One Perfect Rose (8 page)

The other women of the company lined up for their turn, giggling like schoolgirls, even old Nan, who played crones and acted as wardrobe mistress. Stephen entered into the game good-naturedly, kissing the ladies with dramatic flourish.

Rosalind stayed in her seat. She should not have impulsively suggested the initiation as a way to get a kiss for herself. This wasn't what she wanted. She wanted…

It was better not to think it.

Maria was the last in line. She gave Stephen a smacking buss straight out of
The Merry Wives of Windsor
. Then she turned and beckoned to Rosalind. “Your turn, my dear. One last kiss, and Stephen will be one of us forever.”

The onlookers applauded. Reluctantly Rosalind rose and crossed the room. When she stood in front of Stephen, she lifted her head and saw stillness in his eyes. He, too, was uncomfortable with the situation. She'd been a fool to start this, for it would cheapen the subtle but real bond she'd felt between them.

He reached out his hand. “Come, my Hippolyta.”

Invoking her stage role made it easier. She was an Amazon queen who went to her lover with pride. Taking his hand, she dropped into a curtsy. “My dearest duke.”

He raised her from her curtsy, and she saw rueful humor in his eyes as he bent for the kiss. His lips were warm, the pressure light, yet she felt an emotional impact through her entire body. Yes, there was something between them, a connection that in another time or place might have blossomed into something deeper. But they would not be so lucky.

Then the kiss was over. Holding his gaze, she murmured, “Thank you, Stephen.”

He said with matching softness, “The pleasure was mine, Rosalind.”

The room broke into applause, and Thomas came over with more champagne for Stephen's glass. Rosalind turned away, oddly content. She no longer regretted the fact that she had instigated the initiation ceremony. Even a public kiss was better than none.

 

Stephen's stomach had been uneasy, so he'd avoided the food and slipped up to his room for a pill. The champagne seemed to settle his digestion though, so he had sipped it throughout the evening. The conversation had certainly been different from anything he'd hear in a London drawing room. Ben Brady, for example, had explained how to do explosions onstage without burning the building down. Then Brady's wife, Nan, had raucously confided that she adored tales of virtuous maidens taming wicked rakes, even though she'd lost her own virginity before George III had lost the American colonies. There wasn't a bore in the whole company, except for Edmund Chesterfield.

After the initiation ceremony, Stephen sat by Thomas and Maria, who lounged in an oak settle telling wickedly amusing tales about their years in the theater. He envied their closeness, and the way their hands automatically linked together.

The sight sent a shaft of loneliness through him. Firmly he repressed it. He'd been lucky in other ways; he had no right to self-pity.

His thoughts were interrupted when Thomas glanced at his pocket watch, then beckoned to Brian. “Midnight. Past time you were in bed, my lad.”

Caught in the middle of a yawn, the boy gave a sheepish smile. “I haven't translated my Latin lines yet.”

“You can do them in the morning,” Maria said. “As long as you're finished by noon. And don't forget to do your sums for me, either.”

After Brian gave his mother a good-night kiss and left, Stephen said, “Latin?”

Thomas nodded. “My Greek is too rusty to teach, but I have the Latin still. The lad's well into Caesar now.”

Stephen's brows arched. “He's lucky to have such a good education.”

Eyes twinkling with amusement at Stephen's surprise, Thomas explained, “I went to Trinity College in Dublin. Ah, I was quite the likely lad then. The church, my parents thought, or maybe the law.” He shook his head with mock regret. “Then I met this wanton lassie here. Saw her play Juliet in Dublin, and threw all my prospects away to lay my heart at her feet.”

Maria gave a ladylike snort. “Don't you believe it, Stephen. It's true that Thomas came of the gentry, but he was born to be hanged.” She gave her husband an intimate smile. “I had my work cut out for me, keeping him out of trouble. Wild to be an actor, he was, so he used his Irish blarney to convince me of his undying devotion. In my innocence, I didn't suspect that all he really wanted was a wife from a fine old theatrical family like mine to teach him how to act.”

