A Reckless Desire (9 page)

“What is inside the bread?” she asked at last as the maid handed her her cup. The white porcelain, painted with orange and gold dragons, was so fine that the sunlight shined through the rim, and Lucia held it with infinite care, half-afraid it would shatter in her hand. The tea itself was sweet and fragrant and redolent of mysterious places she'd never see, and far, far better than the watery gray stuff she drank at the lodging house.

“Sliced roasted beef in the first tray, ma'am,” the maid answered, “and sliced breast of duck in the other, both with cress. Mustard on one slice of the bread, and butter on the other, as his lordship prefers.”

“Where is Lord Rivers?” Lucia asked eagerly. “I haven't seen him yet today.”

“I do not know, ma'am,” she said with the merest hint of rebuff. “I do his lordship's bidding, not ask his business. Will there be anything else, ma'am?”

Lucia shook her head, and the maid withdrew, the door closing after her with the click of the latch. Lucia sighed; while Lord Rivers's male servants had liked her well enough, the female ones were making it abundantly clear that they regarded her as only one more of his lordship's doxies, brought down from London for his passing amusement. Which of course she wasn't, but she doubted anything she could say would persuade them otherwise. At least they'd brought her splendid things to eat, and with resignation—and anticipation—she set the teacup down and pulled her chair closer to the table.

She reached first for one of the beef sandwiches, marveling at the pillowy white bread cut into neat triangles with the darker crusts cut away. What a spendthrift thing to do, she marveled, even if it made for a much more dainty morsel. Then she bit into the sandwich and instantly forgot those discarded crusts. The tenderness of the beef, the spiciness of the mustard, and the peppery crunch of the cress, all wrapped within the featherlight fresh bread—ah, she'd never had anything to compare.

In three bites the sandwich was gone. She wondered whether it would be unseemly to have another, and then reminded herself that the tray had been brought to her alone. She wiped the mustard from her fingers on the overhanging edge of the cloth, and reached for another sandwich, and then another, and another after that. Before she'd quite realized it, she'd eaten nearly all the sandwiches on both plates, the crumbs on the cloth before her the only proof she'd left.

Yet still she wasn't full, and she reached for one of the oranges, digging her thumb under the dimpled peel. This orange wasn't at all like the oranges that were sold at the playhouse: sorry, wizened fruit that the orange-girls plumped by dropping in boiling water the afternoon before a performance. This orange was sweet and delectable, with juice that dribbled down her chin and left her fingers pale and sticky, and made her smile from the pure, delicious joy of it.

And it was at that point, of course, when she was covered with crumbs and orange juice, that the door opened once again, this time without a warning knock. First Spot came bounding into the room, followed—inevitably—by Lord Rivers. She gulped and slid from her chair, dropping into a hasty, sticky-fingered curtsey. Spot came to her at once, snuffling at the crumbs on her skirt, his tail whipping furiously.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Willow,” Lord Rivers said. “Spot, leave her alone. Here, here, you wicked devil-dog. Please, Mrs. Willow, take your seat again. No ceremony on my account, I beg you.”

She did as he'd bidden, took her chair, and finally lifted her gaze to meet his. His voice was loud and hearty in the parlor, booming away as if he were roaring across open fields.

Which, from the look of him, was exactly what he'd been doing. His riding boots were comfortably worn and caked with mud, making her remember how he'd been so stern about Spot's muddy paws—a rule that apparently did not apply to his own feet.

He'd shed his coat and his hat somewhere else, for now he was bareheaded, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled carelessly over his elbows. She was not accustomed to seeing the forearms of a gentleman, which were usually tucked away beneath silk coats and lace cuffs. Lord Rivers's forearms, however, were worthy of any laboring man, strong and well muscled and dusted with golden hair, and exceptionally…pleasant to gaze upon. The collar of that shirt was unbuttoned and open, too, with a blue printed cotton scarf knotted loosely around his bare throat.

