Juliet rolled her eyes. "Because George Davenant has a reputation as a head breaker, amongst other things, that’s why. If he’s harmed you—"
"No, not at all!"
"Blackmail then?" Juliet demanded.
She stiffened. "Don’t be absurd. This whole charade should make it abundantly clear to you that George has no idea who I really am."
"Then what on earth possessed you to—"
She shrugged. "It all just happened suddenly. I can’t really explain. Just that I think I’m falling I love with him, and I’ve never had so much fun in my life. Not to mention the fact that my novel is coming along wonderfully well."
"So that’s what all this is about?" her sister said with an astonished laugh, plopping down on the sofa with a relieved laugh.
"Not really," she admitted with a blush. "At first, perhaps, but later…"
She told the whole tale from the start, and admitted at the end, "So George and I really like each other. I think we have something special—"
"But Miranda, have you any idea who he is?!" her sister exclaimed in near horror.
Miranda shrugged one shoulder and shook her head. "Not really, no. But Philip and Alistair seem to have no qualms about him as a friend, and that’s good enough for me. Lawrence likes him, and I could see you did too."
"But the gossip—"
Miranda set down her tea cup with an impatient click. "I don’t care. You and I are not such high-sticklers, nor is Matthew or Aunt Augusta, for all her fearsome reputation. He’s a good man. I need to know he really cares about me, not just my fortune, before I make the truth known to him."
Juliet gave her a hard look. "And he’s never—"
"No, not ever. Nothing more than a few kisses. He is supposed to be a whoremonger, but he’s scrupulously chaste. I know, I’ve asked. No one at The Three Bells has slept with him. Nor my colleagues either. And no, he doesn’t fancy men. We have some mollies at The Three Bells, and tommies too.
"Actually, I think George was in love with Viola Grant, but she’s happily married, and by all accounts a virgin when they met. No, really, Juliet. I’ve tried to tell myself I’m mad, I try to find objections, but the truth is I really am falling in love with George Davenant. And he needs me. I’m not sure why. I just feel it. Jasmine redeemed Philip. Althea redeemed Matthew. Even you helped Lawrence. Why can I not do the same for a man who clearly has had a troubled life and needs all the friends he can get?"
Juliet sighed heavily. "I know. It’s just, you’re so very young, and George Davenant looks like a man who’s been to hell and back. And he’s so much older than you. I mean, he doesn’t look it, but from what he said, he must be forty or so."
"Age doesn’t matter," she said spiritedly. "Alistair has silver hair, had it from his twenties."
"Yes, but you’re not thinking of marrying him."
"I’m not thinking of marrying George either—"
Juliet gaped. "Miranda!"
She put her hand on her sister's arm. "You know what I mean. Nothing has gone so far, I swear. I’ll write my novel, tread the boards, make the most of the little escapade that has presented itself. If I’ve made a mistake, I can always leave. If not..." She shrugged.
Juliet bit her lip and sighed. After a time, she made her decision, and prayed it would be the right one. "Very well, I shall remain silent. We’ll fetch your things from Kitty and make it plain she and Georgina are to have nothing more to do with you. We’ll send the most plain things to Fulham House so you don’t have to make do with gowns your breasts are about to burst out of. Finally, you will promise me that if anything happens which causes you unease, anything at all, you’ll get Philip and Jasmine to bring you back here, or to Somerset if we are not up in Town."
Miranda hugged her sister gratefully. "I promise. Will you come see me perform Antony and Cleopatra with George tomorrow night? In his box? We have only a few more performances before we switch to Twelfth Night."
Juliet returned embrace warmly and said with total honesty, "I wouldn’t miss it for the world."
Neither would anyone else. The New Rose was packed night after night, not only with new attendees, but repeat ones, including the disconcertingly intense Earl of Oxnard, who actually sat in the front row each night.
Miranda was sure he was only doing it in the hopes of looking up her skirts, or enjoying the translucence of the golden gown. He was also always the first to go back stage to congratulate her, along with a few other swains, mainly younger sons of the gentry.
Daniel had no compunction about charging them higher prices for their seats, since they could afford it, and their coffers were soon exceptionally full. Everyone in the cast agreed to put in more benches to fit in more people, and even allow the gentry to sit on each side of the stage as they performed, as they had done during Shakespeare’s own time.
Usually the audiences were so rowdy and even dangerous that rows of spikes separated them from the actors and actresses. Young men in particular had been known to get carried away and accost the women right in the middle of a performance. The finer theatres in Ton actually had Marines stationed within them to keep order if the spikes failed to deter them.
George had never felt the need for spikes, since he was always backstage in case there was any trouble. But now he asked the troupe’s opinion.
"I think it will be fine. You’re always on stage with Miranda, and we have Sebastian and Daniel too."
"Still—"
Miranda shook her head. "I’m not going to work in a cage. It’ll be all right."
