“It sounds as though she’s had a difficult life,” said Rachel.
Mr. Jackson looked into his cup. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I suppose she has.”
He held the silence for a moment, then looked up at her. “The theater,” he blurted. “Do you like it?”
“The theater? I—” Rachel hesitated. Her only experiences of theater were the impromptu bawdy shows that burst into the White Lion late at night and a handful of plays she had attended on clients’ arms. The nights usually ended with quick, cursory applause before she was hauled off to some seedy Covent Garden hotel.
But she found herself saying: “I enjoy the theater, yes.”
Mr. Jackson hesitated, as though suddenly unsure of himself. “I should like to thank you properly,” he said. “For your help tonight. I’m sure…I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant.”
Rachel managed a crooked smile.
“Will you join me at the theater tomorrow night? Julius Caesar at the Theater Royal?”
Rachel paused. For a moment, she saw herself walking up the theater stairs on the Marquess’ arm, dressed in silks and a fine lace bonnet. Saw herself sitting beside him on plush velvet seats, fluttering a fan and clapping politely.
She shoved the thought away. What was she thinking? She was not that woman. She never would be. She was a woman who missed the final curtain call to service a man beside the stage door.
“I’ve no chaperone,” she said.
He gave a light shrug. “Does that bother you?”
Rachel hesitated. “I thought perhaps it may bother you.”
“No,” he said firmly. “It doesn’t bother me at all.”
She felt her heart beginning to thud. “Ain’t you embarrassed to be seen in such a place with a woman like me?”
He looked into her eyes with a sudden intensity. For a moment, neither of them spoke. “Tomorrow night,” he said finally. “I will have a coach come for you. Be ready by six.”
* * *
Ernest left Rachel’s tenement with his heart knocking against his ribs.
What have I done?
He couldn’t take Rachel Bell to the theater. What if someone were to see them? What if word got back to his father?
He had been so filled with gratitude for all she had done for him, had been so eager to show his thanks, that he had blurted the invitation out without thinking.
But he knew it was a mistake.
A sizeable one.
If he were seen in the company of a woman outside the nobility, it would be the greatest of scandals. He would have to go back to Rachel’s apartment and tell her he had made a mistake. Bestow her with apologies and suggest they spend the night drinking in the White Lion instead…
Ernest stopped walking. He felt strangely reluctant to move. If he were to go back to Rachel and renege on his invitation, what would that tell her?
You’re not worthy. You’re not good enough.
He couldn’t bear to have her think such things.
And then there was the other issue. The fact that, when Rachel had accepted his invitation, his heart had leaped in his chest in a way he had never felt before.
For the past three years, he had felt trapped in this monotonous, mind-numbing existence. He could barely remember feeling anything more than dull flickers of emotion. Obligatory smiles and forced laughter.
But Rachel Bell had his heart leaping in his chest. He was excited at the thought of spending the evening with her.
He longed to spend the evening with her.
Ernest dug his hands into his pockets and kept walking. He was heading back toward Pimlico, he realized. Away from Rachel’s tenement.
I’m doing this. I’m actually doing this.
Tomorrow night, he would venture to the theater with Rachel Bell on his arm. Perhaps they would be seen. Perhaps word would get back to his father and Ernest would be forced to explain himself to the Duke. But the nagging fear of such a thing happening was pushed out by his excitement at spending a whole evening in Rachel’s company.
He would walk with her proudly on his arm. Let her know she was worthy. Let her know she was good enough.
Let her know she is far better than just ‘good enough.’
He drew in a long breath, his heart thudding with a heady mixture of nerves and excitement.
I’m doing this, he told himself again. And he felt a smile creeping across his face at the thought.
* * *
Rachel made her way to Betsey’s bakery, jittery and sleepless. After Mr. Jackson had left, she had lain awake on her sleeping pallet and stared at the ceiling until dawn.
She was glad for the warm spring morning. The feeling that she was being watched had not gone away, but the sun flooding the streets took away a little of her unease.
“I’ve been invited to the theater,” she told Betsey. “By a Marquess.”
Betsey lifted an eyebrow, wiping her floury hands on her apron. “You have raised your standards. Hope he’s paying you well for the privilege.”
“No.” Rachel wound a coil of hair around her finger. “I’ve not been invited as an escort. I’ve been invited as a…a…” She hesitated. “I don’t know exactly. But I’ve been asked, nonetheless.”
Betsey’s eyes were wide and expectant. “Is this the man who’s been asking you about his sister?”
Rachel nodded.
Betsey made a noise from the back of her throat. She opened the oven and pulled out a tray of loaves, their aroma flooding the tiny shop. Rachel felt her mouth begin to water. She longingly watched as Betsey moved the loaves to the cooling racks. She turned and jabbed a finger in Rachel’s direction.
