A Passionate Performance

by Eileen Putman

  She held her breath. If he was going to challenge her statement, now would be the time. She might as well know what she was up against.

  “You think I seek to seduce you, Mrs. Trent?” His eyes were hooded, but she detected a faintly predatory gleam in those silvery depths.

  Sarah’s color deepened, along with the certainty that she was woefully unmatched in this game. He had indeed challenged her, but on a level she had not anticipated. The mere fact that he had uttered the word “seduce” had given weight to the concept, like a sinful thought suddenly spoken aloud in church over the vicar’s rambling sermon. Now he was waiting to see how she would respond.

  “It is you who are guilty of excessive plainspeaking, Lord Linton,” she insisted, summoning every ounce of bravado that was in her. “I would never make such an accusation.”

  She lowered her gaze. “My experience of the world is not broad like yours. I am no London sophisticate. I do not know the art of flirtation, nor am I comfortable with it.”

  “And yet you manage it exceptionally well.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Sarah looked up in alarm.

  “Perhaps it is a skill that comes to you naturally,” he said.

  She wondered whether he meant to expose her after all. “I only want your friendship, my lord.”

  His lips curled disdainfully. “I do not have friendships with women.”

  “Then we have nothing further to discuss.” Sarah stepped firmly away from him and started toward the house.

  “Wait.”

  What was it about that one-word command that made her halt in her tracks like a docile filly schooled to his voice? She would not dance to his tune. And yet she turned.

  “What is it?” she demanded irritably.

  To her amazement, he was regarding her with an utterly benign expression.

  “I may not have friendships with women, Mrs. Trent, but I am capable of conversations with them.” He hesitated. “And of apologizing for any discomfort I have caused you.”

  His expression gave nothing away. Sarah had no way of knowing if he was sincere but fervently prayed that he was.

  “I appreciate your apology, my lord. Perhaps I have been too quick to take offense.”

  He grinned suddenly, and Sarah caught her breath at the instant transformation of his features. It was the first time she had seen him smile in such an unrestrained fashion, and it was utterly disarming.

  “I should not be so quick to retract your accusations, madam. You have made me thoroughly ashamed of my behavior — a rarity, I assure you. Surely you would wish to make me grovel as long as possible.”

  “I have not retracted them,” Sarah said warily, for she felt herself being drawn to this devilishly charming side of him.

  Just as suddenly as it had appeared, his smile vanished. “May I escort you back to the house?” he asked, offering his arm. “The hunt will be over soon.”

  Sarah did not take it, but she did not object when he again fell into step beside her. “How is it that you did not go off with the others?” she asked politely, trying to fill the silence as they walked.

  “I do not hunt small animals,” he replied. “It is not worth even the little effort involved. I prefer bigger game.”

  “What sort of game, sir?”

  “The kind with two legs, Mrs. Trent.”

  Sarah eyed him in confusion. “I do not understand.”

  His lips thinned. “’Tis just as well, madam. I would not wish to unsettle you further.”

  ***

  “I declare, Justin, you are the plague of my old age.”

  Justin gave his aunt a wryly affectionate smile. Her hair had more grey in it than he remembered. “I suppose I must accept your characterization of me, Aunt. You, however, are far from old.”

  “Pish! Spare me your flattery.” But a pleased flush spread over Aunt Agatha’s features.

  “’Tis true. Any woman who can ride as you do is hardly doddering. You are a welcome addition to the field at any age.”

  And it was true. His aunt was fitter than half the men he knew. She was fond of brisk walks through the countryside in all sorts of weather, and her galloping rampages on her exceedingly frisky stallion were nigh legendary. Justin suspected anyone catching even a glimpse of Aunt Agatha on horseback, especially if she were pointed neck-for-leather toward a tall hedge, quickly turned and found another route.