“She's a hard woman,” Thomas said sadly. “Keeps me under the cat's paw, she does.” Before he'd finished the words, his wife laid her hand on his thigh in a most improper way. He grinned and put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her across the oak settle so that she was tight against his side.

Jessica floated by. “Don't mind The Parents, Stephen,” she said airily. “They have no sense of propriety. They quite put me to the blush.”

Stephen chuckled at the reversal of roles between the generations. A pity his own parents hadn't had a tenth of the mutual affection that the Fitzgeralds did.

A slow, unpleasant burn began in his stomach. Experienced in the subtleties of pain, he doubted that it would develop into a full-fledged attack, but he would take no chances. He emptied his glass and set it aside. “I'm for bed. It's been a tiring day.”

He got to his feet, and swayed, almost falling. Damnation! He hadn't drunk enough champagne for such a reaction. He put a hand to his head, which was aching, and prayed that he would not break down in a roomful of people.

Instantly Rosalind was by his side. “Lord, we've all forgotten that yesterday you were thumped by a tree.” She slipped her arm around his waist. “I'll help you to your room, since I'm ready to retire myself.”

He'd half forgotten the head injury, but it made a convenient excuse. Using Rosalind for balance, he crossed the room, saying his good-nights.

It was a relief to reach the cool hallway. He felt better immediately but was in no hurry to let go of Rosalind. She was delightfully soft, and such a convenient height. With Louisa he'd always felt like a looming giant.

Arms around each other, they made their way up the stairs to Stephen's room. When they were in front of the door, Rosalind glanced up, concern in her dark eyes. “Will you be all right?”

He nodded. “It was just a moment of dizziness. As you said, my head was thumped by a tree only yesterday. It seems much longer.”

She brushed back his hair from the stitched wound. “No sign of infection. Still…perhaps you shouldn't leave tomorrow. Not if you're still feeling dizzy.”

He seized on the excuse. “You're right. I need at least another day.”

It was time to move apart, but neither of them did. They simply stared at each other. She was still within the circle of his arm, warm and womanly and enticing. He wanted to stroke the tawny silk of her hair, kiss those full lips as he had the night before when he awoke and Rosalind had been beside him….

Without conscious thought, he drew her closer and kissed her. She gave a soft sigh and slid her arms around his neck. She tasted of champagne and spice. He caressed her ripely curving hips as desire flared into pure fire. The embrace was nothing like the awkward public kiss earlier in the evening. It was deep and intimate and right.

Wrong
.

He raised his head, feeling dizzy for reasons that had nothing to do with being hit by a tree. Rosalind blinked at him, her eyes as dazed as his own must be.

“I'm sorry,” he said unsteadily, shocked and shamed by his lack of control.

“You have the most dreadful ability to make me forget that I'm a prim, respectable widow.” She removed her arms from around his neck without haste and stepped back. “It's very bad of me, but I thoroughly enjoyed that kiss.”

“So did I. You are the most irresistibly kissable woman I've ever met, though it's no credit to me I gave in to temptation.” He hesitated, wanting to say more. “It isn't just that you are lovely. You…move me.”

She raised her hands to his cheek, her fingers gliding lightly over the planes of his face. “There is something special between us, isn't there?” she asked softly. “A fragile blossom that will never bear fruit. But not without value.” She pressed the lightest of kisses to his lips. “Never that.”

She turned and walked down the hall toward her bedchamber, her tall figure swaying with unconscious provocation. He watched her go, feeling a raw hunger that was partly desire, but also something much deeper.

It took all his will to keep himself from following.

He went into his room and closed the door, leaning back against it as he knotted his hands into fists. Being a duke was a lonely business. He was flattered to his face and probably cursed behind his back. Except with a handful of friends, he had always felt set apart from the normal run of mankind.

But tonight, for a few hours, he had been a part of a friendly, tolerant group that had accepted him exactly as he was. The warmth of that was like a goose down quilt protecting him against the bitter cold of eternity.

