Suddenly, violently embarrassed, Lavinia buried her face in Robert’s chest. His hands smoothed gently over her hair, quieting her, his murmur in her ear calming the storm that raged inside her.
‘Don’t be ashamed. Never be ashamed.’ He kissed her cheeks, keeping her close. ‘In the meantime, I’m trying to decide what part of me is going to do you the most harm.’ His voice was deliberately light, but Lavinia heard the sorrow in it. ‘My skin, my class, or my criminal present—and past. Look at that—it’s a poem.’
You cannot harm me.’ Lavinia stroked his chest, trying clumsily to comfort him. ‘After all, we are not associated. We will never be associated—at least, in public.’
‘... Yes.’ The hurt in Robert’s voice sent a spear of confusion, of guilt, straight through her. ‘Of course.’
‘Well, I—I didn’t mean—it’s not that I wouldn’t, or that I—’
‘No, no. You are perfectly right.’ Robert kissed her again, gravely, on her forehead. ‘Right, and correct. Not being ashamed is one thing, but—but one should always remember our respective positions. After all, I am… somewhat different to you in appearance. And I am fleeing for my life.’
‘Yes, but—but that’s not what I meant. Not what I wanted to mean.’ Lavinia had to stop herself from clutching at him as he gently moved away. ‘I… I apologise.’
‘Why? You have nothing to apologise for.’ Robert bowed. ‘Goodbye, La—Miss Dent.’
‘Lavinia.’ Lavinia whispered it as he left, too quietly for him to hear. ‘Call me that, at least.’
As she walked back into the ballroom, legs still weak, Lavinia found herself thanking her father for what may have been the first time in her life. Without years of relentless criticism, she never would have been able to maintain such precise control over her face and manner. She knew for a fact that she was as silent and dull as ever, drifting around the edges of the ballroom, exchanging meek and useless pleasantries with Lady Mimsmere about nautilus shells, and Africa, and oh, yes, his manners are so fine…
Her eyes lingered on Robert Prince. Lingered as he moved around the room with impeccable grace, charming, flattering, joking… taking all of the smirks, the foolish comments, in his stride.
If only he would look at her. Even a glance would be enough. But his eyes never met hers; he seemed determined, horribly determined, to act as if they’d never been introduced. That they did not associate.
Her own words felt so bitter in her throat. She wished she could take them back; wished she could think about anything else. No doubt there was a tide of Viper gossip all around her, but she was deaf to—what was he doing? Why was he scribbling something in a small leather notebook, and tearing out a page?
She watched, her heart in her mouth, as he leaned casually against a windowsill. The piece of paper vanished between the curtains in a single, effortless show of sleight-of-hand.
Forcing herself to move slowly, smiling mechanically as she discussed with Lady Mimsmere which poultices were most effective for weak eyesight, Lavinia eventually reached the curtains. With the pretence of admiring the fabric, she slipped her hand through… and almost sang as her fingers closed over the paper.
Distracting Lady Mimsmere with a well-timed bout of thirst, Lavinia greedily opened the paper. She read what was written there, forcing herself to remain composed.
I will see you again.
She looked up, straight into Robert Prince’s eyes. Even from the other side of the room, his stare made her quiver.
All she could do was nod. Nod, and nod again, foolishly, wishing she could shout.
Yes. Please. Come to me again.
That night, in the solitary half-light of his room, Robert lit a single candle. He sat in his chair for a moment, hoping to find a sense of peace—but all he felt, just as he’d felt in the carriage as it clattered home, was a yearning that tugged at his bones.
Why had he left the note? He shouldn’t have. He needed to leave London, and he’d already taken this foolish caper too far, and… and...
You cannot harm me. We are not associated.
Her words were true, but hurtful. Just as it was true, but hurtful, that he had to leave London before making any more of a fool of himself. Jack Swift would still be chasing him, no doubt… but Lavinia Dent was here.
Here, but somewhere far from his eyes, his lips, his hands. Especially true, and especially hurtful.
