Stages of Desire (9 page)

Lord Abingdon stared down at the text. “It's awful poetry, what he's written.”

“He's a lover, not a poet.”

“And you're the girl he's in love with?”

“Yes. But he doesn't know that. I'm Rosalind, but I'm dressed like a boy to stay safe. I know who you are, but you think I'm some youth who lives in the forest. I've promised to teach you how to woo Rosalind.”

“Why am I doing this?”

“Because you're in love.”

“Not the character. Me!” He threw his head back. “This is stupidity.”

His stubbornness was going to spoil everything. She had to make him focus on the task at hand. “You're doing this because you refused to let me introduce you to Lord Warwick. If you'd allowed that, you'd be sitting on the other side of this curtain, being entertained with the rest of them.”

“There's no way I'm explaining to Warwick how I got involved in this. I showed up at his door like a beggar, accompanied by a bunch of minstrels. I'd be laughed out of White's the minute I get back to London.”

“Although the members of your men's club may not agree, there's nothing wrong with working as an actor. Absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Unless you're an earl.”

He was panicking. If she didn't persuade him to go on stage with her, he'd ruin the entire performance. She looked him straight in the eye. “Do this for me, for the Farley Players, and tomorrow you can speak with Lord Warwick privately and explain what happened. I'm sure he'll understand.”

“I'll tell him it was a big joke. That might work.”

His words stung. For a man of his standing, this was all a prank and would make for a good story at a dinner party.

“Listen to what I'm saying, that's all you have to do.” She grabbed Lord Abingdon's arm and led him out.

Her heart beat furiously. She'd forgotten what it was like to stand in front of strangers, completely exposed and vulnerable. Luckily, she'd recently re-read the play in her room in London, and the words were fresh in her head. It was one of her favorite works by Shakespeare, featuring a rollicking love story and excellent verse.

Lord Abingdon stood stiffly beside her and stared out at the audience. She uttered her first line and placed one hand on his face, turning his cheek slowly toward her. His brown eyes were huge, like a trapped animal's. She led him to a crate and sat him down, speaking the entire time. When it was time for his line, she gave him a nod and he blurted it out. The audience laughed and Lord Abingdon visibly relaxed.

Harriet, emboldened, trotted around the stage in character, cajoling him into pretending to woo her, then sternly correcting him on his lack of grace and subtlety. To her relief, he did what he was told and listened to her intently, glancing down to find his next line and delivering it without too much fumbling.

Her words became rhythmic, tumbling out with ease. She'd forgotten how much fun it was to get a laugh out of the crowd. Near the end of the scene, where the character of Rosalind forces Orlando to recite the marriage vows, Harriet pulled Lord Abingdon up from the crate and brought him downstage.

“‘Then you must say, ‘I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.''” Her voice caught with emotion. She imagined standing opposite Mr. Hopplehill, and how awful it would be to be bound forever to him. Or even worse, watching Marianne wed Lord Abingdon.

He looked at her in surprise, and then his face grew serious. “‘I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.'”

There was a moment of silence. Harriet knew she had the next line, but she couldn't take her eyes off him. As the sun dipped below the castle walls, his hair shone with a reddish gold halo and his eyes were a burnished amber.

She wasn't sure if she initiated the movement, or if he did, but their faces drew closer and closer, and then his lips were on hers in a tentative, soft kiss.

She'd never been kissed before, and his mouth was strong and gentle at the same time. Inside her chest, it was as if a swarm of butterflies were furiously beating their wings. When he pulled away, she was surprised to find she was still on the ground, that she hadn't levitated into the air from pure pleasure.

The audience stayed silent for a couple of beats, then rose to their feet, clapping and whooping.

* * * *

William didn't know how much time passed after he and Miss Farley kissed. He had no idea why he'd kissed her, he'd gotten caught up by the energy from the audience and the expression on her face, so vulnerable and honest. The touch of her lips had burned through him, and he'd had to stifle the impulse to toss the script aside and take her face in his hands.

When he'd first lumbered onstage, clutching the lines in his sweaty hands, the awkwardness of the moment was excruciating. He imagined Warwick and his guests recognized him immediately as the Earl of Abingdon, the ladies murmuring their shock behind their fans.

But after Miss Farley had seated him on the crate, he'd caught his breath and steadied himself. Her character had the lion's share of the lines, and he found himself listening and watching her instead of focusing so much on himself. She was a natural on the stage and possessed a physical and emotional agility that was dizzying to witness. The audience hung on her every word. He'd had no idea how funny Shakespeare could be, either. He would have to read the play in its entirely once he was back in London, to find out how it ended.

The audience spilled onto the stage after they'd finished.

“You were splendid,” announced Lord Warwick. “And my guests and I have agreed we will provide whatever you need to get to Birmingham. Horses, wagons, say the word. On one condition.”

“What's that?” asked Miss Farley.

“That you'll return and make us once again part of your circuit. No more neglect.”

“We promise.”

William prepared to catch Warwick's attention, pull him aside, and reveal his true identity. As the rest of the guests wandered back into the castle, he drew close.

“Your lordship, if you have a moment.”

“I certainly do.” Warwick put his arm over William's shoulders. “It's important we speak.”

“I agree.”

“You have a first-rate stage presence, you look the part, but your technique needs work.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, there's a reason—”

“No excuses. I know it's difficult, but you should hear the truth if you're considering a life in the theater. Nothing can replace technique, do you understand? Promise me you'll get some training. That's my boy.”

Before William could say another word, Warwick strode off. There was no way he'd reveal his identity now.

He'd missed his chance.

