A Passionate Performance

by Eileen Putman

  “Perhaps it is not fitting to dignify such a comment with a response,” Sarah said with as much frosty composure as she could manage, “but I must inform you, Miss Simms, that I am no one’s ‘light-o’love’ — certainly not Lord Linton’s.”

  Miss Simms’s thin, greying brows arched to the heavens. “Do you take me for an imbecile, girl? If anyone besides Clarissa believed that orphaned-American tale, I will eat my hat. Even Linton is capable of devising a better story than that.”

  Yes, Sarah thought, Lord Linton was capable of devising very good tales, but that was beside the point. Her immediate problem was to stop this woman from causing a ruckus over what they both knew to be a lie.

  “My parents are indeed deceased,” she said evenly. At least that much was true. “My nearest relative is away.” True enough — William was away at school. “Lord Linton is a family acquaintance” — an utter falsehood, unless her brief “marriage” to Harry made them family acquaintances.

  Sinking further even in her own estimation, Sarah plunged on. “Lord Linton is kindly endeavoring to find some suitable employment for me.” What Linton considered suitable and what the rest of polite society sanctioned were worlds apart, of course, she mentally amended.

  ”However, I am not so bereft that I would stoop to what you so uncharitably suggest,” she finished firmly.

  That was the truth also, although Sarah suspected she was only beginning to see the full shape of this role she had taken on. No matter. Miss Simms would have to fill in the rest with her imagination, for Sarah was not about to create a new set of lies. One tangled web was enough.

  “I see.” Miss Simms’s lips pursed thoughtfully. Evidently she decided that Sarah might be telling the truth. “Then perhaps,” she said in a tone that was only a bit less sharp, “you are merely a victim of your own ignorance. Perhaps you do not realize what sort of a monster Linton is.”

  “There is no need —” Sarah began, but the woman cut her off.

  “I realize that you cannot wish to hear evil of your protector, but you must understand that Lord Linton is truly an enemy to womankind. He is a rake and a debaucher, and he does not limit his activities to those loose women who brazenly invite such attention. He is a threat to those ignorant females who think that a rakish grin and twinkling blue eyes — ”

  “Grey,” Sarah corrected. “Lord Linton’s eyes are grey.”

  Miss Simms frowned at the interruption. “As I was saying, that sort of man has no qualms about seducing an innocent young woman —”

  “Lord Linton did not seduce me,” Sarah protested.

  “ — and leaving her to fend for herself, without a care for the reaction of her family, her friends, and every tradition and privilege she held dear.” Miss Simms crossed her arms and glared at Sarah. “He is just like his father.”

  Sarah fought for calm. “You assume too much, madam. You cannot possibly know the truth of these allegations.”

  Miss Simms waved a dismissive hand. “Linton has a reputation.”

  “A reputation, perhaps.” Sarah wondered why she felt the need to defend him. “But we do not know what is fact and what is not, do we? Is there someone you know who has personally suffered at the viscount’s hands? For I assure you, I myself have not.”

  Miss Simms shook her head sadly. “You do not even realize it, do you, girl? That you are his next victim. Like all of them, you fall prey to a pleasing countenance and those devastating periwinkle eyes. When will you realize that you are merely cooperating in your own victimization?”

  “Perhaps your vision is failing, Miss Simms,” Sarah said, “but Lord Linton’s eyes —”

  “I am afraid you must give it up, Miss Armistead,” said a masculine voice. “There are certain matters Harriet Simms does not see clearly. I, unfortunately, am one of them.”

  Sarah gave a start. The viscount stood at the edge of a bed of peonies, not ten feet away. She had not seen him since yesterday’s contretemps over his script. A day’s respite had not chased the militant look from that stony gaze.

  Rising abruptly, Miss Simms made as if to pass him by, but Lord Linton stepped neatly in front of her, blocking her escape.

  “Miss Armistead is my guest.” His tone brooked no argument. “I expect you to extend to her all of the courtesy such a position demands.”