  With a regal nod, his aunt accepted the compliment. “My neighbors have never objected to my hunting with them, although Horace continually warns me about the dangers. Poor man! Just because his wife fell off a horse and broke her neck does not mean that every female rider is so doomed. I have not fallen in years. We had a good run yesterday, Justin. Why did you not join us? You used to love a good hunt.”

  Justin sighed. As always, Aunt Agatha came to the point in her own inimitable fashion. He had had several such “chats” with his aunt since his arrival, although they had been the usual good-natured harangues about how it was past time he find a wife. This time, however, she wore a somber expression, even as she poured out the tea. He had the sense that he was about to learn why she had summoned him from London.

  “I have no interest in running a fox to ground at the moment, Aunt. More pressing matters command my attention.”

  “I hope you are not referring to Harry’s wife,” she said severely. “I understand the two of you were spotted yesterday walking in the meadow together. I have seen the way you look at her. I warn you, Justin, I shall not stand for your rakish ways here.”

  An unaccustomed warmth spread over his features. His aunt was alone in her singular ability to make him feel like a small boy again. She was right, of course. Since seeing Harry’s wife in that silly tent of a nightgown the other night, he had been unable to rid his mind of the image of her in more revealing bedclothes — or none at all. For the first time in his life he envied his cousin.

  In London, no one expected restraint of him — nor, he supposed, did he expect it of himself. No one looked askance at his dissolute behavior, nor imagined him anything other than a rogue and a scapegrace. Only he knew how hard he had worked to achieve his reputation, and to what end.

  Justin frowned. Perhaps he had allowed appearances to blur the edges of reality. Perhaps he had become that rogue in truth. Perhaps that was why he could not keep Harry’s wife from his mind. That scene outside her room had made him exceedingly curious about Harry’s relationship with her, and he had conveniently forgotten his rule not to seduce other men’s wives — unless the lady wished it, and a surprising number of them did. Obviously he had been making a cake of himself with Harry’s wife, however. The lady herself set him aright just yesterday. And now, his aunt.

  Justin sighed. “I have committed no impropriety with Mrs. Trent. It pains me to see how low your estimation of my honor has sunk.”

  “My estimation of your honor is as it always has been, Justin,” she replied sharply. “You have your own code in these matters, and I have yet to puzzle it out. I do know that you are not above angling for another man’s wife. Even in Cheshire, word of your activities reaches me.”

  He grimaced. “I am certain that any reports you have received are greatly exaggerated.”

  She took a sip of tea and regarded him over the rim of the cup. “You deny that you recently fought a duel with young Lord Greywood over his wife?”

  So this was the bee in Aunt Agatha’s bonnet. He might have known. He let her words go unanswered in the long silence that followed them.

  “I do not deny it,” he said at last.

  “His mother, Lady Evangeline Greywood, is a dear friend of mine, Justin.” Amid the reproach in her voice was an odd note, and Justin wondered whether his aunt knew the whole truth about her friend.

  “How could you do such a thing?” she added, more sharply. “To seduce Evangeline’s daughter-in-law, then nearly kill her son in a duel...”

  “I did not seduce her daughter-in-law,” he said coolly. “The lady has stra
yed before and will do so again. I merely happened to be there when she decided to wander.”

  “Do not insult my intelligence,” his aunt snapped.

  Anger surged through him. “This topic is entirely unsuitable, Aunt. And it is my affair alone.” He hesitated. He owed her more than that.

  “I did not intend to damage your friendship with the dowager countess,” he said. “It is not my intent to wound you.”

  Gnarled hands gripped the cup and saucer so fiercely that they rattled. “But that is my point, Justin.” Her faded blue eyes held his. “You do not think these things through. You cannot do just what you wish and then step back and disclaim all responsibility. People do get hurt. That is something I have learned in my life.”

  Justin forced himself to remain silent. God willing, his aunt would never know the whole of his scheming. There was no art so demanding as that of illusion.

  She shook her head. “I simply cannot reconcile your behavior with the sober and responsible lad who grew to manhood in my house. What did I do, Justin, to have failed you so?”