He gazed across the dark room at the pale curtains stirring lazily in the breeze from the open window. He had not known how much he craved community until tonight, when he had briefly become part of one. How could he bear to leave these people who made him feel happier than he could ever remember being?

If it had been only Rosalind or only the companionship of the troupe, it would not be so hard to return to the abbey. But the combination was dangerously potent. That was part of the reason he knew he should leave. It was wrong, unsafe to want something so much. Particularly now, when his future was cruelly limited.

But when he thought it through, there was no real need to leave yet His health was still good enough that he should be able to conceal his condition. He doubted that anyone in the troupe would tell him to leave, especially if he made himself useful Yes, he would stay on for several days more. Perhaps a week.

His rush of relief at the decision was so strong that he almost changed his mind again. But what the devil; a condemned man was entitled to some pleasure. A lifetime of discipline should keep him from behaving badly with Rosalind again. He'd avoid champagne, and being alone with her, too.

Feeling more at peace, he stripped off his clothing in the dark and crawled into bed. But as he lay back against the pillows, he was struck by a vivid, tactile memory of holding Rosalind in his arms here the night before. He rolled to his side, aching with emptiness.
Damn
the illness that cast a black shadow over everything.

He closed his eyes, all too aware that he had not behaved well. Yet however ill-advised it had been to kiss her, he would carry the memory of her embrace until that not-too-distant day when he would die.

George Blackmer climbed from his chaise and ascended the massive stone steps of Ashburton Abbey. When his knock gained him admittance, he said, “Inform the duke that I'm here to see him.”

The usually impassive butler, Owens, could not conceal a tightening of expression. “His grace is…unavailable.”

Blackmer stripped off his gloves. “I'll wait. When do you expect him back?” When Owens didn't answer, the physician said impatiently, “Come, come, man, I'm the duke's doctor, not an importunate beggar. He'll see me.”

Owens hesitated a moment longer, as if weighing whether he should speak, then said in a rush, “His grace is not in residence. He left suddenly, without a word as to his plans, and he went alone. I…we are somewhat concerned.”

Blackmer's brows arched. “Alone?”

The butler nodded. “By horseback, without taking even his valet. It happened immediately after your last visit.”

“You've had no word from him for a fortnight?” the physician said incredulously.

“None at all.”

“Have you informed anyone of the duke's absence?”

“Who would we tell? After all, his grace has every right to leave voluntarily, as he did. Yet”—Owens swallowed hard—“such behavior is most unusual.”

Unusual, indeed; Blackmer had observed Stephen Kenyon closely for many years, and doubted the man had ever done anything so unpredictable in his life. But of course, a sentence of death might unbalance anyone. Tersely he said, “If he returns, or you hear news of him, tell me at once. It's important that I know.”

Then he left the abbey, swearing under his breath. His blasted patient could be anywhere in Britain. God only knew what might be happening to him. His overall health was probably still fairly good, but that might change at any time.

Blackmer reached his home and went into his study, pacing restlessly as he considered what the devil he should do. Obviously Ashburton's staff was reluctant to take any action that might displease their master, but someone must do something, and only Blackmer understood the ramifications of the duke's absence.

Ashburton's brother in Wales was the logical person to write—in fact, there was a fair chance that the duke was visiting there, seeking comfort and preparing his heir to succeed to the title and estates. Blackmer had only the slightest acquaintance with Lord Michael Kenyon—just enough to know that he was a hard and dangerous man, and notifying him would unleash unpredictable forces. Lord Michael might rejoice in the prospect of inheriting. Or he might become furious and blame the messenger, in this case the duke's physician. He might…the possibilities were numerous and alarming.

Yet what other choice was there? The physician swore again. Then he sat down and composed a letter to Lord Michael Kenyon, choosing his words with painstaking care.

Rosalind scanned the dozen or so people milling about the small theater until she caught Stephen's eye. “Could you give me a hand with these sets, Stephen?”