“Thought I told you to be careful. I told you to stay away from him.”
Rachel let out an enormous sigh. “I know. And I tried. Truly. But…”
But I’ve not stopped thinking of him since the moment we met…
“He came back the tavern,” she told Betsey. “Asked for my help again.”
“And did you help him like he asked?”
Rachel nodded.
“And did you stop to think that maybe that’s what he’s after? Your help and nothing more?”
Rachel bristled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, did you stop to think that maybe he’s just using you and your talents to get the information he’s after?”
Rachel felt something turn over in her stomach.
No. That’s not true. He’s not using me.
“He wants to take me out to thank me,” she said indignantly.
Betsey narrowed her eyes. “Something ain’t right about this. Marquesses don’t just go around taking women like us to the theater.”
“Women like us? You mean escorts?”
The corner of Betsey’s lips turned up. “I’m a baker.” She grabbed a bread roll from beneath the counter and tossed it to Rachel.
She took an enormous bite. “I know you’re right,” she said, chewing. “Believe, me I know. But there’s something different about him. He’s not like any man I ever met before.”
“Oh, Rachel.” Betsey looked at her with pity in her eyes. “You’ve gone and fallen for the man, haven’t you. You’re a damn fool.”
Yes. I’m a damn fool indeed.
Betsey shook her head firmly. “You can’t go to the theater with him. And that’s that.”
Rachel’s eyebrows shot up. “I can,” she said. “And I will.”
Betsey planted her hands on her hips. “And where do you imagine this is going to lead? What do you imagine he’ll do with you at the end of the night? Whisk you off to his grand manor house and make you his bride?” She snorted. “Not likely.” Her voice softened slightly. “You’re nothing but a little entertainment for him, Rachel. I’m sorry to be the one to say it, but you need to hear it. He’ll take what he needs from you, then cast you aside. What else can possibly come of it?”
Rachel lowered her eyes.
I’m not just a little entertainment for him. I’m sure of it. I’v
e seen the way he looks at me.
“I’m going,” Rachel said defiantly, “and that’s all there is to it.”
Betsey snorted. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And don’t speak with your mouth full.”
Chapter 23
Ernest had his driver pull up the coach as they arrived in Bishopsgate.
“Wait here,” he instructed, climbing from the carriage. He made his way across the street toward Saint Helen’s Church, where he and Rachel had arranged to meet.
He found her waiting in front of the stone arches, looking from side to side into the street. She was wearing a simple blue woolen gown and cloak, her blonde hair pinned neatly beneath her bonnet. She was completely devoid of the feathers and finery he was used to seeing on women.
How lovely she looks.
“Good evening, Miss Bell.”
She started, pressing a hand to her chest. “Forgive me, Mr. Jackson. You startled me.”
Ernest thought back to the night at the White Lion when she had insisted they hide away upstairs.
He frowned. “Is everything all right? You seem on edge.”
Rachel glanced over her shoulder again, before flashing him a quick smile. “No. Everything is fine,” she said, a little too brightly. “Everything is wonderful.”
She’s nervous. So am I.
He offered her his arm. “Shall we? My coach is waiting at the end of the street.”
She slid her slender fingers around his elbow and walked close beside him. Ernest caught the faint scent of rose water. His mouth felt suddenly dry.
As they approached the carriage, his driver pulled open the door and offered Rachel his hand. Ernest followed her into the coach, sitting close beside her on the velvet-lined bench.
They began to clatter through the streets. Ernest could feel the warmth of her body beside him, and it made his heart quicken. He found himself churning through potential topics of conversation. Sweat prickled beneath his collar.
He’d never struggled for conversation around Rachel before. When they had been in the White Lion, their discussions had flowed freely and easily. But now he was trying to bring her into his world, he felt utterly unsure of himself.
Ought I speak about the play? Or perhaps tell her about the horse that’s pulling the carriage?
Each topic of conversation felt pompous and forced.
“Fine weather tonight,” he said finally, cursing himself the moment the words were out of his mouth.
Rachel gave a sudden laugh. “Is that what the done thing is, Mr. Jackson? To speak of the weather on the way to the theater?”
He managed a smile. “It’s always the done thing,” he told her. “Speak of the weather and you can never offend someone.”
Rachel nodded. “I see. Much safer than discussing the virility of the Baron of Clement. Or lack thereof.”
Ernest burst out laughing, the tension between them suddenly dissipating. What had he been thinking, making small talk with her about the weather? Rachel Bell was far better than small talk.