He let his gaze rest on the portraits above his bed; Ira Aldridge, Pablo Fanque, Samuel Morgan-Smith. Men who had taken to the stage despite obstacles of colour and class, giving their own hurt a nobility that would outlast them… men who he would normally be inspired by.
We are not associated. Would Lavinia allow herself to be associated with a successful actor, even if he were black?
Perhaps not. Perhaps she would be too frightened, although he couldn’t imagine Lavinia being frightened of anything… and imagination aside, he knew now that she would never be associated with a swindler. What sensible woman would?
‘But none of this should matter.’ He muttered it angrily to himself. ‘Because you’re not intending on staying… are you?’
As a last resort, he picked up his well-worn copy of Shakespeare’s complete works. Closing his eyes, flicking through the pages at random, he opened his eyes at a moment he judged to be right.
The Bard had never steered him wrong before. As Robert looked at the revealed page, he almost jumped.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
Oh no; it is an ever fixed mark…
It didn’t matter if Lavinia wanted to associate with him or not. It didn’t matter if he went to the ends of the earth. The love he felt burning within him would remain.
He was in love. He cursed softly, shaking his head. Love changed everything; love rooted him here, in the way of Jack Swift… but with Lavinia.
He had to see her again. As soon as possible. He had to see her—had to make her see how wonderful, how magical, being with him could be.
Would she want magic? Oh, yes. He had seen it it behind her eyes; the need to be transported. What was the best way to enchant her?
He looked at the picture of a reclining woman that took up a large portion of his wall space, his eyes widening. Yes.
He knew what he was going to do.
Lavinia had almost laughed when she’d seen the small, sniffing boy at the servants’ entrance, barely visible in the dark of a London evening, loudly announcing that her presence was required at the orphanage due to an ailing child. Only Robert Prince could conjure up such a daring ruse—and only Robert Prince’s luck, the luck of a true trickster, would have her father so deep in his cups that he was already half-asleep in his chair.
She laughed aloud when she saw the theatre outside the carriage window. No dull, restrained applause at some mediocre performance for them tonight—and no shabby theatre either, with peeling paint and misspelled signs.
This was the Alhambra; the most dazzlingly opulent theatre in London, and formerly the most scandalous. Not to mention the most expensive—especially during Shakespeare season. Especially the first performance of Lavinia’s favourite play, ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’—one she was ashamed of liking so much.
A cold night, the Alhambra, her favourite play… and Robert. Robert, impeccable in a dark blue greatcoat, taking in her questioning look with a smile as he helped her out of the carriage.
‘I did say we were going to the theatre.’ He smiled as her feet touched the cobblestones. ‘You didn’t seem too inclined to ask questions during our journey.’
‘That’s because your hand was on my knee, and you refused to do anything further no matter how piteously I looked at you.’ Lavinia lowered her voice to a murmur as they passed a gaily chattering group of revellers. ‘Questions would have ruined the tension. A writer can’t resi
st being a little tense.’
‘Miss Dent, I believe you’re being shocking.’ Robert gently steered her down a less populated street, the glittering arched roof of the theatre shining like a star. ‘And even worse, I believe you’re enjoying it.’
Lavinia certainly was—if enjoyment was even the word. The carriage ride had been exquisite and painful all at once, for exactly the reason she’d expressed. She could still feel his hand on her knee, the warmth of his fingers… the way she’d mutely begged for them to climb higher, as they had done the night of the dance.
How horribly restrained Robert had been. How delicately they had avoided how their last meeting had ended—her hasty, thoughtless words, and his reaction.
Yes, she was enjoying it. It was almost as enjoyable as the sense of being able to speak freely; to express her hunger, her frustration, her desire. Unthinkable, when considering any other person—but with Robert, it was unthinkable not to.
She wasn’t just enjoying it. She was craving it. It was the same love of danger that had led her to the Viper columns, to uncovering Society’s skeletons, to betraying her class without a backward glance… but it felt deeper, somehow, this particular thrill. Less bitter. Sweet, and perilous.
