The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 6

by Sorcha MacMurrough

  "You know she’s right. I don’t know what the hell’s come over you, Hugo, but just settle yourself down. I know you’re a good actor. Just follow her lead and—"

  "I’ll have no slattern lead me about by the cock. I’m the hero of the play!" he stormed.

  "It’s called ‘Antony and Cleopatra,’" she said quietly, "and he does get led around in the play by his cock as you put it because he’s in love with her. In awe of her. And a weak man because he refuses to admit he’s made a mistake and won’t sue for peace," she added, giving him a subtle warning before it was too late.

  Miranda didn’t know George as well as others in the company in terms of the length of their acquaintance, but she had acted with him, observed him, spent time alone with him and could read his body’s posture like an open book. He was furious, and Hugo was about to get the sack if he didn’t back down.

  His blue eyes glowed with arrogant fury. "No, I won’t bloody do it. Apologise to this whore? Let her be the lead after all the months Maggie and I have been loyal to you?"

  He stripped off the toga and threw it on the floor, stamping on it for good measure. "Let’s see what you can do now with a packed house and no hero."

  She gasped. "But Hugo, we'll have to refund all the money and everyone will lose—"

  He brushed past Miranda, ramming her to one side, so that she began to tumble perilously close to the edge of the stairs. She would have fallen if George had not caught her jerkily by the waist and clutched her tightly.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Fine. Fine. No harm done," she said, resting her hands on his broad shoulders. "Thank you for catching me, though. Another tumble off this stage in one day is two too many so far as I’m concerned."

  He settled her on her feet now with his arms on her supple waist.

  "I’m sorry, lass. This was a triumph for you," he sighed. "But now I’m going to have to go out there and tell them that the play can’t go on, and have to give back all the takings. But I’ll make it worth your while—"

  "No you jolly well won’t!" she declared furiously. "The show goes on, no matter what."

  He stared at her. "But how—"

  "We've all worked dashed hard tonight, all of us, and Maggie would want the show to go on. All we have one more act to do. A half an hour at most. We can do this—"

  "But Bart hasn’t had time to practice and he's upset about Maggie too and—"

  She shook her head quickly. "Not Bart. You. You and me."

  "Oh, no, Miranda, no," he said, backing away. "We can’t possibly—"

  Her eyes crackled with an inner flame which he felt completely beguiled by. "We did it for hours today in rehearsals. You know it by heart, George. You taught me, for pity’s sake, so don’t tell me it’s not possible."

  "But—" George felt desperate now. He knew the theatre would erupt if he tried to cancel the performance. Then he would not only lose the money, but quite possibly the entire theatre as well, if the unruly crowd decided to rip the place apart.

  He didn’t care for himself, but his troupe needed the money. Even if they weren’t all very good, they loved the theatre. Loved the life. And it was a decent living compared to many.

  But to put himself up on stage? In front of hundreds of people in so public a manner? It was just too risky.

  "No buts." She stooped and picked up the discarded toga, dusting it off as best she could and moving to help him disrobe as far as he needed to and then put it on. "You get this costume on right now, or I’m going to discover first hand whether you’re a eunuch or not. And if you aren’t now, matey, you soon will be if you dare try to say no."

  "My God, I’ve created a monster," he said with a shake of his head and a wheezing laugh.

  But he was already yanking off his waistcoat, cravat and shirt and handing them to her.

  She flashed him an impish grin, and tried not to gape stupidly at the huge tracts of bare flesh being exposed to her heated gaze. Just as she had suspected, he was magnificent, a statue in bronze, all muscles rippling, with only the merest hint of hair in an intriguing line which vanished into the waistband of his trousers. She was sorry to see his chest eclipsed so suddenly by the cotton toga.

  But a new problem presented itself when he tugged it down and began to remove his trousers. Hugo had been a substantially shorter man. The toga barely skimmed the tops George’s thighs. The legs of his long-cut drawers peeped out by a good nine inches.

  Miranda made the mistake of stating this innocently enough.

  "I’ll show you a good nine inches," he growled, grabbing her hand and planting it on his rigid manhood.

  She gasped and instinctively began draw her hand away for a brief second. He was not holding her hand there, after all. Curiosity got the better of her as she decided that so far as she could tell from the brief contact, he was underestimating his attributes considerably. He was hard as a rock and throbbing. She gaped, and longed to feel his searingly hot flesh naked.

  "What the hell am I going to do? I can’t take them off. I’m flying full mast. The toga is going to ruck up like a bloody tent."

  She began to giggle then, though there was no mistaking the crimson flooding her features as she withdrew her hand slowly.

  Embarrassment, desire or both, George couldn’t tell. He shivered at her touch, longed to kiss her senseless.

  "Cut them off then. The legs of the drawers," she amended hastily at his look of wide-eyed alarm. "That is if you can’t do anything about your little, er, huge problem."

