“We’d better save the rest of the collection for another day, my dear, if you are determined to perform tonight. I am sure you need some rest after this eventful day. Meantime, I will try to decide which of our own artists I should approach about painting your portrait to join the other Viscountesses Woodbridge.” He thought he just might commission a few, for he doubted he’d ever get tired of looking at his beautiful new wife. Hell, he might even try painting her himself.
Chapter Seven
Whoever said that all the world’s a stage would have been particularly proud of the cast that evening.
Margot entered the theater by the stage door late that afternoon on the arm of her new husband, followed by two sturdy footmen who were to stand guard outside her dressing room. This earned her dark looks from the male actors, who felt she’d sold her favors to the highest bidder after summarily scorning their offers of a free but honest tumble. Half the female members of the cast snickered, that Miss Prunes and Prisms was no better than she ought to be, and no better than the rest of them after all. The other half were too busy trying to attract his lordship’s notice. He, however, glowered at them all and announced the marriage. Ella swore she’d seen it with her own eyes, and had a piece of stationery with the bishop’s own letterhead to prove it.
Suddenly, everyone remembered what a lady their Margot had always been. They knew all along that she was fated for a gentler life than treading the boards. And if she could better herself to such a degree, their happy shouts and applause seemed to say, then so could they. Someone found a bottle of champagne, and the lead actress, Mrs. Martin, was so relieved that the popular songstress would be leaving in two weeks, she sent out for a cake.
The theater manager was as obsequious as an under-butler. Not only was Ryder leery of incurring such a well-connected and well-muscled nob’s displeasure, but having a viscountess as a warbler could only help ticket sales. The pit was already starting to fill on rumors from the gentlemen’s
clubs alone. The mingle-mangle marriage was sure to be the most talked of event in Town, and the world would want to catch a glimpse of Woodbridge’s second bride in two days. Finally, everyone recalled that they still had to don costumes and makeup for the evening’s performance. The show would go on, even if the audience only wanted to see Margot. She went off to change, escorted by Ella and the two footmen, and his lordship went off to gloat. His whiskey-risen idea was working even better than he’d planned, and his hastily chosen replacement bride was proving delightful, as nice as she was notorious. The only worry Galen had, as he returned to his house to change to formal evening wear, was how he was to survive two weeks of letting every loose screw in London ogle his wife. Perhaps he could convince her to cut the engagement short. But no, he had promised not to interfere with her career. He’d also promised to leave her untouched for six months, damn it. Surviving that could be deuced harder.
*
Margot’s function was to entertain the audience during the intermission between the second and third acts. Acrobats and jugglers had the other intervals, and a chorus sang somewhat bawdy lyrics between the drama and the farce. They were all supposed to captivate the theatergoers enough that they would not grow impatient while the stagehands and cast changed scenery and costumes. The wealthy box-holders took the intermissions as an opportunity to visit back and forth, promenade in the halls, or send for refreshments. They were there less to see the play anyway, and more to be seen in their silks and satins and sparkling jewels. The patrons in the pit, however, had been known to grow rowdy when they were bored, hard to control once the actors had retaken the stage.
Not tonight. No one left their seats, not the Quality in the tiers, not the choice spirits in the cheap seats. Every pair of opera glasses was trained on the stage, every tongue was whispering the question of the night: Was it true? The Duke
of Woburton’s box was dark, as was Lord Cleary’s, not unexpected for two families suffering such a disgrace as a publicly misfired marriage. But if the viscount had fled, where were all the rumors coming from? And could he actually have committed such a shocking, stunning, shameful sin of marrying a common singer?
Well, she was not precisely common, they conceded after Margot stepped from behind the curtain. Those who were seeing her for the first time—or paying attention to her for the first time—admitted she was more than passably pretty. And she was dressed in the first stare of fashion, showing less bosom than many of the
beau monde’s
beauties. That bright gold of her hair could not be natural, some of those same belles complained to one another. And surely she wore cosmetics, the coquette. Their own judicious use of the hare’s foot could not be compared. If a few of them pinched their cheeks to add a touch more color to their complexions, or bit their lips to emulate Mademoiselle Margot’s rosy glow, no one noticed. The boxes were too dark, for one, and their escorts were too busy gazing worshipfully at the stage, for another.
Then Margot started to sing. She sent a regal nod to her accompanist in the orchestra, then took a deep breath and began with a popular country ballad. The disgruntled females could find nothing outstanding in her voice, surely no cause for their male companions to be hanging on every note as if it were the Heavenly Choir. The women detected the slight French accent, but they could not hear the somewhat throaty, yearning tones, as Margot sang of a lost love gone to war. The men could. They were ready to console her.
Galen frowned, alone in the back of the family’s box. Why, she might have been inviting those blackguards to her bed, with that sultry voice. He’d said she could keep singing, not keep seducing every poor sod in Town. They applauded madly when she was done.
Her next piece was an Italian aria. Her voice was not quite of operatic quality, but it carried to the far reaches of the
vast hall. Most of the audience could not understand the words, but they knew enough that the heroine of the song was dying, deceived and betrayed by her lover. She always was. Even those who could not pronounce the King’s English, much less a word of Italian, were soon dabbing at their eyes. The
grande dames
in their diamonds nodded their approval, wishing their own progeny could acquit themselves half so well when called on to entertain at those hideous musicales. They’d be hiring new music instructors in the morning.
The applause was louder, nearly covering the crash of a fallen backdrop and the curses of the stagehands. Such a distraction might have unnerved a lesser performer, but the thunderous acclamation from the audience seemed to have given Margot confidence and cured her stage fright, at least for this evening. She joked with the bucks and beaux sitting close to the stage about the considerate cabbage-heads, for waiting until she had finished the piece.