She tried not to think of peril as she let Robert lead her to a small door at the side of the theatre. Her stomach dropped a little; he wasn’t going to trick the poor man into giving them tickets, surely? Was the time they spent together not worthy of a little more honesty? But as she saw the smile on the face of the elderly man who opened the door, she felt a rush of shame at the uncharitable nature of her thoughts.
‘Rob! Wonderful to see you, as always.’ The man’s eyes widened as he saw Lavinia. ‘A doubly wonderful surprise. Who is this delightful creature?’
‘I’ll thank you to address her as Miss Dent, Harry.’ Robert’s smile was somewhat shamefaced. ‘And not to start telling her about any of my escapades.’
‘Not a word, Rob. Not a word.’ Harry paused. ‘Well, perhaps just one. Oh, Miss Dent, you should have seen him bandaging the wings of the little birds that used to hurt themselves trying to fly from the rafters here—’
‘And that’s enough.’ Robert looked positively mortified; Lavinia felt the first treacherous bubblings of laughter in her throat. ‘We’ll be watching the performance from my box, Harry. Is there any tea and toast about? We can take it during the interval.’
‘For a lady of such quality? Robert, it’s really no wonder you’ve never brought anyone else back here. Tea and toast, he says.’ Harry rolled his eyes as Lavinia dissolved into silent laughter. ‘Miss Dent, feel free to leave. I would. Offering tea and toast, for goodness’ sake.’
‘If it helps, I told him that I liked tea and toast.’ Lavinia’s shoulders shook.
‘You did not tell him you liked tea and toast at the theatre, Miss Dent. I refuse to believe it of you.’ Henry sniffed, casting a withering look at Robert. ‘Try and keep quiet, Rob. Your face recommends you better than your tongue. And let us wiser men take care of refreshments.’ He bowed to Lavinia, ushering her through the door. ‘Honestly. Tea and toast…’
Lavinia managed to keep silent as she began walking along the dark, twisting corridor, soon joined by a determinedly mute Robert. They managed to walk for ten, perhaps fifteen seconds, before Lavinia burst once more into giggles.
‘Tea and toast?’ She shook her head. ‘Child food. Clown food.’
‘I can be a clown.’ Robert’s smile was tender. ‘I can be any clown you want, if it means you laugh.’
Lavinia didn’t know how to respond. No-one had ever said something quite so lovely before. Lovely, her heart whispered, lovely, gentle, lovely, all the way up the narrow, twisting staircase that normally would have terrified her. Lovely, gentle… oh, Lord.
‘This isn’t a box.’ She said it blankly, looking at the dreamy, candlelit space in front of her. ‘This… this is…’
.My private box. Also known as my house, my garden, my stables, my winter residence…’ Robert laughed, gently stepping past her. ‘When they were repairing the roof here, after the fire, it was where the painters slept. I was only a lad then—I crept in to hide from the cold, some nights. Kept using it, even after the painters left… then Harry found me, and took me under his wing.’ He shrugged. ‘Made it a home.’
‘It’s beautiful.’ Lavinia walked forward, making a slow, wandering circuit of the room. Greasepaint and burnt sugar filled her nose; the smells and sounds of the theatre below were here, dulled to a faint hum. A bright array of Turkish rugs covered the floor; a desk stood in one sloping corner, along with an array of dark, expensive furniture that looked as if it couldn’t possibly have arrived via the stairs. Pulleys, probably… all it really needed was a small piano, perhaps. Or a plant.
Why am I already making adjustments to his room? She turned, suddenly awkward. ‘Wonderful. Like a caravanserai, or inside the lamp of a Djinn.’
‘As long as you find it magical.’ Robert approached; Lavinia was suddenly all too aware of the bed in the corner of the room. ‘Let me show you something.’
Yes. Show me everything. Lavinia turned to him, expectant, her lips half-parting as she waited for a kiss… and stopped, slightly insulted, as Robert walked straight past her.
‘Come here.’ With a single, graceful movement, he moved a large painting of a reclining woman to one side. ‘Look.’
Lavinia slowly approached, her eyes widening. As she looked down, she gasped, stepping back into Robert’s reassuring arms.