  "Nothing in the next thirty seconds with the entire cast and crew coming this way," he muttered under his breath. "But if we were alone—"

  She gasped at his boldness as he cupped her lustily on the rump to try to pass the whole thing off as no more than a bit of low comedy. His long hard warm fingers insinuated themselves between her rounded globes purely by accident, touching her most intimate parts. She could feel herself well up so powerfully her head swam. Her nipples sprang to life and her breath soughed in her throat. She managed to keep her feet and head, just.

  She gripped the edge of the wall and said impatiently, "Either roll the legs up or cut them off. Daniel! Scissors."

  Daniel scrambled up, saw the problem, and in a trice had both legs cut off to the tops of his thighs. "Cor blimey. Every orange seller in the theatre is going to be juicing when they see you, Boss!" he muttered under his breath.

  "Never mind that now," George snapped, leaning his huge frame on the small man while he tugged off his boots and stockings. "Help me finish getting ready. They're about to storm the stage by the sound of it."

  Miranda got to see even more of him as he bent each leg in turn. There was a man....

  Her employer. Her director. And now her co-star as they were about to go out for the grand finale.

  She wasn’t sure how on earth she was going to manage to be heard above the din as every woman in the place now began to make her wishes with regard to his physique known.

  Fortunately the men outnumbered them three to one, and were hanging on Miranda’s every word. With a complete sense of unreality, they got to the end of the play, and received a standing ovation which had the whole troupe grinning from ear to ear.

  They shut the curtain for a moment, and George smiled down at her in triumph. She had never seen his smile before, and she took in the lush lips, perfect even white teeth, the light creasing around his obsidian eyes. She longed to stretch up to that luscious mouth for a kiss.

  But Bart had already taken her hand on one side, and was dragging her forward. George latched onto her other hand to catch up, and Daniel raised the curtain once more. The whole group took their bow collectively, then individually. Miranda was delighted and relieved to see that George’s reception was almost as rapturous as her own.

  "You most certainly have the most amazing talent as an actor," she said with a warm gracious smile, curtseying to him.

  If only she knew....

  After no less than a dozen curtain cal
ls, the backstage area was filled to overflowing with men and women wanting to speak to them both, shower them with flowers and presents, and make offers for so-called private performances.

  "I’m sorry, everyone. As you can see my newest star is simply overwhelmed by your admiration, and must retire to rest. We shall most certainly be seeing her again on stage tomorrow. If you would like to view her pulchritude again the performance starts at six. Good night!"

  "And yourself, Mr. Davenant? Surely no other Antony will do for a goddess such as this," one little man said. His owlish wife nodded.

  "I am sure you can understand that the responsibilities of my position as proprietor and director are such that—"

  "Oh come now, don’t be so modest," another man said. "Surely you wouldn’t mean to ruin what has to be the finest performance I’ve ever seen of the play with that wooden stick Hugo. The rest of the troupe has improved with the addition of such a stellar actress, but he was appallingly bad."

  "We shall have to see. My duties, you understand," George said smoothly. "Now, if you please, we really must clear the theatre and put out the lights."

  "Oh, very well," they sighed or grumbled,

  They all began to leave, but he was certain he would be seeing them all again.

  In fact, one persistent swain pushed passed him to touch Miranda on the shoulder. She gave a bright smile until she looked into the glittering eyes of the stranger and drew away. There was something about his fervid gaze, his loose lips, which was disturbing.

  One look at George gave her the reassurance she needed.

  "I’m Geoffrey Bassett, Earl of Oxnard—"

  "Yes, yes, but Mademoiselle Lyon is tired," he said, wondering at the words as he did so.

  Damn. Again his background had come to the fore. His jealousy over the handsome if intense man, in his early thirties at a guess, had caused him to slip and then Frenchify her last name.

  "Ah, French. I might have known. Such skill, such poise. She could not possibly have been rusticating in a provincial theatre. not with so much talent. I shall bid you bon soir, and hope I may soon be allowed to say bonne nuit."

  "Out, now!" George roared, his jealousy boiling over at the suggestive remark, before Oxnard could complete the sloppy kiss he was trying to plant upon her hand.

  Once again the air seemed to rush from her lungs. Was he jealous? Or was she shivering with desire over the near-kissing of her hand, the ardent admiration which had just been showered all over her by no less than an Earl?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  At last all the hangers-on had gone, and Miranda and George were left with just Daniel for company, the others having delightedly taken their share of the night’s receipts and gone out to paint the town red.

  "Not too red," George called after them. "We have a matinee and the evening performance as well."

  Miranda groaned. "I forgot all about the matinee."

  "I know. But you don’t have to—"

  "No, I think I do. I mean, I wouldn’t want to let you down."

  He shook his head. "You wouldn’t be. You must be exhausted."

  "Not yet, but soon. I’m glad you talked me into eating a bit of supper. At least my stomach had something to churn against, and now I’m as hungry as a hunter."