  But Miss Simms was no hen-hearted spinster. “Do not think you can pull the wool over my eyes, Linton. I know well enough what she is to you.”

  “I weary of your insinuations,” he said coldly. “If they continue, I shall be forced to ask you to leave this house, my aunt notwithstanding.”

  “You will do no such thing,” Miss Simms retorted, though her eyes widened. “Clarissa would not allow it.”

  “No doubt Aunt Clarissa would be greatly disturbed should events call you away,” he agreed. “Since you are devoted to my aunt, I know you would not wish to have anything disturb her. I shall count on your conduct to prevent such a possibility.”

  Miss Simms’s lips pursed tightly. Sarah wondered at the hostility with which she regarded Lord Linton. There was a tension between them, and it seemed to be of some longstanding duration.

  Despite the woman’s harsh words, Sarah could not help but feel sympathy for her. She appeared to have no home of her own but was dependent on the goodwill and financial support of Miss Porter and, by inference, the viscount. Miss Simms’s fate might very well be hers someday, Sarah realized. That knowledge caused her to glare at Lord Linton as Miss Simms scurried past him, her bony shoulders stiff with anger.

  “You are very harsh, sir,” Sarah said.

  His grey gaze — how could Miss Simms have mistaken those eyes for blue? — met hers. “You would prefer that I allow her to insult you?”

  He paused. “Or could it be that her insinuations do not offend?”

  Sarah flushed. “Miss Simms was overset. I believe her lot in life is not an easy one.”

  “Harriet Simms lives a life of ease,” he corrected. “As my aunt’s companion she has every comfort, everything she wants.”

  “Except independence.”

  “What?” He looked puzzled.

  “Miss Simms has nothing of her own,” Sarah said. “She is quite obviously dependent upon Miss Porter for her livelihood. For some women, perhaps, that is quite acceptable. I do not imagine that Miss Simms is one of those women.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “She enjoys her position. She holds my aunt in great affection. She stays with her by choice, and has done so for many years.”

  “Even so, there are some things that affection cannot purchase.”

  He studied her for so long, Sarah shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “Are you one of those women?” he asked at last.

  “One of what women?” Sarah replied warily.

  His lips curved in a speculative smile. “One of those females who do not like being dependent upon others for their daily bread.”

  Sarah lifted her chin. “I am my own person, my lord. I have had to make my own way in the world. I do not expect you to understand what that means.”

  “Oh? Perhaps you can enlighten me.” His gaze was unreadable.

  “Certainly,” Sarah retorted. “It means living in the attic of a rowdy boardinghouse, sharing a bed with a woman who constantly reeks of spirits and snores like a farm animal.”

  His brows arched. “Inconvenient, to be sure, but —”

  “It also means subjecting oneself to the advances of every foxed male who enters the theater expecting to find fawning actresses eager for whatever favors this paragon of masculinity deigns to dispense. It means enduring leers and jeers from the pit and scorn from every well-dressed female in the house.”

  Sarah rose, clutching the papers in one hand. “In short, sir, it means making compromises. I do not expect you to understand. You have doubtless never had to make a single compromise in your cossetted life.”

  “You know very little of my life,” he said quietly.

  “That may be, but
you know even less of mine.” She turned away and took a step toward the house.

  “You are wrong. I know a great deal about you.”

  Sarah hesitated. Against her better judgment, she turned toward him.

  “You have spirit and fire.” His voice held an odd, reflective note. “That fire made Ophelia come alive on stage —”

  “Thank you, but —”

  “— not as a fragile martyr, but as a woman whose final, defiant response to her lover’s repudiation deprived him of a prize he’d once sought so ardently.”

  She eyed him in surprise. “You are mistaken. Shakespeare did not portray Ophelia as a rebel.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But you did. That is why your performance was so compelling.”

  “I —”

  “That is it, isn’t it?” he said softly. “You are a rebel. Through and through. That is why your Ophelia had fire. That is why you have not hired yourself out as a companion, as Miss Simms has done, as would any woman of genteel breeding who had come upon hard times.”