  Her voice trembled, which alarmed him. His aunt was not one to betray emotion. Justin moved instantly to her side.

  “Do not despair, Aunt,” he said. “Had you not taken me in, I daresay I would be in Newgate by now.” He gave her a bolstering smile, but she was not consoled.

  “I have not seen you so ... so unmoored since your parents’ deaths. First your father, then Arabella.” Her voice trailed off, and he knew she was thinking of those black days, the ones that had aged him beyond his years. “I know I was no substitute for my sister, but when you grew into a confident and diligent young man, I assumed you were content at least.”

  Content. Now that was a nice irony. That state was utterly foreign to him.

  “You must not blame yourself for my behavior,” he said gruffly. “You were father and mother to me, far more than I deserved.”

  But his aunt had the bit between her teeth, and it did not surprise him when she refused to let things be.

  “Reports reach me weekly of your outlandish activities,” she said sternly, setting her teacup aside. “Dueling, flaunting one mistress or another, seducing other men’s wives, drinking deeply at gaming hells...”

  “Your sources must be quite exhausted simply keeping track of my nefarious deeds,” he said dryly. In truth, none of the women he had escorted rather conspicuously around town had managed to hold his interest for more than a fortnight, or indeed were of any consequence. But he would not impart that detail to his aunt.

  “Indeed,” she said stiffly. “I have even heard rumors of illegitimate —”

  “Untrue,” he interjected swiftly. Bringing an unwanted Trent into the world — another unwanted Trent — was the last thing he wished to do.

  “This behavior is not like you,” she insisted. “Indeed, you are behaving just like your father. And look where it got him — an early grave.”

  His father. Now she had the nub of it. “Some believe my father deserved his death,” Justin said in a tight voice.

  Aunt Agatha’s face seemed to collapse. “Oscar was a wretched and tormented man, but he deserved to live. As did my sister — God bless her soul. But Arabella was ever off in her own world, and I blame myself for not realizing the extent of her misery.”

  Memories washed over him. His mother’s tear-stained face and the bruises that did not fade, her gently rounding stomach and its promise of new life. His father’s bloated features contorted with rage. A game that was not a game. If his mother had been off in her own world — and he could not dispute that, for she had often worn a faraway gaze — it was undoubtedly to escape the one she was in.

  A sigh, heavy and burdensome as a shroud, filled the air. For a moment, he thought it was his. Until his aunt spoke in the same heavy tones.

  “What’s done is done, Justin,” she said wearily. “You are twenty-eight years old. If your father were here, he would likely tell you that he regretted his behavior —”

  “I doubt that,” Justin put in.

  “— and that it is past time for you to put your dissolute ways behind you —”

  “And to set up my nursery,” he finished for her. Now they were on familiar, more manageable ground. “I have no time for such foolishness, Aunt. The future will take care of itself.”

  She threw her hands up in exasperation. “What torments you so, Justin? Have you gambled away your fortune? You know that everything I have will be yours and Harry’s. Your reputation can be restored, provided you change your behavior. All I need do is whisper a few words in the right ears and all will be put right again. I still have friends in town, you know.”

  Justin bent stiffly and kissed her cheek. “I appreciate your concern, Aunt, but I do not need your assistance.” Yet the truth weighed on him, along with the sorrow in her lined face. He hesitated, then added, “You ought not put so much faith in those reports.”

  Aunt Agatha dabbed her eyes, then quickly looked away, and he knew she was embarrassed by her momentary display of emotion. She eschewed sentiment and all displays of it, public or private. When next she met his gaze, she had herself under control. All trace of emotion had vanished. Her tone was matter-of-fact.

  “I do not truck with gossip, Justin, but one cannot ignore certain things that come to one’s attention.”

  “Promise me, Aunt, that you will believe nothing until you see the evidence with your own eyes. It is important that I have your word.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What is this about, Justin?”

  “Will you promise?”

  She sighed. “Very well.”

