Gallant Officer, Forbidden Lady

by Diane Gaston

  ‘You may still sit for the portrait—’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ She smiled, genuinely grateful she had not lost her gamble. She extended her hand to him. ‘I look forward to seeing you at the theatre.’ Perhaps he would get the message that his visits to her residence were as unwelcome as his visits to the studio. ‘And I shall be happy to share your conversation there.’

  He clasped her fingers a bit too tightly. ‘I will bid you good evening, then.’

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  He bowed and walked out without another word.

  Rid of him at last. She would have felt some joy if not for the fact that Tranville had already driven Jack away.

  That evening Tranville walked up the narrow steps leading to Daphne Blane’s dressing room, a room that Tranville thought ought to have been given to her daughter who had the lead female role.

  He paused, inhaling a deep breath at the thought of Ariana. Such a beauty. Like a fresh, spring day. He felt young again just gazing upon her, and she fired his blood unlike any woman since he’d first set eyes on the youthful Mary Vernon.

  It was indeed fortunate Mary was nearby. She had secured Jack’s co-operation, but, more than that, she had indulged his needs. Otherwise he might have been forced to visit a brothel. Ariana’s coquettish behaviour had him in a constant state of frustration. The girl drove him mad. He must have her, there was nothing else for it.

  Daphne Blane was bound to have influence over her daughter. She was a woman who knew the value of a gentleman’s attentions.

  He reached her door and knocked.

  A maid admitted him.

  Daphne Blane lounged on a red brocade sofa, wrapped in a silk robe festooned with peacocks. ‘Do sit, Tranville. I am delighted you have come to me.’

  She leaned forwards a little and the top of her robe gaped open enough to reveal quite impressive décolletage. Her daughter resembled her in that regard, but with breasts young and firm…

  ‘It is always a pleasure to see you, Daphne, my dear.’ He took the wooden chair that was nearby, turned it around and straddled it so that he could lean his arms on the chair’s back. ‘I have come to you for assistance.’

  She moved again, exposing a bit of bare ankle. ‘My assistance?’

  He nodded. ‘With Ariana.’

  ‘Ariana.’ She leaned back and tightened her robe. ‘What has Ariana done now?’

  ‘She is acting as if she will spurn me.’ His voice grew low.

  She looked aside. ‘Spurn you?’

  He laughed. ‘Values herself too highly, she says.’

  Daphne frowned. ‘Foolish girl.’

  ‘Intervene with her.’ He leaned forwards, but spoke as if ordering his soldiers.

  She sighed and tapped a long fingernail on the wooden table next to her. ‘The little fool. She is no better than she should be. She plays a game with you, sir.’

  His brow wrinkled. ‘I detest games.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘Oh, I suspect she thinks she is being clever. I dare say she will come running if she feels you have lost interest.’

  ‘I have not lost interest.’ He pounded on the back of the chair. ‘I am more determined than ever. Tell her I will purchase some jewellery for her, something made up from Rundle and Bridge. Tell me what sort of bauble will tempt her.’

  She shook her head. ‘You act too eager, sir.’ Her eyes shifted in thought. ‘You need to teach her a lesson. Stay away from her.’

  He began to rise from his seat. ‘That is out of the question. I’ve half a mind—’ He broke off.

  She seized his arm. ‘I am telling you what will work with her. Make her jealous. Give jewellery to some other woman.’ Her expression turned shrewd. ‘Me, if you like. Let her think you are interested in me. She wants my roles in the plays; she will want you, as well.’

  He pondered. The girl was ambitious. He could make things happen for her if she would allow it. He already had.

  Daphne crossed her arms over her chest. ‘She came to London to take my place on the stage. Without her here, I might have played Juliet. I might have had the role of Cleopatra.’

  Daphne had fought hard with Mr Arnold for the role that went to her daughter.

  He straightened in the chair and inclined his head to her. ‘Help me and I will help you.’

  She looked thoughtful.