‘Don’t worry. You won’t fall.’ His half-amused voice sent thrills through her. ‘I won’t let you.’
Lavinia took a deep breath. Timidly stepping forward, placing her hands on the edge of the hole carved in the wall, she looked down at the packed interior of the Alhambra lying hundreds of feet below. The crowds, the glittering chandelier… the stage, perfectly lit, the footsteps of the actors loud and clear.
‘The best seat in the house.’ Now Robert’s voice was reverent. ‘It’s about to begin.’
‘Yes.’ Lavinia looked at Robert for a long, exquisite moment. Lovely, gentle, lovely. ‘Thank you.’
As if by magic, the first words of the play filtered into the room. ‘Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour/Draws on apace…’
A Midsummer Night’s Dream. This is a dream, Lavinia thought dimly, feeling the enchantment fill her. More than any dream she’d ever had, and better. Would she have ever had the nerve, the imagination, to imagine such an evening for herself? Such a partner to share it with?
Conscious thought ebbed away slowly, minute after minute passing unnoticed. All that existed were the words; the honeyed words that flowed through the Alhambra, speaking of moonlight and lovers and banks where wild thyme blew… the words Lavinia had loved so passionately when she was young, before she’d taken up the Viper pen and began to write the bitter, scorching things she was infamous for. They were just as wonderful as she remembered—more so. They glowed with new life.
She almost jumped as Robert’s voice whispered in her ear, smooth as silk, perfectly timed with the actress on stage. ‘And pluck the wings from painted butterflies—to fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes…’
The words sang through Lavinia, unlocking parts of her she didn’t know had been kept shut. It was him. He gave everything a spark of life; in his eyes, under his hands, nothing was ordinary.
Under his loving eye, they came alive… just as she did.
How had she ever felt alive without him? How would she ever feel alive if he were to go, if she had to return to her stifling bedroom, writing down all the worst secrets of her class?
The thought was not to be borne. Her eyes stinging with sudden, unexpected tears, she gripped Robert’s hand as the words of the actors dwindled away to mere noise.
His palm was warm, but not comforting enough. She needed more. Taking off her glasses, carelessly throwing them onto the floorboards, Lavinia pulled Robert to her with an urgency that almost brought a
sob to her throat.
The hunger moved in her again; the hunger that made every one of his kisses as sweet as rain on parched ground. But meaning moved in her too, a wordless, powerful need for his presence—a need for him to be as close to her as possible. A need that gave her courage for what she knew, and hoped, was about to happen.
It had to be here. There would be no feather-bed, no shower of roses. She could think of no better place, no more sacred ground, on which to give herself to him.
Wordless, her mouth hot and desperate against his, she began to tug ineffectually at her clothes. So many buttons, so many useless layers of fabric—but Robert’s hands joined hers in the task, stronger and surer, ripping her stockings to reveal the bare flesh of her thighs. He was with her, understanding what she could not say, meeting every urge with a desire that matched her own.
‘Yes.’ Lavinia whimpered, nodding her head as Robert’s hands moved to her thighs, sliding between them with swift assurance to rest against her mound. She needed that; the warm strength of his fingers, striking the balance of force and tenderness as they parted her lips, stroking along the sensitive parts of her she’d helped him discover the night of the ball. Clutching him to her, slowly sinking to her knees as she whispered wordless sounds of pleasure, Lavinia bit her lip as two fingers slid inside her.
Yes. The tightness, the sweetness, the need in Robert’s eyes; this was what she needed, to be filled by him. Lavinia let herself rest against him, her skirts bunched shamelessly up at her waist, watching Robert’s hand take full, deep possession of her as she moaned.
He knew things were different this time, as well; she could feel it in the trembling of his hands, in the nakedness of his gaze. This was no performance for Robert Prince; no actor could feign such vulnerability. With every hitched breath, with every curl of his fingers and tensing of his muscles, he was falling apart just as dangerously as she was. As if he’d never known another woman; as they had come to one another in pure, perfect darkness.
Private Passions Page 5