And his breeches: leather breeches were common enough for men, but not like these, closely cut of such soft buckskin that they clung to every muscle and sinew and everything else in a way that was thoroughly distracting. She forced herself to look away, to keep her gaze on his face alone, but that wasn't much easier to do. He was like an extension of the country day itself, his face browned from riding, his eyes blue as the sky and his hair golden like the sun. For Lucia, who had lived nearly all of her life in the most crowded parts of cities, and whose days had been turned around into most people's nights by the playhouse's schedule, he was almost blindingly brilliant.

Not that he was aware of any of this. Instead he dropped into the chair opposite hers, his legs stretched out before him as he reached down to ruffle Spot's head.

“So,” he said. “Are you feeling quite restored now?”

She nodded, still tongue-tied by having all his manly magnificence dropped here before her. That tongue-tied-ness made no sense, she told herself fiercely. Hadn't she just spent hours and hours with this same man in a carriage? What was the difference now? If he hadn't attempted to dishonor her when they'd been alone together on an empty highway at night, then surely she'd nothing to fear from him now.

But then, perhaps the risk wasn't with him, but with herself. She was the one who'd been reduced to tongue-tied silence simply by his presence, not him by hers.

“Are you sure you've had enough to eat?” he asked, surveying what little remained on the tray. “You certainly didn't leave much for me.”

She gasped with horror. Why hadn't the maid told her that the tray was intended for his lordship? “Forgive me, my lord, I did not know! I thought it was for me!”

“All for tiny little you?” he asked, and laughed. “No, Mrs. Willow, I'm afraid not. Mrs. Barber always sees that there's tea waiting for me here when I return from riding. She might have added a bit more knowing you'd likely join me.”

Now she realized there were two teacups and saucers, and her mortification grew. “Oh, my lord, I am so—”

“Hush,” he said gently. “You were hungry, and now you're not. There's no sin to that. Adam, here!”

Instantly a footman entered, so instantly that Lucia was certain he'd been listening on the other side of the door. Not that his lordship appeared to care as he sent for another tray of food and a fresh pot of tea.

“So tell me, Mrs. Willow,” he said when the footman left them. “You're a tiny creature for having such a prodigious appetite. Didn't your family ever feed you?”

“The company looked after me, my lord,” she said carefully, unsure whether he was teasing or not. “I took my meals with the others, in my lodgings.”

He studied her, appraising. “From the look of you, I'd guess that Magdalena and her lot must have reached the table first.”

She flushed, unwilling to admit that was very close to the truth. They weren't treated equally in the company; and she didn't need him to point it out to her. It was an unwavering hierarchy determined by Uncle Lorenzo. Because the first dancers like Magdalena earned the money that supported everyone else connected to the company, they were the ones rewarded with the best lodgings and plenty of food and drink so they'd dance their best. The tiring-girls like Lucia brought no income to the company, and therefore were expected to content themselves with watered tea and gruel for breakfast; and pease porridge, coarse bread, and gristly stew for supper; and rooms beneath the roof. According to Uncle Lorenzo, they received what they were worth, and they weren't worth much.

“We were looked after, my lord,” she said carefully. “Everyone in the company was. I did not want.”

He frowned, skeptical. “I don't believe it,” he said. “You're far too thin. I want you to eat as much as you please. You could do with a bit of plumping. You want the people in the last rows of the playhouse to be able to see you, don't you?”

“They'll hear me, my lord,” she said, eager to turn the conversation away from her size and appetite. She knew she was too thin, especially compared to Magdalena and the others, and it stung to have him remind her of it. Purposefully she raised her voice as if she were in fact projecting to those last rows. “I won't let them overlook me.”

“No, I doubt you will,” he said drily. “They wouldn't overlook a yowling fishwife anyway.”

She scowled. “I am not a fishwife, my lord, and I don't sound like one, either.”

“Nor do you sound like a queen, a princess, or even a duchess, which are the parts I wish you to make your own,” he said, thoughtfully rubbing his left temple. “It would be easy enough to turn you loose on broad humor and drollery, and let you bellow and flounce your way around the stage where the audience would no doubt adore you. But that's not the wager. You're to become the next Madame Adelaide, which means I must make you fit for the exalted roles.”

