Dare to Love (15 page)

“You're conceited and arrogant and—”

“Mean as hell,” he interrupted. “I'd as soon slap you as look at you. Keep on in that vein and I'll smack you good and proper and enjoy doing it. Hate a lippy woman. Drives me berserk.”

I took another sip of champagne, forcing back a smile. “You're not nearly as fierce as you pretend to be.”

“You think it's just jaunty banter?”

“Most of it.”

He grinned. “Maybe so, but don't push me too far. Here, let me pour you some more champagne, and then I'll tell you all about myself, hold you spellbound.”

He poured the champagne. I sipped it. We ate the oysters and the pheasant and the asparagus with hollandaise sauce, and as we ate Anthony told me about himself, exuding that boyish charm that so nicely complemented his robust virility. If not exactly spellbound, I was at least relaxed, studying this overwhelming male creature with cool objectivity.

“We were gentry,” he said. “You know—big house, servants, private pew in church, all that rot. My father was a gambler—stocks and bonds and investments, not cards—who lost almost everything. We barely managed to hold onto the big house, the servants, the private pew. I was an only child and deplorably spoiled. All the womenfolk fussed over me. I had a grand childhood, roamed all over the countryside, playing pirates, imagining myself a red Indian, launching surprise attacks on any unfortunate neighborhood child who happened to pass my way. I was a bit of a bully, I'm afraid.”

I arched an eyebrow in mock surprise. “Oh?”

“The despair of my parents. Always getting into scrapes. Both of them sighed with relief when it came time to send me off to school. Eton, mind you—my father had connections. Got into even more scrapes there, bloodied many a nose, twisted many an arm, pulled many a prank. Fascinated?”

“Fascinated,” I said dryly.

“Thought you would be. Finally made it to Oxford, a handsome scamp, the answer to every maiden's prayer. Got my nose busted in a boxing match. No longer so handsome, but even more interesting. Added character, that broken nose. At Oxford I boxed and I wrestled and I rowed and I spent as little time as possible with my masters. Hated Latin. Hated history. I joined the dramatic society and began to act in plays. You should have seen me as Iago.”

Flashing that charming grin, he poured more champagne into my glass and then bounded off to fetch another bottle. He moved with supple male grace, his gait long and loose and bouncy. The fresh bottle of champagne was placed in the silver ice bucket and swirled around. An inexperienced drinker, I had had far too much champagne already, and I was beginning to feel it. I felt gloriously free and relaxed; my cares had vanished. I couldn't remember when I had enjoyed myself so much.

Anthony Duke slipped back into his chair, a thoughtful look in his eyes now, a certain tautness in his facial muscles.

“My parents died of influenza within days of each other. The big house was mortgaged to the hilt. The servants hadn't been paid in months. In short, I hadn't a penny and I had to leave Oxford. Just as well, I suppose. The place didn't suit me at all. I came to London to become an actor. With my looks, charm, personality, I figured I'd take the West End by storm.”

“And you didn't?”

“Flopped dismally, luv. I'll be the first to admit it. There were a couple of very lean years, with only one or two small roles. I played an assassin in the court of Cesare Borgia, looked smashing in maroon tights and purple velvet tunic embroidered with black and silver. The part had two lines, ‘Aha, I've caught you,' and ‘Die, you Venetian dog!' I was to let out a diabolical laugh as I plunged the dagger into his throat. The laugh was a great success, very diabolical. I also got to play a dandy in a Regency drama. Didn't say anything, just sat at a gambling table shuffling cards.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Afraid that's the sum total of my thespian career. I learned a lot, though. Learned that it took technique and training to become a good actor, and that most actors starve, good or bad. Not my style at all. I discovered that if you want to make money in the theater, it's better to work behind the scenes. I became a promoter, did a stint on Fleet Street, learned all about advertising. That eventually led to my position with Dorrance. I promote, help out with the production end of things, get together the
entr'acte
specialties.”

“It sounds very interesting,” I conceded.

“Fascinating work. Loads of responsibility.”

“I take it you think the company would fail if it weren't for you.”

