A Reckless Desire

by Isabella Bradford

  “There is everything,” Rivers insisted. “She is beautiful and intelligent, and she loves to read as much as I. She is quick and amusing, and she makes me laugh.”

  “Oh, yes, and I’ll wager since she’s an Italian dancer, she can put her ankle behind her neck, too,” Father said, his words full of sarcasm. “That would certainly amuse most men.”

  “What of Serena?” Rivers shot back. Geoffrey’s wife had been born in India, the illegitimate daughter of an Englishman and his Hindu mistress—a fact that Serena had kept to herself from shame until Geoffrey had discovered it, long after they’d been wed. “Certainly her heritage was more challenging than Lucia’s.”

  “Serena’s situation is entirely different,” Father answered without hesitation. “Her grandfather is the Marquis of Allwyn, her father was a gentleman, and she was raised as a lady. Besides, she had a large fortune of her own. There was never a question of her making a fool of your brother.”

  “Lucia’s parents were married.”

  “What else would she tell you?” Father said with a disdainful flick of his hand. “You know how those people can be, living indiscriminately together. They might as well be Romani living in wagons.”

  “Father, I am serious,” Rivers said, and he was. He hadn’t realized exactly how serious until the words were spoken, but there they were, more truth, more honesty. “I love Lucia, and nothing you say will change that.”

  “There is no reasoning with you when you insist on being stubborn like this.” Father shook his head, his mouth tight. “Go, indulge in your little frolic for the sake of this wager. But there must be an end to this, Rivers, and soon. I don’t want you to suffer. It’s past time you married, and I have already begun considering suitable ladies on your behalf.”

  “Damnation, Father, we have already been over this bridge, again and again and again,” Rivers said, exasperated. “I am not of a mind to wed some sow-faced lady of your choosing. I know you long for an heir, but that’s a task for Harry and Geoffrey, not for me.”

  Father raised his chin. “It becomes yours since your brothers have failed me in that regard.”

  Rivers sighed, feeling his father’s impatience closing in around him. “Harry and Geoffrey are both still young, as are Gus and Serena. There’s no reason they won’t give you that grandson. Why, the babe Gus is carrying now might well be your precious heir, and then all of this will be moot.”

  “You know as well as I that Gus’s child is more likely to be another girl,” Father insisted. “That’s the way it is with women. Your dear mother gave me only sons, while Celia, as admirable a lady as can be, produced only daughters for her first husband, and lost his title because of it. I won’t have that happen to this family. I will not have it.”

  Father could bluster all he wanted, but Rivers could see the undeniable desperation in his faded blue eyes. He had devoted his entire life to improving the dukedom he’d inherited, increasing the properties that supported it and gathering more power in the family name. The notion that it could all disappear for the want of a grandson plagued him day and night, and Rivers had witnessed how mercilessly he hounded poor Gus about disappointing him three times with daughters. Rivers understood it all, and yet he had no wish to bend his own life to secure his father’s ambitions.

  “Father, please,” Rivers said wearily. “I wish to continue as I am, with Lucia.”

  “Lucia,” Father repeated with palpable disgust. “Be reasonable, Rivers. I’m sure you’d find Lord Stanhope’s daughter Anne to be thoroughly charming. She is quite the beauty—not ‘sow-faced’ in the least—and she is one of the most accomplished young ladies at Court at present. They say she’s a bit of a bluestocking, which should appeal to you, and because she speaks German as well as French, she’s already made herself a favorite of Her Majesty.”

  Rivers sighed again. Lucia spoke French and Italian, not that that would matter to Father.

  “Lady Anne may be a paragon in beauty and accomplishment, Father,” he said, “but I am not interested in marrying her.”

  “But you should be, Rivers, you should,” Father urged, leaning closer, his voice turning confidential. “Consider how a lady like that could improve your life. She’d bring you true happiness, the kind that lasts. She would make your household run like a top, welcome your guests, even support your causes at Court. She’s been raised since birth to do so, you know. She would be your equal, a loyal companion and dutiful helpmate for life. She might even be the mother of the sixth Duke of Breconridge.”

