When he left the theater, he had his driver take him past the little house that he’d had his agent lease for Lucia. It was on a small, quiet street, the kind of street made for discretion.
He’d never taken this step with any other woman, and he was excited and a little awed by the momentousness of it. But then, he’d never known any other woman like Lucia, either. From what she’d told him of her life, she hadn’t once lived in a proper house of her own, and it pleased him no end to be able to put this one in her name. It was a perfect Lucia house, a rosy brick with a white marble door case, and bright yellow shutters. He’d never seen another London house with yellow shutters like these, and they only made the house seem more Lucia-like. The brass knocker was in the shape of a basket of flowers, which reminded him of how she’d delighted in his mother’s flower garden.
He hadn’t a key, so he couldn’t see the inside of the house or the furnishings, but he still could imagine her waving to him from one of the arched windows above the street. At one time, he’d thought that after the wager she would go off on her own as an actress. But as she’d become more and more a part of his life, he’d realized he wasn’t ready to see her go, and instead he imagined her not as an actress independent of him, but here, waiting for him to return.
Satisfied, he next went to his favorite jeweler in Bond Street. Lucia always said she didn’t want jewels, but he’d something small, something special, in mind that she couldn’t refuse, that he’d give her tonight when they dined. He found it, too: a little brooch in the shape of a bouquet of flowers, bright enameled petals studded with dewdrop-shaped diamonds and tied with a curling bow of sapphires. It was quite a modest jewel compared to what he usually offered as gifts, but he thought it best for Lucia. He’d tell her that the flowers represented the ones that Ophelia carried, as well as those in the garden at the Lodge.
All he wished was to make her happy, in whatever way he could. A diamond brooch was easy. Leaving her behind at the theater today had been much more difficult. He’d seen the eagerness in her eyes when McGraw had held open the door, just as he knew how satisfying it must be for her to see all her work realized in a real performance. She had always wanted with all her heart to be an actress, and he’d been the one to make it possible.
Yet while most gifts offered as much pleasure in the giving as the receiving, this one didn’t. Her growth as an actress and her interpretation of Ophelia had been a shared creation, and now it no longer was. His opinion had ceased to matter, and he felt it more than he would ever have expected.
Perhaps once he saw her on the stage, he’d feel better. She’d be his again. He meant to give her the key to the yellow-shuttered house then, a reward for her performance and a symbol of their new life together here in London. That cheered him, and at last he ordered his driver to take him to White’s. He had been in the country for over a month; it would be good to see friends, especially if he could include a bit of good-natured gloating at Everett’s expense.
He didn’t have long to wait. He walked up the stairs to the coffee room and was greeted by Everett himself, loudly enough that several of the older gentlemen glared at him with disapproval.
“So you’re finally come back to town, you old rogue,” Everett said, clapping Rivers on the back. “You dallied there long enough, though I can’t fault you, considering the delightful Mrs. Willow was your only company.”
Two other men who’d been talking to Everett made appropriately male noises of interest and approval, so male that Everett must have been regaling them with descriptions of Lucia’s charms. Rivers didn’t care for that, but since he hadn’t heard what Everett had said, he couldn’t exactly take offense. But though he smiled genially, he was on his guard now, ready to defend Lucia if necessary.
“Mrs. Willow is presently in her rehearsals at Russell Street,” he said. “You know I will be collecting that wager from you directly after the final curtain.”
Everett’s eyes gleamed. “I wouldn’t be so certain of that. You’ve said yourself that Mrs. Willow is prone to fits of stage fright. You might have played your cards too grandly, Fitzroy. I’ve heard every seat in the house is sold. What will happen when your miss steps out onto the stage and sees all those eyes watching her, eh? What will she make of that?”
“She’ll do well enough,” Rivers said, purposefully bland. To keep Everett’s interest keen on the wager, he had hinted that Lucia suffered from stage fright, but it wasn’t true. She liked performing too much to be afraid of an audience, a true Di Rossi after all. “I could make you pay up now, considering how you’ve broken the wager again by braying about it to anyone who’d listen. That was one of my stipulations.”