The cast was treated to a feast in the waning dusk, and William didn't realize how famished he was until he'd devoured a second helping of pheasant and venison. Toby sat to his right and kept refilling his wine, and for the first time in days, William was at ease. It didn't matter he hadn't appealed to Warwick. In fact, maybe it was for the best. With the new wagons, they would make it to Birmingham tomorrow. He could meet with the apothecary, look up a chum from university who owned a hotel and arrange for a proper place to stay, as well as a chaperone for Miss Farley. Ever since the performance had concluded, he'd kept his distance from her, although he constantly noted where she was and whom she was speaking with.

“Come with me, my lord.” Freddie tapped William on the shoulder. “I've got something to show you. Best view in the county.”

William rose and followed him into the darkness. Freddie ducked inside a small wooden door, beckoning William to follow. They climbed a curving stone staircase that narrowed as it rose. About halfway up William temporarily lost his footing, but grabbed hold of the rope banister before he fell. He'd had too much to drink, but he couldn't turn around now. Up ahead he heard a latch click and then he and Freddie staggered out into the evening. A dizzying array of stars lit up the night sky.

They were on top of one of the castle's corner parapets. But not alone. Little Martin and Miss Farley were there as well.

“Freddie.” She ran up and hugged her brother. “Do you remember we used to sneak up here with Father? I brought Martin to show him.”

Freddie leaned over the thick stone wall and breathed in deeply. “I do remember. I'm surprised you do as well. Tell me, my upper-class sister, does the river Avon smell different from the Thames?”

Miss Farley laughed. “In summer, yes. The Thames reeks in hot weather, right my lord?”

William nodded. She was in high spirits and her cheeks were flushed. She'd had some wine as well.

“I don't feel so well.” Martin had joined Freddie in staring down the precipice and now staggered back from the balustrade, clutching his stomach.

“Either someone drank several glasses of ale this evening, or you don't like heights,” said Freddie. “Which is it, boy?”

“Heights,” he answered. “Don't like heights.”

“Come on then, I'll take you back. As long as you don't retch on me.”

He gave his sister a quick kiss on the cheek and the two disappeared into the stairwell.

Miss Farley leaned back on her elbows on the wide stone ledge. She'd taken off her vest after the performance, and William couldn't help but notice how the thin shirt strained against her breasts. It was indecent, yet captivating.

“So, my lord, has your time on the stage awakened the possibility that theater is not to be scoffed at?”

“I have to admit, there is a surge of power at having an audience listen to your every word. No matter how stilted those words may be.”

“You did a fine job, for an amateur.”

“Warwick told me in no uncertain terms I needed more study.” The light from the stars and moon cast a glow over the hills, and the sound of the river gurgled up from below. For the first time in a long while, he was at peace. Whether due to the unexpected camaraderie or the copious amounts of alcohol, he'd stopped worrying about the past or fretting about the future. If only for one night. “I have to admit, it was an interesting experience.”

“Interesting?” She sauntered over and stood next to him. “So you're going to become one of the Farley Players?”

“Can you imagine what Lady Marianne would have to say about that?” He meant it as a joke, but the moment he mentioned her name he wished he could take it back.

“I promise I'll never breathe a word of it.” Her tone grew serious.

“Thank you, Miss Farley.”

“But do you agree that art brings value to the world?”

“Art cannot cure disease.”

“No, it can't prevent disease or death. But it makes life so much richer, don't you think?”

“I supposed. In a puerile way.” He couldn't help himself.

“You won't admit it has merit, will you?”

He breathed in her scent, a mixture of fresh grass, red wine and something sweet, like lilac. The memory of their earlier kiss came back to him and he wondered what it would be like to kiss her more deeply, to touch her skin, and run his fingers through her hair. Although he'd scoffed at his brother's libertine ways, he had to admit he'd missed the touch of a woman since he'd assumed the title.

Now his brother was dead, as was his father. William wasn't yet engaged. Why couldn't he have this woman? In the past twenty-four hours, he'd narrowly escaped from a fire and had walked for miles. Didn't he deserve to get what he desired?

He reached over and put his hand on her cheek. She didn't move at first, then her eyelids fluttered and her breathing slowed to match his. A surge of power ran through him, of being able to take what he craved.

Their kiss began much like the one onstage, soft and chaste, his hands lightly grasping her arms. She pulled back, resisting him, and for a moment he reconsidered. But the wry look in her eyes suggested teasing, not retreat, and further fueled his desire. He kissed her again, his tongue reaching deeper. She moaned and wrapped her arms around his waist. She was tall enough he didn't have to stoop, her body strong, and he wanted to feel every inch of her, trace every curve.

He pulled her hips close. Her body fit perfectly against his pelvis and his heat pressed against hers. When he reached down and cupped her maidenhood, shockingly available to his touch without the usual layers of petticoats and skirts, she stiffened, then uttered the slightest sigh of surrender. She'd been running the show ever since Chipping Norton and now he would prove that he was truly in control, make her cry out in pleasure.

He yanked the shirttails out of her breeches. Undressing a woman from a man's shirt was a great deal easier than struggling with a complicated gown and stays, though the whole idea was slightly perturbing. “I've never undressed a man before.”

“You're doing quite well, considering.”

He lifted her shirt over her head and let it fall on the stone floor. She was exquisite. Her breasts were round and firm, the nipples pointing slightly upward and the color of coral. He traced the silhouette of her body with his fingers, from the outside of each breast down to her tapered waist. “You're beautiful.”

She trembled in response.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“No. Now you.”

He lifted his shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor near hers. She ran her fingertips tentatively over his chest and one side of her mouth raised up in a crooked smile. “You've got an awful lot of muscle for being the intellectual sort.”

“I was quite athletic at school.”

“I can tell. You spent more time on the playing fields than studying the classics, I know that much.”

“I preferred bashing heads in person during a boxing match to reading about wars and violence in books. Much more satisfying.” He playfully caught a handful of her hair in a fist. “The pleasure of the physical.”