  Sarah was speechless. How had he read her so well? She likely would have found work as a companion if she had searched more diligently. Instead, she’d been drawn to the stage and had found there a family of sorts — not that she felt overly close to the other actors, for they were a ramshackle lot, very different from her own background. Yet they were all of them bound by circumstance and a love of the stage. Perhaps that was enough, for now. Given a choice between the theater and Harriet Simms’ fate, Sarah could only be grateful that she had managed to live by her own choices so far.

  He allowed the silence to stretch between them. Sarah found herself unable to answer. She had no wish to open herself to him, to let down her defenses. He had no right to ask that of her.

  “You have not had an easy time of it, have you?” he said at last.

  His eyes held no pity, and Sarah was glad of that.

  “My lot is no better nor worse than that of many women,” she said stiffly.

  “Women like Harriet Simms?”

  Sarah did not reply.

  “Harriet is no rebel,” he said. “She has a sharp tongue and a cross disposition, and she has taken me in dislike from the first moment she laid eyes on me, for reasons best known to her. Nevertheless, she would never put a bullet through my heart.” He paused. “Though I imagine she has thought about doing so.”

  “And I would?” Sarah asked, incredulous.

  Amusement flared in his eyes. “I believe you might. I shall have to remember to watch your aim at Lady Hogarth’s ball.”

  “That is nonsense.” But she was glad that he had lightened the atmosphere. “I have already told you what I think of such an implausible scenario. As a matter of fact —” Sarah thumbed quickly through the pages she held.

  “Ah. My dreadful script.” He sighed. “We are back to that again, are we?”

  Sarah met his gaze evenly. “Indeed.”

  It took her but a moment to find the page. “This scene, for example,” she said, showing it to him. “I would never wear dampened petticoats. As for draping myself around you like some doxy to compete with another woman, that is ridiculous. I would not do such a thing.”

  “You continue to forget, Miss Armistead, that the issue is not how you would conduct yourself. This is a role — that of my mistress. I cannot fathom why you are having such difficulty accepting that.”

  “I accept it well enough, my lord. But, quite simply, her behavior here is not plausible. A mistress of yours would not be so...coarse.”

  His brows rose. “Your continued interest in the type of mistress I require is most flattering.”

  Sarah flushed. “Any mistress worth her salt would have more sense than to risk death in soggy muslin and create a scandal by throwing herself over you like a tablecloth.”

  “You seem to think I have little understanding of a woman’s nature, Miss Armistead.”

  “I merely suggest that you are seeing from a man’s eyes, Lord Linton. You do not see what a woman sees. You do not know a woman’s world.”

  That seemed to give him pause, as well it might, Sarah thought, for a rake like Lord Linton surely considered himself an expert on all things pertaining to the female gender.

  “Perhaps you are correct,” he said after a moment.

  “I — what?” She looked at him in surprise.

  “I have recently been accused of not seeing certain matters properly,” he said in a musing tone. “Perhaps you can help me rectify that.”

  “I do not understand.”

  He studied her. “I might consider rewriting certain portions of my script — providing you assist me.”

  Sarah shook her head. “I am not a writer.”

  “But you are a woman. It is settled. We will begin this afternoon. In my library, while the ladies are napping.”

  “But — ”

  “I will brook no objection.” He eyed her sternly. “You have persuaded me that I need a woman’s perspective, and so you shall provide it.”

  “I can hardly speak for all women,” Sarah protested.

  “You condemn me for not seeing things from a woman’s point of view, then cavil at showing me. You cannot have it both ways, Miss Armistead.”

  Realizing she had walked into a trap, Sarah sighed. “Very well. What is it you require, my lord?”

  “Oh, it is quite simple.” His mouth curved upward. “You will show me how a real woman fights for her lover.”