“I did no such thing,” Everett said soundly. “That is, not beyond a word or two, here or there, when people asked why you’d fled to the country so suddenly.”
One of the other men laughed. “A word or two or a thousand, Everett,” he said. “The entire world knows of the wager. Have you seen the betting book downstairs, my lord? There’s a score of other wagers about the lady and her, ah, talents.”
Rivers could guess the nature of those other bets all too well, no doubt fueled by Everett. If Lucia wanted fame, it seemed she already had it.
“I’ll leave it to Mrs. Willow’s performance to settle everything,” he said as evenly as he could. “I expect there will be a great many people who will be surprised by her performance.”
“I’ll bet she does perform,” Everett said, openly leering. “Who’d have guessed that little mongrel bitch could become such a delectable morsel? I couldn’t believe how agreeably she’d plumped in your care, Fitzroy. There’s nothing quite like a grateful wench for doing whatever a man—”
“That’s enough, Everett,” Rivers warned sharply.
But Everett only pulled a face that made the others laugh. “No need to defend her, Fitzroy. We all know she’s your whore.”
Rivers drew in his breath sharply, his temper rising. “I’ll thank you not to call her that.”
Everett shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I, when it’s the truth?”
“Because it’s not,” Rivers said, abruptly shoving Everett back against the wall. He curled his hands into fists at his sides. One more word about Lucia, and he’d pound Everett senseless. “Not her.”
Surprised, Everett tensed, ready to retaliate.
“Damnation, Fitzroy,” he said indignantly. “What’s this between friends? A spade’s a spade, and a whore’s a whore. When has that ever changed?”
“Not her,” Rivers growled furiously, and drew his fist back to strike. “Not her.”
But before he could hit Everett, someone grabbed his wrist from behind to stop him. He whipped around, now angry at whoever had interrupted him.
“No brawling in White’s, Rivers,” said his brother Harry. “Ever.”
Rivers fought against him, struggling to jerk his arm free. “Blast you, Harry, let me go!”
“What, and let you shame us all?” Harry said mildly. “Come, this way, until that temper cools.”
It wasn’t enough that Harry was the oldest brother; he’d always been stronger than Rivers, too, even after the accident that had left him lame. Although Rivers was fueled by his anger, Harry was still able to haul him away from Everett and the entire coffee room of gaping gentlemen and into the dining room, which was fortunately empty at this time of the afternoon. A footman hastily closed the door after them, giving them privacy, and at last Harry released his arm.
Still fuming, Rivers said nothing, turning away to smooth his rumpled clothing as well as his temper and his pride. He knew he’d just committed an unpardonable sin in the club—or actually, several of them. He’d raised his voice, and then his fist against a fellow member. He’d challenged one of his oldest friends openly, and if Everett weren’t such an unrepentant coward, they’d likely now both be sending their seconds to make the arrangements for a duel. Worst of all, he’d made a scene in the middle of White’s coffee room and disturbed all t
he other members, who’d come there for a bit of peace.
Like a stone tossed into the still waters of society, the effects of what he’d done would ripple endlessly outward. It would become the talk of every polite gathering tonight in London and every unsavory one as well, and by morning there’d be scarcely a soul left who would not know that Lucia had been the reason for it.
He’d wanted to defend her, and instead all he’d managed to do was put her squarely in the center of today’s tattle and scandal. He groaned, and put his hands over his eyes, as if not seeing the rather mundane landscape painting on the wall before him would also magically blot out the awfulness of what he’d just done.
“So,” Harry said behind him. “Are you ready to tell me exactly what demon took possession of you?”
“If I knew, I would have cast him off directly,” Rivers said. He took a deep breath before he turned to face his brother. “I should go back and offer my apologies to Everett.”
