by Amy Jarecki
A furrow formed between those black eyebrows. “I will have a word with her first.”
“Do you think it best?”
“It would be the proper thing to do. Allow her to explain how you might have come into possession of the miniature.”
“What if she lies?”
“Then she is a lesser person than I believe her to be.”
“Me as well.” Now that the throbbing in her wrist had eased, Bria plucked a daisy and began pulling out the petals. “Ever since I met Her Ladyship at the soiree, I thought her gracious, perhaps more so after the incident with the wine.”
“Well then, neither of us care to see her hurt.”
“Definitely not. I only want a private audience with her. Once. We never have to discuss the issue again. After which, my lips will be forever sealed.”
“I hope she is willing to talk.”
“I pray she is.”
Scraping her teeth over her bottom lip, the sound of laughter turned Bria’s attention to a pond. Three children played with wooden boats—a girl dressed in yellow with lacy pantaloons peeking beneath her hem. Bria guessed the boys with the lass were her brothers. One taller and one shorter.
Using sapling limbs, they pushed their boats as they skipped along the shore.
When the girl inched up and took the lead, the larger boy pushed her out of the way and jumped ahead. Bria straightened, about to spring to her feet when the girl clonked her brother on the backside with her stick and ran for the finish line.
“I won, I won!” she hollered, jumping up and down.
“She reminds me of Ada,” said Drake, a distant glint in his eye.
“It must have been fun to have a sister.”
“She was a vixen.”
“But I’ll wager she loved you.”
“Aye.” He snorted thoughtfully. “She did—still does.”
Bria watched as the children squealed, now playing an impromptu game of tag. “I’d like to have a family of my own one day.”
Drake plucked one of the daisies and brushed the petals along her jaw. “And give away your life on the stage?”
“Not today, mind you.” She shivered at the light touch. How could she remain angry with him when he had done so much for her? “But yes. In a heartbeat, I’d give it all away to have children, a husband, perhaps live in a provincial cottage.”
“Every time we are together, something new about you amazes me.”
“I wouldn’t think a girl expressing her desire to have a family would be astonishing to you in the slightest. Isn’t the marriage mart full of such women?”
“None like you.”
Bria plucked Drake’s daisy from his fingers and twirled it. She guessed there were fewer men like Ravenscar. And yet, she harbored no doubt that he was as attracted to her as she to him.
Why not allow herself an affair—an interlude? She was nearly twenty years of age. What was she saving herself for if not someone she loved?
Out of the corner of her eye, she examined her duke. Who would have thought a man as powerful as he would sit in the grass beside a dancer and speak with her as if she were a confidant? With his arms across his knees, he might look like a normal fellow, aside from his neckcloth perfectly tied in an Oriental knot, the exquisite cut of his coat, silk waistcoat, not to mention gleaming Hessian boots topping off his traveling buckskins. One look at Ravenscar and anyone within miles knew he was a member of the aristocracy.
But right now, sitting beside her, caring about how to approach the baroness, Bria saw him not as a duke, but as a dear friend. He’d hitched up his carriage and took her to Brighton just to ask Her Grace if she could identify Bria’s mystery mother...woman...relative. Whatever role Baroness Calthorpe ended up playing in all this, it was a relief to know, at long last, Britannia could put a name to the lovely face in the miniature.
She placed her hand atop His Grace’s. “Thank you. You have been generous and kind and I am truly grateful.”
He smiled, a faraway look in his eye. “You must know, regardless of your worth to Chadwick Theater, I would have willingly brought you to Brighton.”
“But...”
He took her hand, closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her skin. Soft, moist, warm, and filled with intense and unspoken emotion. “There is something I need to ask. But I do not want you to misunderstand.”
“What is it?”
“You have been very clear about maintaining your virtue.”
She bit her lip, her stomach squeezing. “I have and—”
He held up his palm. “Please allow me to continue.”
“Very well.”
“I’m not going to profess that I haven’t had impure thoughts. All men have them. But I will always honor your wishes whatever they may be. Just help me to understand: When so many women as well as men in your profession take lovers, especially the French, why are you so averse to it?”
“Do you have all afternoon? Because it will take some time for me to explain.”
“I have as long as you need. Please. Humor me.”
“First of all, you may remember I was raised in a nice manor in a good Catholic home.”
“Catholic?”
“Oui. I had my first communion before Monsieur and Madame LeClair perished and, when I was turned out, I swore I would always honor them for the love they showed me.”
“Respect for the dead. That is justification enough.”
“But it is far from the only reason.”
“Go on.”
“I need to be true to myself, my dreams.”
“But you have already achieved far more than most dancers could ever hope to.”
“You do not understand. Not at all.”
“Then help me.”
“Monsieur Marchand nearly turned me away.”
“When?”
“After I left Bayeux, the Paris Opera Ballet was the only place I could think of to go. I know I mentioned that Maman had been in the corps de ballet.”
“Yes.”