George admitted to himself his worries were because he wanted to keep her safe. But for the most part her admirers seemed fine, if intensely fixated on her. They were eager but did not appear in the least carried away by their passion. What would happen when they performed Twelfth Night remained to be seen.
Another five days saw the end of their run of Antony and Cleopatra, and The New Rose standing room only, with not an inch to move and not a dry eye in the theatre as Miranda died. The corridors behind the stage were nearly full to overflowing, and Philip and Jasmine pushed through.
"Congratulations, you two. You get better every time I see you, if that’s possible."
George gave Miranda a warm smile and embraced her around the waist. Miranda blushed, and the Earl of Oxnard ground his teeth together. He was not the only one, for Hugo lurked on the edge of the crowd, hoping that Maggie and he could have their old jobs back.
George was in an expansive mood, but wanted to make the man who had been so horrid to the lovely young girl sweat it out. "I’ll be glad to have her back, but you need to apologise to Miranda first, Hugo, if you want to return. Come see us Monday morning for rehearsals. It’s Twelfth Night. We’ll talk then."
The buzz went up all over the theatre, with everyone running to seek out Daniel to buy advanced tickets. A breeches part for so lovely a woman. How thrilling!
"Which reminds me, we need to practice those sword scenes a bit more."
"I’d be delighted to help," the Earl of Oxnard offered with alacrity. "I have to admit I’m a bit of a dab hand with a sword."
George was tempted to tell him where he could stick his sword, but Miranda accepted the offer graciously. George had to swallow his pride. It would never do tell her he had once been the toast of Paris with an epee and foil, though he had barely been in his teens.
Oxnard sneered at George as if to say what would a mere theatre manager know about the dignified pursuit of fencing. With an ostentatious bow over Miranda’s hand which made George want to kick his silk-breeched posterior, Oxnard departed.
The cast all went back to Philip’s house for a party. Viola pointedly left after only five minutes. Miranda seethed. Who was she to look down her nose at her and her friends? She had been friendly enough with George when she had lived at The Three Bells, she was sure.
"What’s the matter?" George asked softly, seeing her staring off into the distance.
"Nothing, nothing at all," she
said, giving him a warm smile.
He took her hand and rubbed it as she had taught him, only in his case, instead of soothing her, it only set her on fire. She now reciprocated and he actually blushed.
"I may have lived in a brothel for a long time, but I never knew—"
"Knew what?" she asked softly, her eyes shining up at him.
"How much pleasure there could be in such simple things as holding your hand, kissing you."
"But we never have kissed. Not properly. Not as ourselves. Only as Antony and Cleopatra, or the Duke and Viola, or you pretending to be someone you're not. I’m not the Queen of the Nile or Viola," she said pointedly.
"Nor am I the heroic Antony, or a Duke," George reminded her. "Sometimes I really don’t know who I am."
"I don’t care about rank and fortune. And I know who you are. You’re George Davenant, a good, kind man, and that’s good enough for me."
George heaved a ragged sigh and shook his head. "And who is George Davenant? I don’t even know any more. He was certainly never good and kind."
"You are. You're a loyal friend to everyone you meet. The George Davenant I know helps strangers like me when they need him most. You’ve rescued every single person here and in the pub. You’re a man who is admired and respected by all who come across him. Handsome, talented, intelligent, spirited. And so gentle," she said, clasping his hands in both her own. "Nurturing, kind—"
He squeezed her hand but shook his head. "Miranda, I’ve done some things that—"
"I can guess some of it. I’m here to listen if you want to tell me. I’ve heard all about what you did for Philip and Alistair last year. I know there’s so much more to you than you pretend. Please, don’t shut me out. I can bear anything so long as you trust me enough to tell me the truth."
"I want to. I really do. I’m just so afraid—" George said in an agonised whisper.
"Of me?" she asked, stroking his hands delicately.
The shiver of pleasure jolted straight to his loins. He pulled her out of the room and into the alcove nearby, and leaned into her. She put her arms around his waist and drew him close.
"Of you, of me, of what I long for. But above all, what might happen if I dare to reach so high as to try to pluck the perfect rose from the top of the trellis."
"I was an orange wench, remember?" she said with a laugh.
He slid his body up and down the curve of her waist and hip once more and melted against her, while his hands at her breasts made her go on fire. "We are neither of us what we appear, now are we? I won’t pry, but I need to know I can trust you. That you haven’t come here to be the ruin of me," he panted.
"We met by accident. You offered me a job. If you don’t trust me, send me away."
His erection had only subsided slightly after his release. He now stepped all the way into the alcove and pressed her up against the wall, dragging her arms up around his neck as he had done so often when they had been performing Antony and Cleopatra.
"I can’t send you away, Miranda. You’re my prime actress, and the partner in all my endeavours. I meant what I said that first day we rehearsed Twelfth Night. Just give me time. And in the meantime, let me treasure you just a little?"