Then, when everything was almost quiet again both on stage and in the audience, Margot said, “My friends, I have an announcement to make.”
Not even the orange girls shouted their wares into the silence that followed. Galen sat forward, although still in the shadows. He did not like having no idea what the female was going to say; they had not discussed any public statement. She was supposed to look beautiful, making him the envy of every man in the hall, and she was supposed to sing like a nightingale, that was all. She was not supposed to improvise on his script.
“
À regret
,” she was saying, the French accent that was part of her stage role more pronounced, though Galen knew from their talk this afternoon that she’d been educated in Italy by English governesses. “With regrets, I am announcing my retirement from the stage in two weeks. You have been so kind, and I will miss my friends in the cast, but this will be my last engagement.”
Boos and catcalls rose from the pit, and feet started stomping in protest. Margot held up her hand for quiet. “No, no,” she insisted, “you must not be angry. You must be happy for me,
mon amis
,
especially on this, my wedding day.”
Hysteria almost broke out in the theater as reporters rushed forward to catch every word, and a few punters ran out to check their wagers at White’s. One tulip in the pit stood on his neighbor’s shoulders and cried, “Say it is not so, Margot. I love you!”
Galen, from his box, promised himself a bout at Gentleman Jackson’s with the sprig of fashion. See how pretty he looked then.
The fop toppled onto a Bird of Paradise, flattening a feather or two. The audience howled. One of the players offstage struck a cymbal, and quiet was restored.
Margot was smiling. “I am honored by your regard,
monsieur
,
but my heart and my hand belong to another. You see, I have been waiting my whole life for the man of my dreams. He, alas, was entangled in one of those silly family arrangements, a tiresome technicality, you might say,
un petit
pother.” She made shooing motions with her hands. “Now it is swept away like a dust ball, no? And
mon cher
is free to marry where his heart leads.”
“Who is he, Margot?” The bloods in the pit were less polite than the equally eager listeners in the boxes. “Tell us his name so we can have him drawn and quartered for stealing you away!”
Instead of answering, Margot stepped to the edge of the stage, carefully picking her way past the flambeau lights. When she was almost under Galen’s box, she held one arm extended, with her palm up, in a gesture of giving. Knowing he was somewhere hidden in the shadows, she said, “From now on,
mon amour
,
I sing for you only.”
Amid the loudest applause yet, Galen stepped to the edge of his box and leaned over the railing. He tossed her a single long-stemmed rose, without thorns, of course. Margot caught the flower and brought it to her lips. Then, facing him, and only him, she began to sing the English rendition
of Robbie Burns’s tender lyrics: “Oh, my love is like a red, red rose, that’s newly sprung in June. Oh, my love is like the melody, that’s sweetly played in tune.”
Galen sat back, awed at the gift she had given him. In one short speech, Margot had made their marriage seem a love match, not a face-saving act of retaliation. She’d relegated Lady Floria to a dust ball, and removed the sordid stigma of a purchased bride. She’d left them both their dignity, and left the audience in tears at the triumph of true love. Lud, the woman was brilliant! He was brilliant for finding her! Even Florrie was brilliant for knowing their engagement was a soulless financial transaction.
When the papers came out, with the news that the new Lady Woodbridge was a baron’s daughter, even the old tabbies were bound to approve their wedding. There’d still be a scandal, of sorts, with rumors that he’d been carrying on with an opera singer behind Florrie’s back, but no one would blame him, now that they’d seen Margot. By Harry, he was almost tempted to send Florrie her dowry back for doing him such a favor.
As soon as his wife’s last song was finished—Zeus, the remarkable creature was his wife!—Galen hurried out of his box and down the stairs before anyone could come to poke and pry. He found his way backstage and was waiting for Margot as she made her last bows and ran into the wings. He scooped her up and twirled her around, not caring who saw. “You were magnificent, my Margot.” And he kissed her while the applause thundered on from the audience and the stagehands cheered nearby.
“Oh, my,” she said when she could breathe again. The walls were still spinning and her feet did not feel the ground beneath them, not even when Galen put her down. “You…you liked my song?” she whispered, as the play was about to recommence behind them.
“I loved your song, madame wife,” Galen whispered back, “and I think I am falling in love with you.”
Oh, my.
Chapter Eight
Whoever said that two’s company, three’s a crowd, never tried to count how many people could squeeze into one private dining parlor at the Clarendon.
Having decided to dine out when word came that Margot’s dog had eaten the capons, the veal roulades, and the chef’s slippers, Galen thought they’d have a pleasant meal at the luxurious hotel. He’d worry about hiring a new chef tomorrow. This way, Galen reasoned, he’d avoid an intimate
tête-à-tête
with his bride, a goal to be highly desired in light of his own alarming statement.
He did not love this woman. He admired her courage, her wits, her talent, her beauty, and her loyalty to her brother, that was all. He did not intend to love another woman, ever. What if they decided to end their marriage in six months, either legally or in a
tonnish
separation? How could he go on with his life with his heart missing? No, he did not, would not, love his wife.
Half the chaps in London seemed to, though. If one more gudgeon slapped him on the back in congratulations, he’d be black-and-blue by morning. And he thought this was a private parlor! How could he deny his friends, though, when they were sending in bottles of champagne and bouquets for the bride?
Since he could not lock the door to keep them out without incurring more talk, and less food, Galen gritted his teeth and made the introductions. The gentlemen made no mention of previous acquaintanceship with Lady Woodbridge, and Margot made no mention of previous propositions tendered and rejected, although Galen knew from Skippy that many of these same fellows, married or otherwise, had sought Margot’s favor. He hated them all, and their champagne tasted like dishwater.