“When I arrived in Paris I waited outside Monsieur Marchand’s studio for hours before he granted me an audience. When I explained about Maman—Sarah Parker was her maiden name—he laughed at me. ‘So now you think to follow in her footsteps?’ And then he pointed to the door. ‘We only take the elite. Children who have been born to the master performers or who show uncanny ability. Mademoiselle Parker was merely a member of the corps. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.’”
“You must have been frantic,” Ravenscar said, rubbing her hand and kissing it.
She squeezed his fingers as she continued, “I was ready to drop to my knees and beg, but I blinked away my tears, squared my shoulders, and insisted he watch me dance.”
He brushed a wisp of hair away from Bria’s face. “And he thought you were brilliant, just as I did.”
“Not exactly. Marchand even tried to grab me. But I twirled away and danced a passage from a scene in the opera Nina, ou La Folle par Amour, one I’d perfected, a part Maman had thought was stunning.”
Drake chuckled. “I’d wager she was right.”
“I don’t know about that. Monsieur Marchand began to object, but before he could stop me I executed an entrechat cinq, a jump only ever performed by a danseur...that’s when he asked my age.”
“You showed him, did you not?”
“No, he told me fourteen was far too old, I needed polish, and I would never be a ballerina.”
“The uncompromising mule. I knew I didn’t like the man from the outset.” He slammed his fist into his palm. “So, how did you convince him to give you a chance?”
“After a fair bit of groveling and pleading, he gave me a challenging combination—one I believe was meant to confound me.”
“Nothing could confound you.”
“Right.” Bria couldn’t hold in a laugh. “And when Monsieur Marchand saw how quickly I learned, he gave me a month to prove I was worthy of becoming his student.”
“I’ll wag
er you didn’t look back after that.”
“The journey was never easy. Remember when you asked about my pedigree?”
“How could I forget?” The dashing duke hung his head. “My moment of shame.”
“I wouldn’t say that, but you were right. Everyone at the school has one but me. Most have famous parents. Many are wealthy. I had neither parents nor wealth. Dance became my master, the only consistent thing in my life.”
“And you feel you must remain true to your art?”
“I do. Dance was my first love. There were times when it was the only thing standing between me and utter misery. You cannot know what it is like to watch your schoolmates join their families for the holidays while you stay in the cold and silent corridors, alone with nothing to do but practice.”
“That must have been awful for you.”
She shrugged. “At least I had a roof over my head, which is a lot more than many foundlings can claim. But I digress.” The rest was so painful, Bria couldn’t look him in the eye. “From fourteen to eighteen I was scorned for being different. Teased, of course. And dance remained the only consistent thing in my life. I watched the others more than they thought I did. As time passed I observed as they became distracted by wealthy men who promised to take care of them and, in time, they lost sight of what was truly important.”
“Dance?”
“Yes. Ballet, the theater, the body’s movement as a form of art.”
He tapped his pointer finger on her hand. “That’s why you dance with more passion than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ll admit, performing is in my soul. I cannot walk away from it, just like being a duke is your duty.”
“Perhaps to you they are the same, but I may be more trapped by my station than you are by yours.”
“I don’t understand. Have you not heard me?”
“I have, and I respect your dedication. But, let’s say you were offered another position—say a—”
“Patroness of an elite ballet school?”
“Excellent, let’s go with that, and you decided to leave the stage—perhaps you are getting on in years and you decide it is time for a change.”
“But I would still be involved in ballet.”
“True, though your role would change, would it not?”
“It would.”
“You see, my role cannot change. I am a duke and, as such, there are responsibilities and expectations I must shoulder for the rest of my days.”
“You must produce an heir.”
“Yes, but not only must I sire gently-bred children, I must provide shelter, wages and meaningful work for the people in my care. I am expected to behave like a duke with my every breath. I must sit in the House of Lords, support the king, maintain my lands and my fortune so there will be a legacy for my heir.”
“What would you do if you didn’t give birth to an heir? Doesn’t that happen all the time?”
“It does.” He picked up her hand and laced his fingers through hers. “Either a couple has only female children or the woman in barren.”
She liked to have him hold her hand and with their fingers woven, it was more intimate. “What then?”
He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed. “The estate passes to the next in line or the title could become extinct.”
Watching his lips, she longed to be back in the carriage where they’d kissed unabashedly for hours. “If you were to perish on the morrow, who would inherit?”
“My nephew. Fortunately, Ada has a son. He’s only three.”
Bria smiled. “I’d like to meet him someday. Children are so dear.”
“They are.” He released her hand and gave it a pat. “But earlier you said you would give it all away for a family.”
Bria’s cheeks burned. Before today, she had never spoken the words aloud, but in her deepest heart of hearts, she wanted a brood of her own. Heaps of children to love and hold. To nurture and cherish. “I don’t always want to spend my holidays alone.”
“Then, you plan to marry.”
“Alors, I know I will not always be young and spry enough to perform. One day I hope to.”
“Then I am already jealous of that lucky man.” Drake stood and offered his hand. “Come. Let us go back to the house. My mother owes you an apology.”
Bria let him pull her up but once she was on her feet, she dug in her heels. “I don’t want to go back there.”