“Probably would, if
The Barber of Seville
is any indication. We don't even have a name singer, just some garish sets and moth-eaten costumes rented from an outfit that's going out of business. You can see why I've got to come up with a stellar attraction.”

“Me,” I said.

“You.”

“You really are mad, Mr. Duke.”

“Anthony, luv. Tony if you're feeling chummy. The minute I saw you, I knew you were it. You've got star quality, Mary Ellen. Got it in abundance. Couldn't take my eyes off you. I saw the possibilities immediately. More pheasant?”

“I couldn't.”

“More champagne,” he said, refilling my glass.

“You're trying to intoxicate me.”

“Get you nice and tipsy so I can have my way with you? I wouldn't dream of it. When I have my way with you, and I shall, it'll be because you want it as much as I do.”

“Don't hold your breath, Mr. Duke.”

“Anthony. Drink up. Tell me about yourself.”

“You seem to know everything already.”

“I did do a lot of investigating,” he admitted. “I know you come from Cornwall, no living relatives, know you've been studying with Madame Olga for a year, working hard, getting nowhere, buoying yourself up with false hopes. Know you're flat broke, been skipping meals, walk to and from the theater because you can't afford a cab. You never go out. There are no men in your life. The future looks bleak.”

I was silent. He grinned.

“
Looked
bleak. That's all changed now. Anthony Duke has discovered you. He's going to be your personal manager. He's going to make you a star. Have faith in me, luv.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I have faith in you. I know what you've got. I know it's a very rare commodity. That kind of presence, that kind of sensuousness is far more valuable than talent. The fact that you're a gorgeous woman makes it even more valuable.”

“I'm not a gorgeous woman.”

“You're not pretty,” he said. “Thank God for that. You don't have a pink-and-white complexion and clear blue eyes and pale blonde ringlets. You don't look like an aristocratic milkmaid. You don't meet the current standards of beauty at all. You're individual, exotic, and, believe me, you're going to make the men in this city forget all about pretty blonde milkmaids.”

“I want to go home,” I said.

“You're not having a good time?”

“I'm sad.”

“You've had too much champagne.”

“I know. I'm sad. You've ruined me with Madame Olga and wrecked my career in ballet in one fell swoop. Everything you said about my dancing is true. I've never admitted it to myself. I hate you. My head is spinning. Why did you do it? Why me? I tried so hard. I worked so hard. I'm not used to champagne.”

“You're not going to cry, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Anything I hate, it's a teary-eyed woman.”

“I can't help it.”

“Everything is going to be fine, Mary Ellen.”

His voice was gentle and melodious as he got up from the table and came around to where I was sitting. Standing behind me, he began to massage my shoulders, kneading the flesh, his strong fingers easing the tension. I closed my eyes, and my head whirled around and around. Then he was pulling me up and holding me against him, his arm around my waist, and I felt warm and secure and safe, and my head was against his shoulder and he was stroking my hair.

“Brence,” I whispered.

“Easy, luv. Christ, you're smashed.”

“It's your fault. It's all your fault.”

“Absolutely smashed, and we haven't even begun to
discuss
things. I can really pick 'em. Got a bloody innocent on my hands.”

“I … I don't know what happened.”

“The champagne. It hit you all at once.”

I was spinning in darkness, delicious darkness, and his arms were so very strong and he was so tall, so gentle, holding me, stroking my hair, tender, comforting, protective. It was marvelous to have someone holding me again after such a long time. Suddenly, I was limp, falling, falling, and he swept me up into his arms. I opened my eyes, but the room was spinning, a blur of shapes and colors that whirled around and around.

“What are you—”

“I'm putting you to bed, Mary Ellen.”

“Help!”

“Jesus Christ!”

“I know what you're going to do.”

“You weigh a ton! Stop kicking!”

He stumbled and hurtled forward and muttered a curse and dropped me, and I landed on something soft and bouncy. We were in another room. I was on the bed. Standing over me with a disgruntled expression, his brows pressed together, he muttered another curse. I closed my eyes and my head seemed to spin and the darkness returned and I welcomed it, the delicious dark. Someone was pulling off my shoes, having a very difficult time with it. I smiled and floated away into the darkness.