“Of course.” He joined Rosalind, then lifted a false-framed window from the floor. “Where would you like it?”

“Here, please. Right where Aloysius is sleeping. He has a genius for choosing the spot where he'll be most in the way.”

While Stephen persuaded the wolfhound to move, Rosalind watched with a private smile. She had once heard an Arab proverb that if the nose of a camel entered a tent, the rest of the camel would soon follow. While it was unfair to compare Stephen's aristocratic nose with that of a camel, he had certainly slid into the tent very deftly in the past week, the tent in this case being the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe. He'd helped with the hard physical work of moving sets and scenery, driven a wagon when they traveled, played small walk-on parts, and tutored Brian in Latin when Thomas was too busy.

Since his head injury had healed, she guessed that he stayed simply because he was having a good time. Certainly his spirits seemed much lighter than when he had first joined them.

She thought, often and wistfully, of that lovely, heart-pounding kiss they had shared. But they had tacitly avoided being alone again. Instead, they gravitated together when part of a group, talking of anything and everything while studiously ignoring the intense physical awareness that pulsed between them.

As he placed the last set piece where she indicated, she wondered how much longer he would stay. But she did not ask. She had a superstitious fear that if the subject was brought into the open, he might feel obligated to return to his normal life. That day would surely come, and soon. But she would not encourage it to happen.

Stephen turned to her, “Is anything else needed, Madame Stage Manager?”

She surveyed their surroundings, mentally ticking off every aspect of the seating, lighting, and sets. “All seems in order. This is one of the easier theaters to prepare.”

He ruffled Aloysius's ears. “What is tonight's play?”

“
Isabella; or, The Fatal Marriage
. It's a wildly emotional tragedy of innocence betrayed and cruel death.” Rosalind chuckled. “One of my mother's best roles—she chews up the scenery and spits it out, leaving every woman in the audience wailing with grief. The first time I saw her play Isabella was right here in Whitcombe. I was four or five, and I ran screaming onto the stage when she did the death scene because I drought it was real. The audience loved it. We always play
Isabella
, here by popular demand.”

His dark brows rose. “You tell it as a joke, but surely that must have been upsetting to a small child.”

She stiffened as his words triggered an unexpected stab of emotion. Feeling chilled, she pressed her hand to the center of her chest as she remembered those moments when her adored foster mother lay dying. Anguish and terror beyond bearing…

Stephen caught her arm, his expression concerned. “Are you all right?”

Drawn back to the present, she gave an embarrassed laugh. “How strange. For some reason, your words brought back the experience as if it were happening right now. Foolish of me.”

“Not foolish at all,” he said quietly. “You had already lost your natural mother. To see your adoptive mother apparently dead must have been terrifying. Like the end of the world.”

“That was it exactly.” Something dark and horrifying stirred in the depths of her mind. Her mother's death. The end of the world.

She shivered and forced the unformed thought back into the shadows. Odd that Stephen had recognized the connection instantly when she herself never had. But then, she tried not to think of her life before the Fitzgeralds had adopted her.

He squeezed her hand comfortingly. “Do you ever try to remember what your natural mother was like?”

“Sometimes. With no success. But Maria says she must have been a good mother, because I had very nice manners for a small child.” Disquieted by the conversation, Rosalind glanced around the theater. “Edmund isn't here, is he? We were supposed to rehearse the afterpiece because it's one we haven't done recently.”

Stephen dropped his hand, accepting the change of subject. “What is it called?”

“
The False Lover
. It's a foolish bedroom farce. A nice change of pace after the melodrama of
Isabella
.” She frowned as she saw her father pacing around the entrance to the theater. “Papa is not happy that Edmund is missing.”

Sure enough, a moment later Thomas slapped his palm with the sheaf of papers he held, then pivoted and came to the stage. “Stephen, I need you to fill in as the villainous lover in the afterpiece. Very little dialogue—mostly a matter of looking noble and wicked and bedding the wrong woman.”