  He put on a pleasing face. ‘I would be indebted to you. The next play is yours if you make my desires come true.’ As long as her daughter did not want the role, that is.

  She considered. ‘I will help you, but you need to follow my advice. Let her think she has lost you.’

  There was a knock on her door. ‘Ten minutes, Miss Blane.’

  He stood. ‘We have a bargain, my dear. I will not stay for the performance tonight.’

  She extended her hand to him. ‘Excellent, sir. Have patience. All will come out right.’

  He clasped her hand and brought it to his lips. ‘Thank you, dear lady.’ When he dropped her hands he hardened his voice. ‘I am determined to have your daughter, but I will not be toyed with. She will find me a generous benefactor, but a formidable enemy.’

  Daphne returned a look equally as hard and determined. ‘I am also not without influence, my lord, if you trifle with me.’

  He understood her. They were two of a kind, both used to having matters go their way.

  Tranville bid her adieu and hurried down the stairs. Not wishing to encounter Ariana, he slipped through the backstage, where people were running to and fro preparing for the curtain to rise. He refused to be publicly snubbed by the silly chit.

  Let her think he was succumbing to her wishes by failing to show up for her performance. Romeo and Juliet’s run would be over soon. Then Ariana would begin preparing for the April opening of Antony and Cleopatra, and Jack would be finishing her portrait. When the portrait was completed and it became his gift to her, he would make his move.

  Just to show her his kindness, he’d sweeten the deal with some diamonds or emeralds, diamonds to dazzle her and emeralds to match her eyes.

  Tranville walked outside to where the carriages delivering the fashionable theatregoers were moving away. His frustration was so high it needed relieving. When his coach rounded the corner and stopped in front of him, Tranville called to the coachman, ‘Adam Street.’

  Chapter Eight

  The next day Jack delivered Mr Slayton’s portrait to the man’s bank on Fleet Street. He walked back to save on the coach fare. As he turned onto Adam Street from the Strand, a hackney coach pulled up to his building’s entrance.

  Ariana emerged—alone—juggling two large bandboxes. She placed them on the pavement and handed some coins to the coachman. Jack watched her retrieve the boxes again and start for his door. He quickened his step.

  Her face lit up when she saw him approach. ‘Hello, Jack.’ The cheerful tone of her greeting made it seem as if the last words they’d shared had not been strained. She lifted the boxes. ‘I have raided the costume room.’

  He took them from her. ‘I see,’ was all he could muster.

  She followed him inside, unfastening her cloak and hanging it on the peg. As she took off her gloves and hat, she asked, ‘Would you like to see the costumes?’

  She seemed determined to pretend that nothing had happened between them. No attraction. No invitation to her room. No intrusion by Tranville.

  ‘I would.’ He could pretend as well. He carried the boxes to the chaise-longue before removing his own outerwear.

  She opened one of the bandboxes. ‘This one has the gowns.’

  She pulled out three gowns and laid them out on the chaise. They were made of cloth so thin it floated until resting on the chaise in graceful folds. One gown was shimmery yellow silk. The other two were white muslin.

  She pointed to the yellow one. ‘I thought this looked almost like gold. Gold cloth would befit a queen like Cleopatra.’ She rearranged the skirts of the other two. ‘These could look like classical gowns, I thou
ght.’

  The one looked like no gown at all, but more like a chemise made of a light, sheer fabric that would cling to her body. If Cleopatra wore that gown with nothing underneath, the muslin would reveal the blush of her bare skin, the deep rose of her nipples. The tantalising idea took hold and the artist in him yearned for the challenge of painting such a transparency. The man in him had no business thinking such thoughts of her.

  He turned to the other box to distract himself. ‘What is in this one?’

  She opened it and brought out a golden collar, long lengths of gold chain necklaces, two bejewelled crowns and an assortment of colourful shawls. The chains and crowns were cheaply gilded, the jewels mere glass.