  “Good. That is settled.” Justin exhaled deeply, feeling the weight of his burden. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have things to attend to.”

  She frowned. “‘Pressing things,’ if I recall. But I still have no idea what they are. You say this does not concern her?”

  “Her?”

  “Sarah.”

  His face relaxed. “Of course not.”

  ***

  The house party was over, thank goodness. Sarah’s nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point. She could not wait to see her little rented room next to the Chester playhouse and to plunge back into her own life, where one learned one’s lines and delivered them and that was that. The company would soon move on to Shrewsbury. With luck, Rose would be wearying of Ophelia by then.

  With that buoying thought, Sarah gave Harry a cordial smile as he handed her into his carriage. Her goodbyes were said. Aunt Agatha had even unbent enough to allow Sarah to plant a kiss on her cheek. Sarah was certain the lady had suspected nothing, but that gave her no sense of triumph. From now on, she would confine her acting to the stage. There was no joy in this deceit.

  Lord Linton was another matter, however. Though he had been all that was proper since that day she encountered him in the woods, she could not escape the feeling that he was inordinately curious about her relationship with Harry. The man was as shrewd as he was handsome.

  With a sigh of relief, Sarah settled back against the squabs. She would soon be home, or what passed for it to an itinerant actress. She forced from her mind thoughts of the dear little house in Surrey that had been her family home.

  As the carriage rolled over the rutted road, the tension left her body. No longer did she have to carry on a civil conversation with Harry, and he did not seem to mind her silence. He said little, and within a few miles was snoring loudly. Sarah smiled. He really was not such a bad sort. She closed her eyes. Soon she, too, was asleep.

  She was still groggy when Harry deposited her at her door. “Another week and I shall be able to pay you,” he promised.

  “I shall depend upon it,” she said sternly as he set her little valise inside her room. The trunks containing the fine clothes he had provided her for the house party remained with the carriage. He would probably give them to a mistress, not that she cared. Harry’s concerns were no longer hers. She removed the opal ring from her left hand and
returned it to him.

  Putting it in his pocket, he made as if to leave. For a moment he looked at the floor. Then his gaze met hers. “Your performance was very good, Sarah,” he said sheepishly. “I am sorry to have been such a trial.”

  “Never mind, Harry. We are quits now.” She gave him a bracing smile. “At least we learned that we are not a good match, did we not?”

  “Quite.” He grinned. “But I still say you’ve got bottom.”

  Sarah sighed wearily. “Goodbye, Harry.”

  After he left, Sarah sank gratefully into a chair, suddenly beset by a persistent headache and even more persistent memories.

  No matter how she tried to control her thoughts, they were filled with images of a pair of intense grey eyes with the odd light that made her skin ripple in forbidden pleasure.

  Her reaction to him puzzled her. To be sure, Lord Linton was wickedly sure of himself and devastatingly skilled with the ladies. The other young ladies at the party hung on his every word, though she noticed that he wore a bored air in their company. Indeed, he had singled none of them out for his attention, as far as she could discern.

  His easy confidence and knowing charm ought to have been off-putting. Instead, Sarah found herself inexplicably drawn to him. She wondered whether he would be so sure of himself if he were courting a woman in earnest. Had he ever done so?

  Probably not. Lord Linton was not the sort to fall to Cupid’s arrow. Nor would he be in thrall to any woman. He would always be in control, always in charge. The world danced to his tune, and women were just partners in the dance. One woman was as good as another. If his eyes had studied her a bit longer than necessary, if his hand had lingered overlong at her waist, it was nothing to flatter herself about.

  Why was she dwelling on such things? To him she was Harry’s wife, not an eligible female. By the time Harry announced her unfortunate death to the world, Lord Linton would not even recall what she looked like. She would never see him again. That, surely, was for the best. A woman like her had no business mooning over a man like that. She might be a gentleman’s daughter, but she had put herself beyond the pale by taking to the stage. He would never see an actress as anything except a female to be used and discarded at the first sign of boredom.