“I beg your pardon?” Stephen said, startled.

Rosalind laughed, her good humor restored at his expression. “You're Claudio, the wicked duke who lusts after Annabelle, a virtuous maiden played by Jessica. You threaten to execute her father unless she lies with you. Annabelle agrees on the condition that you come to her in the dark to preserve her modesty. Then she and her beloved Anton, played by Will Landers, cleverly decide to ask her less-innocent friend Ethel—that's me—to take her place. I'm the duke's abandoned mistress who still yearns for him, so I agree to take part in the deception.”

His brows arched. “Apparently I can make a modest career out of playing dukes.”

“You have the right look,” Rosalind and Thomas said simultaneously. The three of them exchanged glances, then broke into laughter.

“Condemned to dukeliness,” Stephen said wryly. “Is that the script there?”

Thomas handed it over. “The dialogue isn't particularly witty, so it's all right to improvise a bit if you can't remember the exact words. The important thing is to act broadly. Larger than life. Naughty but not vulgar.”

Stephen nodded and began scanning his part while Thomas collected the other players who would be in the farce. By the time they were ready to run through the piece, Stephen had most of the dialogue down, not always word for word but well enough to fake his way through his scenes. Mostly he had to look arrogant and demanding, which he did with intimidating ease. He also showed unexpected comic talent when he leered at Jessica. As Annabelle, she cowered with a fine Gothic flare.

The rehearsal went smoothly, punctuated by several occasions when Thomas stopped the action to ask for a different way of speaking or moving. Rosalind enjoyed herself so much that she overlooked the dangers of the big deception scene that was the climax of the farce. Then Stephen tiptoed into what was supposed to be a darkened bower, calling, “Where are you, my dearest darling dove?”

Rosalind caroled, “Here, Claudio! Here! Here!” She was on the verge of embracing him when she recognized the implications of the fact that this was Stephen, not Edmund. With Edmund an embrace was merely acting. But with Stephen…

He felt the same way, for he halted a yard away, his expression changing from exaggerated lust to consternation.

“What are you waiting for?” Thomas said impatiently. “Kiss her.”

Stephen took a deep breath and dropped out of the character of the villainous duke. “Sorry. I've never performed a public theatrical kiss, much less with a woman in front of her own father. I trust you haven't a horsewhip handy?”

Thomas laughed. “Hadn't thought of that, but I can understand your misgivings.” He turned and beckoned to his wife, who was chatting with several other women in the back row of seats. “Come here, my sweet, and we'll show this earnest young man how it's done.”

“I fly to you, my hero!” Maria cried grandly.

As her mother climbed to the stage, Rosalind moved aside, trying to decide whether she was more amused or alarmed. It would be awkward if that intense physical attraction struck while she and Stephen were in the middle of a stage. But it was also true that the situation was as farcical as the little play they were rehearsing.

When Maria was in place, Thomas minced onstage, trilling, “Where are you, my dearest darling dove?”

“Here, Claudio!” Maria threw herself into his arms. “Here! Here!”

The kiss that followed was dramatic in the extreme, punctuated by Claudio's comments about her beauty and how he felt as if he had known her always, which was surely a sign from heaven that they were meant to be together. Maria played up to him outrageously, reducing all the onlookers to helpless laughter.

When the demonstration was over, Jessica said in a penetrating stage whisper, “The Parents are at it again!”

After another burst of hilarity, it was time for Rosalind and Stephen to play the scene. When they were face-to-face, she gave him a wink and murmured, “Since we have no choice, we might as well enjoy it.”

His eyes lit with wicked amusement Then he swept Rosalind into his embrace, flamboyantly tipping her over backward at a precarious angle.

She clutched at him instinctively, barely remembering to use the exaggerated movements of comedy. Yet once she got over the initial shock, she took a heady pleasure in his embrace. Nothing untoward would happen in front of an audience. And since the characters they played were supposed to be in total darkness, as an actress she was justified in running her hands over his broad shoulders and taut muscles. She could gaze up into the smoky depths of his gray-green eyes and caress the stem, handsome planes of his face. She skimmed his lips with her fingertips, as a woman might do in the darkness, and said throatily, “You cannot know how I have longed for this moment, beloved.”