  ‘I thought this might have an Egyptian air to it.’ She placed the collar over one of the white gowns, creating the sort of circular collar that adorned the clothing on the Egyptian prints. ‘Or perhaps Cleopatra could wear a great deal of jewellery.’ She draped the gold chain necklaces over the other muslin dress.

  She seemed careful to confine her attention to the costumes, barely looking at him, acting in exactly the business-like manner he’d requested of her. It ought to have put him at ease.

  It did not.

  Had he gone with her to the Drury Lane Theatre and searched through trunks of costumes, he might have seen her eyes sparkling at each discovery. He might have witnessed her excitement at finding the gold collar. Perhaps she would have held up the jewelled crowns, letting their cut-glass gems glitter in whatever light the costume room possessed. They might have debated which gowns to select. They might have laughed together.

  He had missed that chance.

  She stood back and surveyed her arrangement of the gowns. ‘What do you think?’

  He hid his reaction. ‘Any of them will do.’

  She made a face. ‘Any? I was hoping you would tell me which was best.’ She touched the yellow cloth again. ‘I confess, I could not decide.’

  ‘I do not know.’

  He knew. His choice was too scandalous to consider. Only one gown suited him, both the artist and the man. ‘Would you be willing to try them on?’

  Her determinedly impersonal attitude faltered a bit as she returned his gaze. ‘Certainly.’

  She gathered the gowns and he opened the door of his bedchamber for her.

  As she walked into the room and placed the gowns on his bed, she looked over her shoulder. ‘I fear I shall have to ask you to unlace me.’

  Had she said the words with any hint of seduction, he would have refused, but she spoke as if he were her maid.

  Jack found the hooks at the back of her dark blue carriage dress. As his fingers undid them he brushed the soft skin of her neck. She moved under his touch, like a cat being petted. When he untied her laces, her head lolled against her shoulder.

  Desire shot through him at her reaction to his touch. It also brought a surge of pleasure he ought not to allow himself to feel.

  As soon as he finished, she stepped away. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said brightly. The moment passed.

  He left the room and paced the length of the studio until she emerged wearing the yellow gown. ‘I need your help again.’ She presented her back to him.

  He tied the laces, his fingers now trembling a bit.

  She stepped back and twirled around in front of him. ‘Well?’ The yellow silk swirled around her, creating pretty patterns of light and dark.

  He took in a deep breath. ‘Try the collar and the jewellery.’

  He brought over the full-length mirror he sometimes used when he needed to draw from a reflection. She tried on the collar first and then the jewellery and surveyed herself in the mirror with each.

  They repeated this performance with the sheer muslin dress, which tantalised Jack more than he wished to admit, even though it was her shift and corset visible beneath it, not the pink skin he yearned to see, not the image lodged in his brain so vividly it aroused him.

  Ariana remained carefully impersonal, enabling him to maintain control over himself.

  The second muslin gown was little more than two gathered pieces of cloth joined at the shoulders and tied with a simple cord at the waist. As she walked in it, the muslin billowed like clouds around her legs.

  ‘I love how this gown feels.’ She danced in front of him, the fabric moving with her. ‘It would be perfect onstage.’

  She caught him watching her and stopped, the ghost of a smile on her face.

  He glanced away. ‘Try it with the collar.’

  She picked up the collar and brought it to the mirror. ‘I have an idea for this.’ She pushed the neckline of the dress lower so that her shoulders were bare and fastened the collar over it. When done, she looked at herself in the mirror before lifting her gaze to his reflection behind her. She waited for his reaction.

  He nodded. ‘I like that.’ It made a perfectly acceptable costume.

  ‘I do as well.’ She untied the cord around her waist and replaced it with the gold chain necklaces, looking up to see if he approved.

  He nodded.

  She smiled and reached up to take the pins out of her hair. Her auburn locks tumbled halfway down her back.

  He drew in a breath.

  She gathered her hair in her hands. ‘I think I can roll it under so it looks more Egyptian.’

  As she fussed with hairpins, the light caught in her curls, creating gold highlights that rivalled the gold of the collar and chains. Jack’s fingers twitched, wishing to be buried in her curls.