“I know that, my lord,” she said, inching forward on her chair with excitement.
This
was the reason she'd agreed to the wager. “That's what I was born to do!”

“Rather, you were not born to play the frivolous parts, since they require dancing and singing as well,” he said. “I am assuming that if you cannot dance, you also cannot sing, yes?”

“No, my lord,” Lucia admitted, adding a huge sigh of regret. She'd thought he'd seen some genius for tragedy in her, not simply a lack of the dancing and singing required for comedy. “Not at all.”

“I thought as much. Ah, more reinforcements from the kitchen,” he said as the same maid as before returned with another tray and even more plates and saucers. This time, she was all smiles for his lordship, fussing about him and cooing at Spot and generally pretending that Lucia did not exist.

Fortunately Lord Rivers did not feel the same. “Set the tray there, Sally, where Mrs. Willow can reach it,” he said, smiling so wickedly at Lucia that her cheeks grew hot. “I wouldn't wish to stand in her way where a biscuit was concerned.”

Sally cleared her throat to make sure they knew how much she disapproved, and left them alone.

“You shouldn't have said that, my lord,” Lucia said as soon as the door closed after the maid. “She and Mrs. Barber already hate me, and now you've only made it worse.”

Lord Rivers laughed, taking one of the sandwiches and feeding it to Spot.

“They don't hate you,” he said. “More likely, they do not trust you, and that's not the same thing. You're younger than they are, and considerably more attractive, and you're sitting here with me. That's reason enough for them.”

Lucia remained unconvinced, especially the part about her being attractive. He was teasing; he couldn't mean that at all. She could well imagine the sorts of women he ordinarily brought here for his amusement, and they'd all look much more like Magdalena than her.

“They think I'm another of your London doxies,” she said darkly. “They think I'm stupid and foolish and not worth their time.”

“Then they're mistaken on every count.” He chose a sandwich, studied it briefly, and then popped the entire thing into his mouth. “Especially the stupid and foolish part. I wouldn't have agreed to this wager otherwise. Here, help yourself to another morsel or two.”

“I'm not hungry any longer, my lord,” she said impatiently. “When will we begin my lessons? We've only six weeks—forty-two days, and we've already wasted three of them. Four, if you count today, too. When will we
begin
?”

“We already have,” he said, smiling with irritating smugness as he leaned back in his chair.

“We have not, my lord.” At least for now she'd stopped noticing his alarmingly male person, distracted by his equally male smugness. “All you have done is given me that one short, silly passage to remember, and now you sit here stuffing food into your mouth while we could be
working
!”

Deliberately he reached for another sandwich and poured himself a cup of tea. “Forgive me, but I'm rather late to arrive for the food-stuffing. I'm trying my best to catch up with you.”

She lowered her chin and glowered, angry and disappointed. “I thought you'd wished to help me, my lord, and that you wanted to win that foolish wager. I thought you'd keep your
word
as a gentleman.”

His eyes narrowed, enough to make her wonder that she'd said too much. Wonder, yes, but not apologize. He was the one who wasn't doing what he'd promised.

“That one ‘silly passage,' Mrs. Willow, is from perhaps the greatest play ever written in the English language,” he said, each word clipped. “It's from
The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark,
which was written by William Shakespeare. I trust you have heard of him?”

She nodded, a quick little nod with her anger still simmering. She had heard of this Shakespeare, barely, from playbills and from the cover of the book he'd handed her last night, but he couldn't possibly be the great playwright that Lord Rivers claimed he was. The passage he'd given her
was
silly, and old-dated, too, and besides, if he was such an important fellow, then why didn't his plays have ballets, and why weren't they being performed at the King's Theatre, where she would have seen them?

Her cursory nod clearly didn't please him, and he set his cup down with a saucer-rattling thump.

“The passage I gave to you belongs to the character you will learn whilst we are here,” he continued curtly. “She is a young noblewoman about your age, tragically in love with Prince Hamlet, heir to the Danish throne. You say you like to make others weep. If you learn this part well, you will make all London weep, and love you for it.”