  What Father described were the two ladies he’d married himself, elegant and flawlessly bred women who’d made excellent partners for him. Rivers didn’t doubt Lady Anne was exactly the kind of wife he himself was expected to marry, and doubtless, too, she’d be every bit the excellent spouse to him that Father predicted. Likely her parents were urging her to be agreeable to him as well, for even the third son of the Duke of Breconridge would be considered a first-rate match. But no matter how Lady Anne or others like her tried to please him, she’d never be Lucia.

  “No, Father,” Rivers said as decisively as he could. “No.”

  “All I ask is that you consider the lady, Rivers.” Lightly Father patted Rivers’s chest with his palm. It was the same familiar sign of fond concern that he’d shown to his sons since they’d been boys, and Rivers couldn’t help but feel a rush of affection and empathy. “She is a prize, and some other gentleman is bound to carry her off if you don’t.”

  “Father, I do not—”

  “Consider it,” Father said. He turned toward the stable, marking the end of their conversation. “That is all I ask. Consider it, and the lady. Lasting love and true happiness, Rivers. That’s all I want for you.”

  Lasting love and true happiness…

  The words burned into Lucia’s heart as she stood by the open window of Rivers’s library. She hadn’t intended to overhear. She’d finished Tom Jones, and had come downstairs to replace it in the tall shelves that stood against the wall between the windows, and there Rivers and his father had been, not a dozen feet away, in the garden outside. She’d frozen where she stood, not wanting them to know she was there, while unable to not hear their conversation.

  She’d never seen Rivers’s father before, but she’d known at once that the other gentleman must be the duke. The resemblance between the two of them, young and old, was striking, and the older gentleman exactly fit the way Rivers had described his father, down to the polished silver spurs on his boots.

  But it was what he said that made her sure he was Rivers’s father, every word piercing the contentment and joy she’d felt since last night.

  His Grace had contemptuously called her an impudent baggage, and ridiculed Rivers when he’d come to her defense. She’d listened, stricken, and though she’d longed to cover her ears and hear no more, she hadn’t. She’d heard every word, and when His Grace was done and they’d moved from the open window, she’d sunk down to the carpet, her heart beating with painful haste and her face buried in her hands, yet too distraught for tears.

  Because His Grace was right.

  She wasn’t worthy of Rivers, and never would be. She couldn’t begin to compete with Lady Anne Stanhope. She didn’t have a drop of noble blood in her, while he was descended from royalty. She could no more run a huge household like the one at Breconridge Hall than she could sprout wings and fly among the clouds. She couldn’t even give proper orders to the servants here at the Lodge, let alone arrange grand meals or welcome Rivers’s guests. The elegant airs that she’d learned from Rivers were a falsehood that would serve on the stage but were empty at the core, and useless in the real world of Breconridge Hall, or even the Court.

  Separately these were little things, but together they tallied to one very large fact: that she would never be able to make Rivers happy, exactly as his father said. She’d done rapturously well this month, true, but when they returned to London and his friends and family, everything would change, and slowly, over
time, he’d come to see all her flaws. What once had made him smile would make him weary, bored, or resentful, and the love they’d both declared to be so strong would wither and fade away, and what remained would not be worthy of either of them.

  Rivers would deny the truth, of course. He would fight it, just as he’d done with his father, and swear he loved her more each day. He was loyal to a fault, her dear Rivers, which was one of the things she most admired about him, but in this case his devotion would be misplaced.

  Last night they’d promised to do whatever was necessary to make the other happy, the kind of vows that lovers make to each other in bed. Only now did she understand the truth of it: that if she truly wished Rivers to be happy, she must set him free. She would have to do it gently, over time, so he would not suspect her, but she must do it. She loved him too much not to.

