A Reckless Desire (40 page)

Rivers took the wineglass and raised it toward his father before he drank.

“You're only unhappy because they speak of their daughters,” he said. He knew he was tossing a spark into dry tinder with his father, but perversely he couldn't stop himself from spreading his own general misery. “If one of those tantrums belonged to a son, you'd be directly in the middle of the conversation, praising that tantrum as a rare sign of spirit.”

But to his surprise, Father didn't rage, the way Rivers had expected. Instead he merely chuckled, as if Rivers hadn't goaded him, but told an amusing jest.

“True, true,” Father said, looking back at Serena and Gus. “With luck I'll have that grandson soon enough.”

“Gus looks well,” Rivers said. “She must be near her time.”

“It could be this week, or another three,” Father said, narrowing his eyes a fraction as if he were able to see Gus's unborn child. “Ladies—and babes—can be unpredictable that way. But that is no affair of yours, is it? Your head is filled with the lovely Lady Anne.”

He clapped Rivers on the back so hard that the wine splattered from his glass.

“No, Father.” Rivers set his glass down on a nearby table and shook the spilled wine from his fingers. “If I am honest, the lady is not in my thoughts now, nor ever has been.”

“Then she should be,” Father declared. “You're not the only young buck that has an eye on her. Has she told you that she has five brothers? Five brothers, Rivers, and her the only girl in the family! That's the kind of lady who'll give you sons. But if you don't declare yourself soon, she'll slip away.”

“Then let her slip,” Rivers said wearily. “I've told you before, Father, I've no interest in marrying at present, and especially no interest in Lady Anne Stanhope.”

“Don't say such rubbish,” Father said, his voice rising and his face growing flushed. “I know you were infatuated with that little actress last month, but surely you must be recovered from her by now. If you lifted your nose from your books for once, you would see what a fine opportunity the lady—”

“Brecon, please.” Suddenly Gus was standing there, too, her freckled face smiling as pleasantly as if Father were not on the verge of apoplexy. “If you do not object, I should like to borrow Rivers for a few moments.”

She tucked her hand possessively into the crook of Rivers's arm, making it clear that she would not be denied.

“Ah, yes, by all means, Augusta,” Father said, visibly controlling his temper for her sake. “Take the rogue away with you if you wish. But mind he does not vex you, for your own sake as well as the child's. Do you understand, Rivers? Do not torment Augusta, or you'll answer to me.”

“Rivers will behave with me, I am sure of it,” she said, leading him away and from the drawing room.

She was so large and close to her time that she seemed nearly as wide as she was tall, with endless peach-colored silk ruffles fluttering like waves from her person. Rivers hoped he hadn't distressed her, the way Father had accused him of doing. He'd never forgive himself if she went into labor early because of him, and neither would Harry.

“Please, be seated, Gus,” he said gallantly, trying to steer her toward one of the chairs in the hall. “No need to tire yourself.”

“Don't be like your father, Rivers,” she said breathlessly. “I shall not break, and neither will my little one.”

Purposefully she continued another ten steps to a nearby settee. She dropped into it with obvious relief, cradling her hands over her belly as her ruffled skirts spread and settled around her.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said with a sigh. “This imp gives me no peace in my womb, kicking me night and day. I'm sure Brecon would say that's a sure sign of a boy, which is why I've not told him.”

Rivers wasn't any more comfortable with talk of unborn kicking babies than Father, and when Gus rubbed her belly to calm the “kicking imp,” he looked down with embarrassment. But that was no better: beneath the hem of her gown he saw that Gus wore not shoes, but backless slippers, and that her feet were so swollen that even those were snug. Horrified, he hastily looked to his own hands, resting on his own knees.

“Father has become entirely irrational on the question of his heir,” he said. “I do not know how you bear it, Gus.”

“I do because he means well,” she said, “and because I have no choice, because he is your father. I also trust that in time he will indeed be blessed with the grandson he so desires. You're the scholar, not I, but I'm certain there must be some sort of reassuring mathematical law regarding the progeny of three healthy brothers.”