  ***

  A mistress should not have freckles. That was Justin’s first thought as he watched Sarah Armistead sail into his library and seat herself in a green leather wingback chair that brought out the brilliant emerald of her eyes. Unlike many women, who used powder to whiten their skin, she did not try to hide the freckles that danced over her pert nose and sprawled merrily over slightly flushed cheeks. Her auburn hair was pulled artlessly back from her face — thankfully, this role required no ugly lace cap. A few errant tendrils had escaped the combs to display her features with the richness of a costly frame on one of Turner’s landscapes. Turner was especially good with sunlight, and that is what Miss Armistead looked like in a frock of yellow jonquil and a matching shawl that perfectly complemented her coloring.

  A sunbeam. What an appalling metaphor. Entirely inappropriate for the serious business at hand. He must have taken leave of his senses.

  Eyeing him, she sat primly erect in the chair, her chin tilted upward in that defiant manner he was coming to know quite well. The woman had entirely too much spirit for someone in her position. A militant spark in her eyes bespoke a stubborn wariness. And yet, he had also seen within those green depths an appealing openness entirely at odds with the duplicitous game they were about. Indeed, with that freckled nose, honest gaze, and artless hairstyle, Miss Armistead projected a thoroughly wholesome look.

  An illusion, of course.

  No one was more skilled at manipulating her image than an actress, and Miss Armistead was an extraordinarily good one. Unfortunately, she was also a most troublesome one, with the unbridled temerity to criticize the way he had written her part. And yet, a nagging question had niggled at him.

  What if she were correct? Her knowledge of drama — and, yes, of females — was worth considering, especially if it could prevent a mistake that would jeopardize his plan.

  “Let us begin at the party scene,” he said, “where you encounter my latest flirt. The woman competing with you for my, er, affections.”

  She blushed slightly, but waited for him to continue.

  “What is wrong with the way I have envisioned your actions, other than the excessive ‘draping’ of your person over mine that you have already noted?”

  Her freckles almost disappeared in the deepening flush that spread prettily over her face. She cleared her throat. “The nibbling.”

  He frowned. “Nibbling?”

  She pulled out a page from the sheaf she held lightly in her lap. “See, it is here.” She pointed to a line and read: “�
�Mistress applies kiss to Linton ear. As if sampling pastry.’”

  She looked up at him. “No decent woman — even your mistress — would nibble at a man’s ear in public.”

  “I am obliged to point out that my script does not use the word ‘nibble,’” he said.

  She arched a brow. “It is nibbling, nevertheless.”

  “’Tis for obvious purpose,” he insisted. “You are demonstrating to the other woman your prior claim and pointedly reminding me of our shared carnal delights.”

  Her face deep scarlet, she again cleared her throat. “It is far too brazen. Perhaps your mistress could accomplish the same thing by lightly touching your arm and sending you a knowing gaze. That would convey a prior claim without having her behave like a strumpet.”

  Justin scoffed. “You expect a man to respond to such subtlety? A light touch on the arm hardly evokes the far more personal intimacies one enjoys with a mistress.”

  It was fascinating, he thought suddenly, the way those freckles kept appearing and disappearing amid her blushes. For a woman of Miss Armistead’s background and experience, her embarrassment was something of a wonder. Unless, of course, it was all an act.

  “On the contrary, my lord,” she said stiffly. “I rather imagine that the merest touch from a woman you loved would be sufficient to kindle the, ah, spirit of desire.”

  Justin waved his hand impatiently. “Who said anything about love? This is a relationship based on carnal instinct. You confuse one with the other. Perhaps that is your difficulty with this scene. Let me say it plainly, Miss Armistead: You are playing the part of my mistress, a woman I bed. You are not playing the part of a woman I love.”

  “I am aware of the distinction.” She leveled a gaze at him, though again that telltale flush betrayed her apparent embarrassment. “But you have written this too broadly. The intensity of the scene will come from the undercurrents between the characters, demonstrated by subtle cues, not by any coarse actions that would brand your mistress as a common harlot.”