He responded, “I have dreamed of you, my dearest dove.” His eyes burned with desire. “I have yearned for you in the lonely silence of the night.”

His voice died away, leaving an expression of longing that made her heart tighten with a wish that his words were real.

As they traded florid dialogue, Stephen slowly raised her to an upright position, at the same time shifting so that the audience could see her face clearly. Wryly Rosalind recognized that if Edmund had been playing the role, he would have arranged matters so that his noble profile was visible and her back was to the audience. But Stephen did not have an actor's hunger for attention.

Tenderly she rubbed her cheek against his, with no idea how much was acting and how much was real. “Promise you will not forget me, beloved.”

“How could I forget such sweetness, such fire?” He kissed her, his lips warm and compelling on hers.

As she responded, Thomas roared, “Unhand that woman, thou dastard duke!”

Rosalind and Stephen both jumped as if ice water had been poured over them, and it was only partly acting. Rosalind felt her partner in crime tense, then relax as he looked up to see Thomas sweep onstage, followed by two servants whose torches were supposed to bring light to the dark bower. Stephen exclaimed, aghast, “'Tis the archbishop!”

His gaze went to the woman in his arms. “And Ethel!” He leaped away as if she had turned into a serpent. “Trollop! How dare you deceive me! What have you done with my adored Annabelle?”

At the cue, Jessica and Will Landers entered hand in hand, looking vastly smug. The archbishop thundered that he had just married the young couple and that because of his wickedness, the duke was to be deposed and executed by the church.

Rosalind dropped to her knees in front of Thomas and raised her clasped hands dramatically. “Please, Your Excellency, spare the life of my beloved! It is true that he has sinned, but his heart is not wicked. He only suffers from too much wealth and power!”

That line always got a laugh from the audience, most of whom would welcome the opportunity to suffer from too much wealth and power. Then Rosalind turned to her faithless paramour. “I cannot make you love me—but dearest duke, when you thought I was another, did you not find my kisses sweet?”

Stephen shuddered dramatically and raised his eyes to the heavens. After a long, pregnant moment, he said huskily, “They were sweet indeed, dear Ethel.”

He took her hand and brought her to her feet, his expression a study in remorse. “Forgive me, faithful mistress, for the way I have wronged you. Remember me when I have gone to the doom I deserve.”

Then he kissed her hand, a very effective bit of stage business that he had thought of himself. At least, Rosalind found it effective. She tingled all the way to her toes.

Satisfied with the duke's repentance, the archbishop granted pardon and married him to Ethel on the spot. Jessica was about to sing the naughty closing song when a man snarled, “Damnation!”

Everyone turned to look as Edmund Chesterfield slammed the door, then stalked down the center aisle toward the stage. “How dare you give my role to that—that useless dilettante. You had no right!” He gave Stephen a venomous glare.

Thomas said dryly, “It's traditional to allow actors to keep their accustomed roles, but only when they fulfill their responsibilities. You have forfeited this part by missing one rehearsal too many.”

Rosalind guessed that her father would have reconsidered if Edmund had apologized for his tardiness. Instead, the younger man exploded, “You—you vain, pathetic old tyrant! Because you can barely remember your lines, you demand rehearsals as a way of abusing better actors. You're jealous of me because you're a failure who had to start your own company or you'd never have worked at all!”

Thomas and Maria paled while the other members of the troupe gasped and Jessica's expression turned homicidal. Rosalind took an instinctive step toward her father, knowing he would be deeply wounded by the cruel taunts.

Then Stephen said icily, “You have the manners of a pup in need of housebreaking. Chesterfield. Thomas Fitzgerald is as fine an actor as Britain has ever seen. If you won't respect his authority, you must at least acknowledge his talent if you have a shred of honesty in your soul.”