Looking away, Drake rubbed his chin. “I suppose I’m not too fond of the idea either. Especially with Mr. Peters loitering about.”
“’Tis a shame the roles aren’t reversed.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“If you were an elderly widowed duke, and I was a wealthy ballet patroness of some sort and Her Grace young and not yet wed, then we could enjoy each other’s company without all of society being outraged by our every move.”
“Perhaps that’s why I like you so much. You have such a pragmatic way of looking at things.” Drake offered his elbow. “If you are averse to staying under the same roof with Her Grace, our only option is to find a suite of rooms at one of Brighton’s hotels. It is too late to start back to London now. There are, however, many nice places near the shore.”
“But won’t people know you at those places?”
“Indeed they will.”
“What will they think if you book rooms for the pair of us?”
“If I book two rooms, I doubt my reputation will be sullied.” He grinned. “I cannot speak for yours however.”
She gave his arm a thwack. “It is not fair that men can carouse all they want while women are held to an entirely different set of standards.”
“At least you’re not being paraded before polite society every Season looking for a husband. I say, I respect you far more for making your own way while holding on to your principles. It is not easy to do with temptation loitering around every corner.”
“Though I do like kissing you, Duke.”
“I shouldn’t be, but I’m awfully glad to hear it.” He gestured to the footpath. “Shall we?”
Chapter Twenty-One
SITTING IN FRONT OF the hearth in the king’s chamber of the Royal York Hotel, Drake sipped his brandy while he stared at the forbidden door. The portal leading to Miss LeClair’s bedchamber. The place where he ought to be sleeping if it weren’t for Britannia’s presence within. But she’d been rather insistent and if Drake had learned anything, it was to be selective about choosing his battles where she was concerned. If she wanted to stay in the smaller chamber, then so be it. Besides, since it had grown dark, the lovely view of Stein Gardens out the bay window no longer mattered.
He’d sent his apologies to his mother but, honestly, this arrangement was for the best. He couldn’t bear to stay under the same roof when Mr. Peters was having his way with Her Grace.
Drake shuddered.
For the love of God, had Mother mentioned her loneliness sooner, he would have endeavored to find her a suitable companion and husband—a man worthy of her affections. He didn’t know Mr. Peters well, but in no way could the gunsmith be good enough for Her Grace.
Faint noises came from the adjoining room—footsteps followed by a brushing sound. Drake’s ears piqued.
She’s rehearsing.
The sounds of rhythmic movement continued while he closed his eyes and pictured his nymphet. That’s what Britannia had become to him—a very attractive and alluring young woman. Plié, tendu, frappe, rond de jambe. He knew the names of many ballet steps and could execute them, but Britannia made every movement appear effortless as if she’d been born with the grace of a feline—the beauty of a goddess. She did not only execute the steps, she breathed life into them, became one with her surroundings and turned dance into an art. They could be standing on a footpath and, with a gesture of her arm, a dreary day became bright; melancholy melted into joy.
Was the nymph practicing in her gown or in her shift? Were her ankles bare? Drake rubbed the pads of his fingers
along the velvet upholstery on his seat. Earlier that very day, he’d savored the silkiness of her slender ankles, the suppleness of her calf, and, heaven help him, her glorious, muscular thighs. Thighs he’d craved to have wrapped around him every time he’d watched her dance. Thighs he glimpsed ever so fleetingly when on stage the Sylph would leap or kick or raise her leg in arabesque.
A loud bang followed by a high-pitched gasp made Drake jolt to his feet. In two steps he barreled through the door. “Brit—”
She stood beside a chair, a sheen of perspiration glistening while her breasts rose and fell with her deep breaths. “It fell.”
“Huh?” he asked dumbly. Staring. The woman wore nothing but a silk chemise.
“The chair. I’m sorry, did I startle you?”
“No. Er, yes. I thought you might have taken a tumble.” Unable to help himself, Drake’s gaze meandered lower. The faint shadow of her nipples teased him from beneath the sheer white fabric. Though the garment was shapeless, it couldn’t hide Britannia’s figure. At his sides, he stretched his fingers, longing to wrap them around her waist, slowly sliding them down the trim arc of her hips.
On a delicate, stockinged foot, Britannia stepped nearer. “It has been a long day. I’m surprised to see you’re still awake.”
Did she have any idea how alluring she sounded? If he reached out, he could grasp her hand and tug her closer, wrap her in his arms and kiss her, potently aware the bed was only paces away.
She took another step, beguiling him further. “Forgive me, Your Grace. Though the hour is late, I mustn’t overlook proper courtesy.”
“Alone, we have no need of convention, you and I,” he rasped.
Near enough to embrace, she placed her palm over his heart. “I wish it were so.”
His heart hammered against the coolness of her fingers, yet Drake was fevered with desire. Every part of his body was rigid, ready for a night of passion, everything but his boneless knees. With whisky eyes, she gazed up at him, her bow-shaped lips shining like cherries in the lamplight.
“Britannia,” he hoarsely whispered. “I want you.”
As if his words became a hypnotic elixir, she slid her fingers around his waist and raised her chin. “I do, too. I crave you.”