Rivers looked up sharply. “
Three
brothers?” he repeated suspiciously. “Are you party to the Lady Anne scheme as well?”

She tipped back her head and laughed merrily, the candlelight from the nearby girandole casting a coppery glow on her hair. There was no denying that Gus could be pretty, very pretty, even as pregnant as she was now, and Rivers understood entirely why Harry had married her. Lucia had liked her, too, and before he could stop himself, he was imagining Lucia with Gus and Serena, the three of them laughing happily together with a roomful of tumbling children around them. He was surprised by how appealing a scene it was to him, even if it was impossible.

“No, goose, I have no schemes for you and Lady Anne,” Gus said. “She seems a sweet enough lady, but she is not right for you. I cannot begin to picture her clambering up to your rooftop haunt at the Lodge.”

“Neither can I,” he agreed softly, and he couldn't. He suspected Lady Anne would be one of those overly dainty ladies who shrieked at heights and clutched at her skirts and cap from fear a breeze would carry her away. She definitely wouldn't see the beauty in a new moon, or beg to use his telescope, or curl close against his chest while he pointed out the stars. “Then I owe you my gratitude for rescuing me from Father and his matchmaking.”

“No, you don't,” Gus said. “Because I must warn you: I am also matchmaking.”

He groaned. “Not you, too, Gus. Who have you found for me now? A cousin from the country? An old friend from school?”

“You know her already, Rivers,” she said, smiling. “It's Mrs. Willow.”

He shook his head, stunned that she'd dare say that.

“No, Gus,” he said. “You must trust me when I say that is not possible.”

“And I say it is,” she insisted. “I have never seen two people more in love than you and Lucia. That is her proper name, isn't it? Lucia di Rossi?”

He frowned. “How did you learn that?”

“I have my ways,” she said smugly. “Besides, it wasn't that difficult. But do not distract me. Watching you two together at Breconridge Hall was like—oh, like poetry. You belong together, Rivers. Serena and I both saw it, and it was beautiful to watch. Love like that should not be denied.”

“Poetry isn't true to life, Gus,” he said, and stood, too agitated to remain still. “There are so many things you don't know about Lucia, or about me, either.”

“Then tell them to me,” she said promptly. “Make me understand why you cannot be with the one woman who is meant to be yours.”

He shook his head, not knowing where to begin. “She dismissed me, Gus,” he said. “The night of the benefit. She told me she'd be happier without me, and sent me away like some dunning tradesman.”

Gus fluttered her hand dismissively through the air. “I do not believe it,” she said, “because it cannot be true. Did you tell her you loved her? Did you speak of your future together?”

“She didn't let me,” he said mournfully. “I was going to tell her all about our future together. That night I even had in my pocket the key to a house I'd put in her name.”

Gus gasped. “Oh, Rivers, you didn't! You were going to ask her to become your
mistress
?”

“Yes,” he said, glancing around uneasily to make sure no one overheard, for mistresses were another topic that was not encouraged in his father's house. “After the time we'd spent together at the Lodge, I didn't want to give her up.”

“But to keep her as your
mistress,
” Gus said again, appalled. “Rivers, that is so shameful and unworthy of you that it's beyond bearing. If you'd offered her a house, she'd think it meant she wasn't good enough to live in your home with you. How can you be so thickheaded? A woman like Lucia would never settle for being kept. If she had even a hint of what you'd planned, then I'm not surprised she asked you to leave. You're fortunate she didn't break a bottle over your head and shove you down the stairs as well.”

“But what else was I to do, Gus?” he asked plaintively. “I didn't want to lose her.”

She looked up at him pityingly. “Rivers, in many ways you are the most clever and learned gentleman I have ever met, but in love you are nothing but a thick-witted dunderhead. If you don't want to lose Lucia, you don't make her your mistress. You ask her to marry you.”

He stared at her, too stunned to speak. To Gus it must seem so damnably obvious, and yet he had never let himself dare to consider it. To have Lucia with him always, to never be apart from her, to love her forever—it was everything he wanted.

Except she didn't want the same things.