He suddenly questioned his bringing her here. Rachel was his escape from the stiffness and etiquette of the upper class. Why destroy a night with her by thrusting her among these people?
“You know,” he said, “we don’t have to go to the theater. We could…well, we could go anywhere we wished.”
Rachel looked out the window. They were approaching the west end, and the streets were filled with finely-dressed men and women milling about the theaters.
“Are you embarrassed to take me here?” she asked suddenly.
“Embarrassed? No. Of course not. I—”
She pressed a gloved hand over his, silencing him. “Then take me to the theater.”
The coach rolled to a stop, and Ernest’s driver opened the door for them. Rachel climbed out carefully, smoothing her skirts and looking about her at the sea of people.
Ernest watched a look of uncertainty settle over her face. She drew in a long breath.
Was it the fact that she was here with him that was making her so edgy, he wondered? Had he been too forward? He had only wanted to spend some time with her. He had only wanted to show her an enjoyable night. The last thing he had wanted was to make her uncomfortable.
He was suddenly aware that the ladies around them were dressed in lavish silk gowns, their hair glittering with combs of diamonds and pearls. Their skirts were full, their bodices elaborately decorated. Ernest had never thought anything of it. The women he had been around had always been dressed in silk and lace. He had always thought such frippery unnecessary. Dressed in her simple woolen skirts, Rachel Bell was far more beautiful than any of the other women. Far more striking.
But did she see it that way? Or was she comparing herself to these ladies who had draped themselves in silk and satin? Ernest felt suddenly ill.
His thoughts were pushed out suddenly by Rachel’s soft hand against his arm. “Let’s go inside,” she said. Her voice was husky and low.
Ernest covered her gloved hand with his and led her into the theater. The audience was filing in quickly, and the place was a sea of chatter and gentle laughter. He could hear the orchestra tuning up from inside the pit.
He watched Rachel’s eyes widen as she took in the red velvet curtains and elaborately decorated boxes. Ernest had been inside the Theater Royal many times, yet he felt as though he was seeing the place for the first time. How often had he walked past those exquisite boxes and never noticed them? How often had he seen the beautiful carvings above the stage and paid them no attention? With Rachel on his arm, he felt as though he was seeing the world through fresh eyes.
He guided her up the stairs and into in one of the small boxes above the stage. Gestured for her to sit.
“Oh,” said Rachel, perching on the edge of one of the two chairs. “Is this it?” She nodded toward the large, gilded royal box. “I was hoping we might be sitting in there.”
Ernest opened his mouth to speak, then caught the playful shine in her eyes. She began to giggle, making him laugh too.
“Just imagine the scandal,” he said, “if a lowly marquess were to sneak into the royal box.”
Rachel laughed. “With an escort on his arm, no less.”
Ernest let out a loud chuckle. And then the thought came to him.
Real laughter.
This was not a forced, obligatory chuckling. He felt a lightness inside him; he hadn’t felt for longer than he could remember.
He glanced sideways at Rachel. She was biting her lip to control her giggling, her blue eyes alight as she looked around the theater.
And for a second, Ernest let himself imagine it. A life of waking up beside Rachel Bell each morning. A life of real laughter and sharp, quick-witted conversations.
He longed for it.
He longed for her.
Darkness fell over the theater. Without the thought entering his head, Ernest reached over and plucked Rachel’s hand from her lap, gently sliding his fingers between hers.
* * *
The curtain rose to a smattering of applause. Rachel couldn’t concentrate. All she could focus on was the feel of his hand in hers.
She was still wearing her embroidered woolen gloves. All the other women had been wearing gloves of silk and satin, and Rachel had not wanted to be the only woman in the theater brazen enough to show her hands.
She wished she had taken them off. Wished she could feel Mr. Jackson’s skin against her own.
Their clasped hands were resting on the arm of the chair between them. They were alone here in the box, hidden in the dark. And yet sitting here with a marquess’ hand in hers felt like the greatest of scandals. Rachel glanced out at the finely-dressed ladies in the box opposite them. It felt like they were watching her. Judging. It felt as though they knew everything.
A faint smile turned her lips.
Yes, just look at me. Here I am in a working girl’s skirt and foolish woolen gloves. Here I am with a nobleman’s hand in mine. Here I am taking up a seat inten
ded for a lady with diamonds in her hair.
She smiled to herself. Taking up a seat intended for a diamond-studded lady was a most enjoyable thing. Especially when that seat was beside Mr. Ernest Jackson.
Before she knew what she was doing, she had lifted their clasped hands from the arm of the chair and settled them on his thigh. She could feel him trying to catch her eye, but she kept her gaze straight ahead, watching the actors and they strode around the stage.
A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 13