XIV

The dazzling sunlight seemed to be drilling into my brain. I groaned and struggled to sit up, but it took far too much effort. Watery reflections danced on the walls and ceiling, shimmering silver bright amidst the yellow sunlight. Pressing my hands against my temples, I took a deep breath and tried to sit up again. I managed it. Just. There was a horrible crash overhead, a series of dull thuds. My head seemed to explode. I shuddered. Another crash occurred. Bits of plaster flaked off the ceiling and came drifting down like dusty snow.

Several minutes passed. When the sunlight no longer hurt my eyes, I looked around the bedroom, an undeniably male abode. A cane leaned against a chair, a black silk top hat perched jauntily atop it. The room was cluttered and untidy and bore the unmistakable stamp of its occupant. Newspapers and clippings were piled on the desk. Theatrical posters leaned against the wall in a heap. A half-eaten apple lay in a chipped blue saucer. A sleazy periodical devoted to wrestling was on the bedside table, and a pair of old and oily boxing gloves hung from a nail on the wall. Though my slippers were on the floor beside the bed, I was still wearing my pearl-gray watered silk. It was deplorably crumpled.

I put on my shoes and stood up. My head felt as though it were caught in a vise, and my stomach was in an even worse condition. Not certain that I wasn't on the verge of death, I stumbled over to the mirror. What I saw was not at all reassuring. My cheeks were flushed. My hair was a wild tangle. My bodice had twisted down, almost uncovering one breast. I pulled the sleeves up, adjusted the cloth, and reaching for the ivory-backed brush on top of the dressing table, I began trying to put my hair in some kind of order. Each stroke of the brush was like torture.

A door opened and closed with a deafening retort. I fought back a scream. Bright, bouncy footsteps sounded in the next room. Anthony was humming merrily as he appeared in the doorway, looking dapper in a brown-and-white-checked suit and a topaz satin waistcoat. The impudent blue eyes were bright and mischievous, the boyish grin playing on his wide lips. I glared at him, not trusting myself to speak.

“How do you feel?” he inquired.

“Wretched.”

“Really shouldn't drink so much. If you can't handle it, leave the stuff alone.”

“What happened?”

“You passed out on me.”

“I—how did I get in here?”

“I carried you in, dumped you on the bed.”

“And then?”

“I removed your shoes. Spent the night on the sofa myself. Dreadfully uncomfortable. Lumpy. Wouldn't want to make a habit of it. A drunken woman sprawling all over my bed, snoring something awful, and me trying to get a few honest winks on a sofa two feet too short—”

“I did not snore!”

“Touchy, aren't we?”

“You
plied
me with champagne. I knew what you had in mind. I'm not naive. I've heard all about men like you. Will you wipe that disgusting grin off your face?”

His expression sobered immediately. “Sorry, luv.”

The grin sprang back of its own volition. The blue eyes sparkled. He sauntered over to the bed and smoothed down the dark tan counterpane. I put down the hairbrush and winced at the noise as it touched the dresser.

“Glad to see you up and about,” he remarked. “I was just on my way to roust you out. Today's an important day. Can't have you sleeping till all hours.”

“What time is it?”

“Two o'clock. When you sleep, you sleep.”

“Two o'clock! I don't believe it.”

“Take my word for it. I was up bright and early myself, on the move before the first cock stopped crowing. Accomplished wonders. Got all of your things packed up, got 'em moved in upstairs.”

“My things?”

“The old harpy with the brassy hair and gin on her breath was very obliging, gave me the key, didn't give me a bit of trouble. Wanted to come up and help me pack. I thought I was never going to get rid of her. Cleeve and I packed everything up. Never could have done it without his help. All those bloody books!”

“You—you took my things?”

“Moved 'em in upstairs. Told you last night. You have your own room, with bath. Right next to the studio where we'll be working. Thought you understood that.”

“I'm going to be very calm,” I said firmly. “I'm not going to be angry. Anger would be wasted on you. I'm going to go downstairs and go outside and find the nearest Bobby and have you arrested.”