  With a shuddering sigh, she slowly rose. Rivers could return inside at any minute, and she couldn’t let him find her here.

  Instead she must be upstairs in her bedchamber, packing her belongings, preparing for their journey back to town. She must smile and laugh and kiss him, as he expected, and ask him about his ride. Even if he told her about his father’s visit, she must pretend she hadn’t known, hadn’t heard a word. She must speak of the audition, her excitement, the traffic on the road, and the book she’d just read. She couldn’t ever let him guess the truth, that every word must be the beginning of good-bye.

  She’d thought her performance as Ophelia was going to be the test of her talent as an actress, but that would be nothing compared to the role she’d now set for herself. Because she loved him, she would give him his freedom and his happiness.

  Because she loved him, and would never stop loving him, she would do this for him.

  For love. All for love.

  —

  “Here’s Russell Street now, sweetheart,” Rivers said, bending his head to one side to see the front of the playhouse from the carriage window. “Do you find it acceptable for your debut?”

  “Oh, Rivers, do not tease me now,” Lucia protested breathlessly. He’d never seen her so nervous, her hands working in her lap, and the little wired flowers on her hat trembling along with her. “Of course it will do. You know that as well as I.”

  “Well, then, shall we go inside, so you may present yourself to McGraw?” Rivers rapped on the roof of the carriage for the driver to stop. “He said rehearsal would begin at eleven, and it’s ten-fifty now.”

  “No!” wailed Lucia. “He didn’t mean that literally, Rivers. He meant in theater time, which is not the same at all as your minute-by-minute counting. Please, please, do not make me go in just yet, I beg you!”

  “There’s never harm in being prompt,” he said as the footman opened the carriage door directly before the front of the theater. Rivers stepped down to the pavement first, holding his hand out to her. “Come, Mrs. Willow. Your glory awaits.”

  “Hush, Rivers, that is purest rubbish,” she said, hanging back. “Don’t say such things aloud. It’s the worst luck.”

  Yet he could already see how she was working to control her anxiety, visibly gathering herself for her entrance. He’d seen such transformation before with her, but he never tired of watching it take place. Her back straightened, her features relaxed, and she held her head as high as any crowned queen. When she spoke, the nervous squeak had left her voice entirely, and in its place were the carefully practiced vowels of refinement.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said, stepping down with such grace that the passersby paused to ogle her. She ignored them, giving only a glance at the imposing front of the playhouse before them. He caught a flicker of uncertainty as she did—an uncertainty that endeared her all the more to him—before she once again steeled herself for what would come next.

  Russell Street was around the corner from its rival playhouse in Drury Lane, and the two of them were the grandest of all the theaters in London. Compared to the ramshackle quarters of the old King’s Theatre, home to the Di Rossi Company, Russell Street must seem to Lucia to be as grand as a palace, with its looming brick façade, arched windows, and oversized iron lanterns across the front. There were no attendants out front, given the hour, and one of Rivers’s own footmen hurried to open the theater’s main door for them.

  “Have courage,” Rivers whispered as he led her forward, squeezing Lucia’s hand. “You are not only the bravest woman I know, but the most talented as well.”

  She flashed him a quick smile of gratitude as they entered, the heavy door thumping shut behind them. The empty lobby echoed with the cavernous stillness of places that were usually bustling with crowds, and with the weariness, too, of such places seen by the watery light of day.

  “You’d think someone would be here to greet you,” Rivers said, his voice unconsciously hearty to fill the silence. “The door was unlocked, so they must be expecting you.”

  “I told you we were too early,” Lucia whispered, her fingers tightening around his. “I’d wager a guinea that all the players are still in their beds.”

  “Not all of them,” Rivers said. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  The inner doors flew open and a bleary-eyed McGraw himself came bustling through them, making a hasty yet practiced bow over one leg. He was wearing a worn fustian old coat whose pockets bristled with scraps and scrolls of paper and in place of his wig he had a crushed velvet cap over his close-cropped scalp. He might not still have been in his bed as Lucia had predicted, but he was clearly not far removed from it.

