ ”
Lucia smiled, recognizing the line in an instant, and knowing what followed, too. “ ‘Look here, upon this picture, and on this, / The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.’ Shall I continue, Mr. McGraw?”
“That shall do, Mrs. Willow.” McGraw nodded with approval. “I wish all my company could do as well, but most, particularly the actresses, are too idle to bother.”
Lucia dipped a small curtsey in acknowledgment, grateful that the first test had been so easy—or at least easy for her.
“Now let us see how you fare with your own lines,” McGraw continued. “Pray go stand a distance away, by that window, if you please, and speak Ophelia’s speech beginning ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!’ ”
She made a small curtsey to the two men, and walked slowly across the room to the window, as McGraw had requested, using the time to compose herself. She didn’t miss the irony of the speech the manager had chosen, for it was the same one that Rivers had first given her to learn in the carriage from London. That had been less than a month ago, and how much she’d learned since then.
It hadn’t been just the tricks of acting and accents and standing properly, but of the magic of poetry, of drama, of passion. Only Rivers could have taught her those, and only she could have learned them so well from him. Now when she took a final breath, raised her head, and turned toward the two seated men, the familiar words reverberated with that same poetry, drama, and passion, and, as Ophelia would have done, her entire small frame trembled with the meaning.
“O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!
The Courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword,
Th’ expectancy and rose of the fair state,
The glass of fashion and the mould of form,
Th’ observ’d of all observers, quit
e, quite down!
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,
That suck’d the honey of his music vows,
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason
Like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh,
That unmatch’d form and feature of blown youth
Blasted with ecstasy. O, woe is me
T’have seen what I have seen, see what I see.”
She finished the last line, and forcibly returned to being Mrs. Willow. The speech ended the scene for Ophelia; there was nothing more she could or should say, and so she waited for McGraw’s reaction. She didn’t dare look at Rivers, fearing the emotions of the role could spill over into her own.
“Impressive,” McGraw said blandly. “Another. ‘How now, Ophelia!’ ”
It was the prompt for Ophelia’s most challenging scene, and her last in the play. Lucia had guessed McGraw would request it, which was why she’d chosen to wear this gown scattered with wildflowers, as much a costume as she’d have.
In the scene, Ophelia had lost her wits from grief and had become mad, which as Lucia had quickly learned, was not nearly so easy to do as it would seem. Raving like a lunatic Bedlamite wouldn’t do. She had to be poignantly mad, as Rivers had explained, with the kind of madness that makes audiences weep, not wriggle with discomfort.
The hardest part for Lucia were the lines that Ophelia was supposed to sing. The same affliction that made it impossible to dance likewise made her hopeless at following a tune, but she and Rivers had devised a kind of singsong way of speaking the lines that he assured her was far more affecting than if she’d sung them perfectly. Now all she could do was pray that Rivers had been right, and that she wouldn’t make a fool of herself.
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