  "Let me just go get my clothes from backstage and I’ll take you to The Three Bells and see what we can scrounge up in the kitchens. Unless of course you would care to accompany me to a supper club in Town?" he asked before he could halt the words. "After all, you deserve to celebrate your triumph in style. I can’t even guess how many pounds we took in tonight."

  Daniel clinked a sizeable purse. "Must be nearly ten pounds, your share."

  "Give her Hugo’s as well. He forfeited it when he walked out."

  "Oh, no, I couldn’t," she protested sincerely.

  "It’s not as much money as you could make if you worked in a boarding school, but there’s plenty more where that came from if you’re willing."

  She blushed at the reference to a high-class bordello. "I couldn’t take Hugo’s share," she insisted. "He earned most of it and he will come back. You’ll see. As soon as Maggie is well. And we should set aside some of the takings for her, poor thing."

  "Maybe I don’t want Hugo back after the way he’s acted toward you," George said, glowering.

  "Aye, Miss, he’s queered his pitch good and proper, being so mean to you. Could see him trying to throw you off, in more ways than one. Not the thing to do at all. Most unprofessional and cruel. He doesn’t want to be part of the team, there is plenty who will. George can audition tomorrow for a new actor to play opposite you. And now that we have such a talented actress, we can do even better plays. I fancy Othello meself. And just think, some breeches parts. I mean, I know you’re real voluptuous in all the right places, miss, but you’re still slender enough. Twelfth Night, As You Like It... The world is our oyster! And you’ll be our pearl."

  He blushed at his own effusiveness and scurried away.

  George had come back, and felt his heated gaze rest upon her. His colleague’s warm if innocent words of praise had struck a chord.

  He had heard the comparison before. Only now as he gazed at her in the diaphanous gown did he really begin to understand what the words meant. The powerful image of his head between her thighs came back to him now with a vengeance. For were not women often compared to oysters, said to have aphrodisiac properties? And was not the most sensitive sphere nestled in her shell called the pearl of pleasure which would make her pool with desire?

  Before George could stop himself, he grasped her skirt and began to glide it up over her thighs.

  "What on earth are you—" she gasped,

  "You were the dresser. There isn’t one now, and everyone has gone. And since you helped strip me bare, it’s the least I can do. No, pet, pray hold still. I won’t touch you," he promised, somewhat rashly considering what he sure he was about to do. The blood hammered in his ears. He just had to get closer to her...

  "Not unless you want me to," he amended. "I need to know what you’re wearing under this gown."

  "The same as you under the toga," she said prosaically if somewhat inaccurately. "Drawers."

  The champagne-coloured silk was so overwhelmingly sultry he could not help himself. Despite his promise he ran one hand from navel to mound, admiring her flat stomach, finely toned muscles, lush but slender thighs.

  "Gorgeous. Simply gorgeous. Every man in the theatre wanted to do this tonight. Find out what you had on under that gown. Where did you get them?" he whispered, petting and stroking her like a fractious filly until she relaxed, closed her eyes and lolled her head back against the wall.

  "Milly made them for Maggie, but she wasn’t here. She offered them to me."

  "Exquisite. Just beautiful. Your legs, your—" He leaned his cheek against her and breathed in. The reality was every bit as thrilling as the fantasy. Nay, more so, for she was even more incredibly lovely than his imaginings.

  "You are a most regal beauty from head to toe." His hands reached around to cup her bottom lightly above and then underneath the silk. He was not in the least ashamed of his actions, though he would have been horrified if anyone had ever suspected how this tiny girl could literally bring him to his knees. He was prostrate with longing for her.

  Miranda was stunned. He sounded as though... As though he really did love her! But surely it wasn’t possible. It was lust the heat between a man and woman put into close proximity, working together on such a romantic play. It was bound to happen. It had in the case of Maggie and Hugo, obviously.

  But what on earth was he doing? For she could feel the light bristle of his cheek through the delicate fabric. He was actually rubbing her like a cat against a table leg. About to lap at a saucer of milk. My God, he was even purring!

  "Tell me, tell me what you want, Miranda," his voice rumbled, vibrating through her lower body. "Anything you wish shall be yours."

  This was sheer madness. He was surely th
e most exciting and handsome man she had ever met in her life, but he was asking her for... The impossible. She would go to hell for it, she was certain. However wonderful the delights he was offering her, with his incredibly hard maleness, his clever lips and tongue, which now began to dampen the legs of the pantalettes, adding further moisture to the torridly saturated gusset, this was wrong. But it felt so right...

  "Supper and some sleep, alone," she managed to say, though it nearly choked her to do so. "Please. We can’t. I don’t want to do what Hugo accused us of. You and I both have far too much respect for each other to allow it to come to that."

  He took one last huge gulp of air, one last lingering inhalation of her remarkable feminine perfume, and stood straight, shaking his head as if to clear it. Then he gave her a broad grin which did not quite match his eyes.