“Not yet,” Harry said. He pulled out two of the chairs from beneath the dining table, pointedly directing Rivers to one while he took the other. “First I’d like to hear more of this demon.”
“There isn’t more to tell,” Rivers said, hedging. Harry would never understand about Lucia; he had fallen in love and married a well-bred young lady that everyone adored, even Father. “I lost my temper, that is all. It does happen.”
“But not to my bookish younger brother.” Harry rested one hand on the table beside him, lightly drumming his fingers on the cloth. He resembled Father more and more each day, not just in their shared features, but also in their mannerisms, like this finger-drumming that Rivers had always in the past associated with their father. “I believe the last time you lost your temper you were twelve, when Geoffrey spilled a glass of cider over some journal or another you’d been laboriously keeping. You were like a wild beast, flailing away at him until old Hartnell pulled you off.”
“Hah, I’d forgotten Hartnell.” Rivers smiled ruefully, and dropped into the chair. “He was an indifferent tutor, but he kept the peace amongst the three of us, which was all Father cared about. And that journal contained a summer’s worth of lunar observations, which Geoffrey destroyed in a single moment of willful oafishness.”
“I hope he has moved beyond willful oafishness, for poor Serena’s sake.” Harry chuckled at Geoffrey’s expense, but Rivers wasn’t fooled. He knew what would come next, and it did. “Am I right in guessing that your own oafishness just now had more to do with the young woman you brought with you to the Lodge last month than with anything Everett himself did?”
Rivers sighed, and with resignation leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling to avoid meeting his brother’s eye.
“Of course it was about Lucia,” he said. “Or rather, Mrs. Willow. That’s the name she will go by in the theater. Everett called her a whore, which she is not, and I lost my temper.”
“But she is your mistress, yes?”
“To the world, I suppose she is, yes,” Rivers admitted, and he’d a shockingly vivid memory of her lying in his bed this morning in Cavendish Square, naked except for her little cameo necklace on the coral beads and an emerald silk ribbon tying back her hair. “But to me she is far more than that. She has been my partner in contriving his wager, my student, my friend, and my lover. Very much my lover. Although I expect you’ve already heard that from Father.”
“Actually, I heard it from Gus,” Harry said. “I had a long letter from her this morning, and she told me everything.”
Rivers grimaced. “That didn’t take long, did it?” he said. “Is she as offended as Father claims?”
“You know Gus,” Harry said. “She never stands on ceremony. She’d make conversation with a fishwife, given the chance. It was Father who took offense, not the ladies. Besides, they all guessed exactly who your, ah, companion was before you introduced her. They’re not fools, Rivers, and they’ve also heard the talk and read the papers.”
Rivers should have guessed. Everett, and likely McGraw, had made short work of his great secret.
“At least they hid it well,” he said. “They were kind to Lucia. They asked her to stay to tea, and you know what stock ladies put in that.”
“They liked her, Rivers,” Harry said. “Gus thought Mrs. Willow was beautiful, clever, and talented. But most of all, she said it was the first time she’s seen you in love.”
“I am in love with her, Harry,” Rivers said, and just saying the words aloud made him feel better.
Harry smiled. “I’ll have to tell Gus she’s right. She’s always imagining little winged Cupids flying over the heads of—”
“I am serious,” Rivers insisted. He’d known Harry wouldn’t understand, and that indulgent smile was the proof of it. “I have never loved any other woman the way I love Lucia, and I am certain she loves me the same.”
“Of course she’ll tell you that, Rivers,” Harry said, too patiently. “It’s in her favor to do so. Consider who you are, and who she is.”
There it was, the inevitable conclusion, and Rivers was unable to keep the bitterness from his words. “I suppose next you’ll begin to describe the virtues of a match with Lady Anne Stanhope, too, just as Father did.”
“If I did, then I’d be marking myself as a failure, the gentleman who can father only daughters,” Harry said, his voice suddenly tight. “No, I won’t say that. Even though you could do much worse for yourself than Lady Anne.”