  ‘Leave it loose,’ he murmured.

  She looked at him through the mirror and he felt the passion flare between them.

  He took another breath. ‘It wants only a crown.’

  He handed her the simplest crown, the one that came to a single point in the front. Three large red jewels decorated it, one at the peak and two lower, enhancing the triangular shape of the gold.

  He placed the crown on her head and they both examined the result in the mirror. His hands came to rest on her bare shoulders and their gazes met through the reflection and held.

  She whispered, ‘Jack?’

  The brief contact begged for more. The connection between them could not be denied, only resisted.

  Reluctantly he removed his hands and took a step back. ‘We have Cleopatra.’

  Her expression flickered first with disappointment, then turned into a determined smile. ‘I approve. What now?’

  He closed his eyes, better able to deal with an image of Ariana on the canvas than the flesh-and-blood woman. He pictured her in white against white. White linen draping the chaise, white marble walls behind her and a window showing white buildings in the distance. Hieroglyphics lining the wall would provide some contrast, but the tones would be white, grey and black, except for Ariana, who would shine like the gold of her collar and crown.

  ‘Pose on the chaise.’ He pushed his writing table over. ‘I want to sketch this idea.’

  She climbed on the chaise and assumed the position he’d drawn before. He took a piece of charcoal and started to draw.

  Several minutes passed before she spoke. ‘Did Tranville call upon you today?

  Tranville again. The mere mention of the man’s name broke Jack’s concentration. ‘He did not.’

  ‘Good.’

  They fell silent again, and Jack wondered why she had asked. He did not request an explanation, however; he merely tried to concentrate on his sketch.

  After a time she said, ‘I told him not to interfere.’

  He looked at her. ‘Told him?’ Tranville did not take well to being told anything.

  She explained, ‘I reminded him that I’d accepted this portrait with the understanding that it would place me under no obligation to him. I reminded him that my affections were not for sale.’

  Jack glanced at her, not quite believing what she said.

  She sobered. ‘Not every actress wants the attention of gentlemen in the Green Room.’

  He nodded, even though he doubted any actre
ss could avoid such attention. ‘What was Tranville’s reaction?’

  She shrugged and the collar slipped lower on her shoulder. ‘What could he say? He had given his word to me. He merely needed convincing that I meant to hold him to it. I told him he must not interfere and I am delighted that he seems to have listened to me this time.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Ariana, he is not a man who gives up what he wants.’

  She shrugged again. ‘He is a man.’

  ‘A ruthless man.’

  She stared at him. ‘How do you know that?’ She held up a hand. ‘Wait. I don’t suppose you will tell me, will you? What connection you have with Tranville?’

  He did not answer immediately. ‘He is connected to my family.’

  ‘A friend of your mother’s, he told me.’

  Jack frowned. ‘He told you that? A friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A friend is one way to put it,’ he said tightly. ‘Or at least he once was such. You may then comprehend his connection to me.’

  She nodded, clearly understanding his meaning. ‘But there is more, is there not?’

  He went back to his drawing before speaking again. ‘On the Peninsula, he was ruthless in his ambition, caring more for his own consequence than for the welfare of his men.’

  ‘He was a soldier?’ She sounded surprised.

  ‘A brigadier-general. Before he inherited his title.’

  ‘A general?’ She laughed.

  He was puzzled at what amused her.

  Her eyes sparkled. ‘Forgive me, but it seems a silly thing for a general to suddenly become such an enthusiastic patron of the arts.’ She giggled. ‘I suspect he is more interested in the actresses than in preserving the cultural significance of the theatre.’

  He could not help but smile. Not at her accurate measure of Tranville’s character, but at how lovely she looked when filled with mirth.

  She gazed at him. ‘That is nice.’

  ‘What is nice?’ He sobered again.

  ‘You smiled.’

  He returned to the sketch, selecting pastels to add colour to her skin and to the gold.