  “My lord, Mrs. Willow, your servant,” he said brusquely, dabbing at his nose with a spotted handkerchief. “Good day to you both.”

  “Good day, Mr. McGraw,” Lucia said, her smile warm enough to thaw any man. “I am here for the rehearsal, as you requested.”

  “Yes, yes, Mrs. Willow, of course you are,” he said. “I should prefer to have a complete reading of the play, but it would seem that certain members of the company have been unavoidably detained. I do, however, have Mr. Lambert in attendance, and as he will be playing our Danish prince, I see no reason why we cannot proceed through your scenes together. This way to the stage, ma’am, if you please.”

  He held the inner door open with the flat of his arm, leaving just enough space for Lucia to enter. Rivers reached up to push the door more widely open for himself, and McGraw frowned, his bristling brows coming together in a single thatch.

  “Forgive me, my lord, but it is not, ah, the custom for anyone other than the players to attend rehearsals,” he said. “I’m sure you would find it tedious beyond bearing. Now you may take your ease here in the lobby, or return later to collect Mrs. Willow, as you please.”

  “What I please is to accompany her,” Rivers said sharply. “To send her unattended in there—”

  “It is the custom, my lord,” Lucia said quickly, placing a restraining hand on his shoulder. “None but the company is permitted in rehearsals.”

  Rivers glowered. It wasn’t just that he wished to accompany her for safety’s sake. After all the hours they’d put in perfecting her lines together, he felt he was entitled to watch her practicing through these last steps before her performance, and even offer a few last suggestions as well.

  “I do not see the harm in my presence, McGraw,” he said, appealing to the manager. “The entire performance is coming from my pocket.”

  “All the more reason that you should not witness it in its imperfect state, my lord,” McGraw said, giving his fingers a little flourish as he tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. “I promise you to look after this good lady as if she were my own daughter, and see no harm comes to her. Our rehearsals are all business, my lord, and I tolerate no flirtations or beguilements among my players. Love is the very devil for a company’s peace.”

  “I shall be well enough, my lord,” Lucia said softly. “You must trust me. Recall that I was raised in such a place, and know all the tricks to guard myself in it.”

  Rivers grumbled wordlessly, not l
iking anything about the situation. He’d pictured himself sitting in the box nearest the stage, helpfully calling out to her in the same manner as he had these last weeks, and the thought of parting from her now, even for a few hours, seemed unbearable.

  She was so lovely, gazing up at him like this through her thick dark lashes, her eyes so meltingly soft that he found himself smiling back at her almost against his will. She ran her gloved fingers lightly along his jaw, hovering for a tantalizing second longer on his chin.

  “There, my lord,” she said, her lips curving upward. “I knew you would understand. Spend the day at your club, amongst your friends, and when it is time to dine, return here for me.”

  “You would trust me?” he asked, prolonging the moment and daring her at the same time.

  She tipped her head teasingly to one side. “What, to be amongst your friends, or to return for me?”

  “Both,” he said. “Or either.”

  “I will always trust you, my lord,” she said, “just as I know you trust me.”

  His smile faded. How neatly she’d turned that against him!

  “ ‘Farewell, Ophelia,’ ” he said, falling into their old game of borrowing from the play. “ ‘And remember well what I have said to you.’ ”

  “ ‘ ’Tis in my memory lock’d,’ ” she answered. “ ‘And you yourself shall keep the key of it.’ ”

  She reached up to kiss him quickly, so quickly that he’d no chance to kiss her back. Then she was gone, off with McGraw and into the gaudy world of the theater, leaving him behind on the other side of the gently closing door.

  The hours had stretched like an interminable void before Rivers, the better part of a day to be spent without Lucia by his side. He hadn’t realized how accustomed he’d grown to having her always there, and her absence felt like an indispensable part of himself had somehow been removed.