She nodded, licking her lips nervously.
With an impassioned groan his mouth swooped down over hers in pursuit of her adorable little tongue, and he kissed her with an abandon he had never allowed himself before. His hands on the sides of her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples to fullness, were enough to have her fitting her hips to his almost frantically. One huge palm cupped the rounded fullness of her bottom, his long fingers working up and under to touch her most intimately.
He felt her torrid dampness, and would have pulled the gown up to find the front slit of her drawers. But the sound of a throat clearing behind George’s shoulder put paid to their private moment, and Miranda opened her eyes to meet those of Viola.
"Your guests are getting ready to leave and it’s Sunday tomorrow. I don’t imagine you would want to come with us, George, but your friend here is welcome to join Alistair and I for services."
The invitation sounded so insulting to her that Miranda could not resist a sharp retort. "Thank you, no. My conscience is clear on all points. I only wish all supposedly decent Christian people could say the same."
She took George’s hand, and half led, half-dragged him back to the drawing room, and insisted he make a speech. She did not relinquish his hand, but merely stood by his side, slightly behind him.
George was surprised, but pleased. Was it possible that his wonderful little treasure really did return his feelings?
"In case I’ve not said it often enough, thank you for all the hard work, and for making Miranda feel so welcome. And just to let you know, Maggie and Hugo will be coming back—"
All their faces fell. "But, Boss—" they all protested in unison.
"And we shall do our best to make Maggie feel welcome once more. But until Hugo apologises for the manner in which he behaved toward Miranda and all of us by trying to ruin the play, he can be my understudy only."
"You mean you’re not going to give him my part?" Bart asked in relief.
"No, of course not. Sebastian and Viola are supposed to be twins. Hugo looks nothing like Miranda."
Bart smiled in relief and hugged Liz.
George and Miranda looked over at them and smiled indulgently. So that was the way of it. They were pleased for them both.
In twos and threes they all began to depart, until finally George and Miranda stood at the door together. Unable to help himself, he stroked her hair. Fascinated, he began to sensually tug out the pins, tumbling the thick deep chestnut tresses down over her shoulders and back, and running his hands down her fall of hair as though savouring fine silk.
"I’ll take you to church, if you like."
"I would like that. And perhaps a walk in the park afterwards?"
"Yes," he breathed, kissing her cheek, then moving his whole body into hers once more as he smelt the luxuriously rich area behind her ear. "But I mustn’t overtax your strength. We have a big night Monday."
"I wouldn’t mind one tonight," she said with a shaky laugh.
"Oh, darling, if only you knew—"
"I think I do, George. I may be a virgin, but I’m no fool."
"Not a fool, darling. Just too precious a jewel to be seized with no thought of the morrow. Now come, sweetheart, let me have one last kiss to take a lonely man to his bed. Something to dream of until the next time I see you."
"But George, I’m asking—"
He fit his mouth over hers with infinite care, for every nerve and vein in his body screamed for him to take what she was offering, and the devil with the consequences.
The kiss was an act of possession as he rhythmically glided his tongue in and out. He could feel her whole body loosening, opening to him, and the heady swirl in his head drove him on.
He curved one hand over her breast, the other over her mound, and pressed her into the corner of the vestibule. She gasped into his mouth and mewled with need, clutching his forearms with desperate fingers as if she were about to pull him right out of his clothes. He emitted a low, throaty growl of desire and kissed her even harder, until at last he could feel her body clenching and unclenching.
Her incredibly long dusky lashes flew upwards, and her eyes were so dark with passion as to be almost black. He saw his own response mirrored in hers as they both climaxed until they slid down the wall until they were both kneeling.
"Oh God, Miranda, I must go."
He positioned his hands on either side of her face, kissed her one last time, then lurched to his feet and almost ran down the path, leaving Miranda breathless and trembling, her hair cascading down her body as if she had been bedded by the most importunate lover.
At last she pulled herself off her knees. Clinging onto the door jamb, she steadied herself and began to head for her room.
Philip and Jasmine smiled as she closed the hall door. Vi
ola stared at her with something akin to horror. Miranda maintained her dignity, as if nothing were the least amiss. "Thank you for the lovely party. Is there anything I can do to help tidy away?"
Jasmine shook her head and kissed her. "No, dear, you rest. Big day on Monday and all that. Good night."
Philip kissed her on the cheek as well. Viola simply nodded and went into her small blue parlor without a word.
Miranda sighed, but headed to her own room with a light enough heart. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, and hardly recognised herself. Gone was the shy, girlish Miranda from Dorset. In her place stood an elegant, poised, voluptuous woman who had just been brought to the brink of madness by her lover.
She checked to make sure her door was locked, stripped off all of her clothes, and actually dared to look at herself completely naked in the mirror. She wanted to know what George would see. What he had seen already.
The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection 6 Page 52