“If I asked Lucia for her hand, she would not accept,” he said, the certainty of it turning each word to lead. “She told me that the stage was the only thing that would make her happy, and that is why I let her go.”

Now Gus was shaking her head. “She may have told you that, but it isn't true. Why couldn't she act
and
marry you? Why couldn't she do both? There's no law at present against married women on the stage, is there?”

He frowned, thinking of how eagerly she'd thrown herself in amongst the other actresses and actors, leaving him behind. Would she do the same if she were his wife?

“You are
thinking
too much, Rivers,” Gus said with exasperation. “I can see it in your face. Did Harry tell you that I made him take me to see Lucia in
Romeo and Juliet
?”

“He did not,” Rivers said, and somehow this felt oddly like some kind of fraternal betrayal. “Was she—Lucia—as fine in the role as everyone says?”

“Better,” Gus said. “I cannot believe you haven't gone yourself. No, I can believe it, for if you had, you would know she still loves you.”

He thought of what made Lucia so special as an actress. Oh, he had corrected her accent and her grammar, and helped burnish the rougher edges, but her talent was her own. She had always wanted to make people cry, but to do so she had had to draw that emotion from deep within herself and share it with her audience. She'd been fearless that way. She dared to think of what she could give rather than what she could take.

He thought again of that last farewell, and now he realized what she'd really been saying. She hadn't said she'd be happier without him; she'd said
he'd
be happier without her. She hadn't pushed him away. She'd tried to give him his freedom, and he'd been too caught up in his own pride and sorrow to see the difference. He had in fact been—what was it Gus had called him?—a thick-witted dunderhead.

“You are being entirely too quiet, Rivers,” Gus said warily, “which means you
are
thinking too much. If you become like your father next and begin to protest that Lucia is foreign, or a theatrical person, or some other foolish obstacle as to why you cannot marry, then—”

“Lucia will sleep beneath the stars with me,” he said, his mind made up. “Why should I care who her parents were?”

Gus smiled, her face full of joy.

“If that is true, then you must go to her now,” she said eagerly. “Go watch her as Juliet, now, tonight, and you'll see how much she loves you still. You may have already missed the first act, but that's mostly sword-fighting and brawling anyway. Go, Rivers. I'll make excuses for you to the others.”

He grinned, and bent to kiss her cheek. “Thank you, Gus, for everything. No wonder my brother loves you so much.”

“Go, go!” she said, shooing him away. “It won't matter one bit unless you return with Lucia on your arm.”

Lucia hurried off the stage, her thoughts on her final scene. She'd already taken the potion that had made Juliet appear lifeless, and she'd only the final scene, where she'd awaken to find Romeo dead and kill herself. She was glad the play was nearly done, too. Some nights were more exhausting than others, and tonight she'd given so much to her performance that she was completely drained, with little left.

“Mrs. Willow, a moment,” said Mr. McGraw, catching her by her arm. His face was wreathed with concern, and he held her as if he feared she'd collapse. “What is wrong? Are you unwell?”

Wearily Lucia shook her head and shrugged. “Nothing is wrong,” she said. “Some performances are more taxing than others. You know that as well as I.”

“I do, but tonight seems different.” He studied her face, skeptical. “It is a virtue to put much of yourself into your role, but you can go too far, and let the passion destroy you. I won't have you ill.”

“You needn't fear for me,” she said. “I'm well enough.”

But she wasn't. She wouldn't explain it to Mr. McGraw, but the shock she'd felt seeing the news-sheet with the mention of Rivers and his impending betrothal had fueled her performance. Her Juliet tonight had been more desperately in love than any other, and felt the agony of being parted from Romeo more deeply. She had thrown herself into the play as if she were jumping overboard from a ship into the deepest sea, and she'd let the lines and her emotions dash and carry her like stormy waves. It was no wonder that she felt so battered and spent, or that it showed on her face.

“You are certain?” McGraw asked, not persuaded and watching her closely. “The way you are now, I'm going to make doubly certain that Romeo's dagger holds a false blade, or you truly will stab yourself.”