“I’d be happier with Lucia di Rossi.” He wasn’t being stubborn or obstinate. He was simply telling the truth.
Harry sighed, and the finger-drumming began again, a muted thump on the white linen cloth. “What I am saying, Rivers, is not to let this woman make a public fool of you.”
“I won’t,” Rivers said, striving to sound confident, not stubborn. “And she won’t.”
“You already have, just now with Everett.” Harry leaned forward, his expression earnest. “Soon she’ll make this benefit performance, and you’ll win this ridiculous wager. You’ll both have gotten what you sought from the arrangement. It would be the perfect time to make a break with her, before things become any more sordid.”
“They won’t, I won’t, she won’t.” Rivers had had enough lecturing, and he pushed back the chair and stood. “What else would you have me say, Harry?”
Harry rose, too, albeit more slowly on account of his leg. “All I ask is that you take care, Rivers. Don’t let yourself be blinded by love, or at least not by a love like this. Things can only end badly if you do.”
But to Rivers the flaw in that reasoning was that he’d no intention of letting things end at all. He didn’t say it to Harry, for there’d be no use, and instead went to drink a conciliatory brandy with him. He apologized to Everett, who seemed more gratefully relieved than anything, and then he tried to be as agreeable to everyone else as he could. Harry was right in that he and Lucia had become something of a public spectacle, and for her sake, he’d have to watch what he said and did.
Yet as he rode back to the theater for Lucia, his thoughts kept returning to his conversation with Harry. He knew his family well enough to understand that they’d all been talking about him and “this woman,” as Lucia had clearly become in their minds. They were worried for him, as if he were some lost soul drifting through Hades with Lucia as his guide, and they were desperately hoping for something to draw him away from her and back into their comfortable fold.
Of course, behind all this worry and hope, there was a larger concern that not even Harry had dared raise. They were all terrified that he’d marry Lucia, the most unsuitable bride imaginable for one of the sons of the Duke of Breconridge. As long as neither Harry nor Geoffrey had a son, Rivers was the heir to the dukedom, and no one could stomach the possibility of a foreign-born actress from a troupe of dancers as the next Duchess of Breconridge.
But the real question for Rivers was not whether he’d one day be the duke or Lucia his duchess, but whether he could picture her as hi
s wife. His wife. There, he’d forced himself to think the one thing he’d been avoiding, even in his head. He loved her more than any other woman he’d ever known. Did he love her enough to ask her to marry him?
And if he did, would she say yes?
He’d promised to do whatever was necessary to make her happy. He had always considered marriage a necessary state for happiness, confirmed by an extended family of successful unions amongst his brothers and cousins, and even Father and Celia. He’d never doubted that one day he, too, would wed. But he had an uneasy feeling that his view of marriage—of much lovemaking and companionship, of his house and the Lodge filled with laughter and children and a few more dogs, of entertainments with friends and shared dinners with his family, of silverware engraved with an interlaced cipher, and being known jointly as Lord and Lady Rivers Fitzroy—might not be the same as Lucia’s.
In fact, now that he considered it, he’d never once heard Lucia speak of marriage. Most young women her age could speak of little else, dreaming of wedding days and bridal gowns in such detail that it terrified bachelors. But Lucia’s dreams had always seemed to involve becoming an actress, and those dreams had been so fiercely all-encompassing that she hadn’t seemed to have included anything beyond it. He wondered now if that was why she’d been so determined to live in the present, that she wanted no pleasant thoughts of children or a husband to distract her from her goal.
And yet he knew she loved him. He’d only to think of how she looked at him, kissed him, touched him, made love to him. He took the velvet box with the little flowered brooch from his coat pocket and opened it, making the diamond dewdrops catch the light and sparkle. Flowers would always remind him of Lucia, and he prayed these flowers would make her think of him.
A Reckless Desire Page 30