The Duke's Indiscretion (28 page)

The earl said nothing, though his lips pinched distastefully, as if he had to force himself to keep his tongue in check.

The Frenchwoman fumed, looking from one to the other, realizing with only the briefest shadow of horror to cross her features, that she now had everyone's attention.

Crossing her arms over her breasts and lifting her chin, she fairly barked, “I challenge you to prove
I
had anything to do with it.”

Colin supposed he probably couldn't, and they all knew it. Still, he couldn't help but goad the woman into incriminating herself.

“Prove it? Maybe not. But I think I'll have Lottie make a list of all the sundry ‘mishaps' that have be-
fallen her lately, then ask the police to check into them, comparing each instance to whatever you might have been doing during those particular times.” His gaze narrowed to slits as one corner of his mouth twitched. “When questioned by the authorities, people tend to reveal all, Miss Piaget. You would do well to look into your affairs. I suspect you're about to find yourself in very deep water.”

“Or arrested,” Sir Thomas chimed in good-naturedly.

Eyes wide, Sadie took a step back, licking her lips. Then a sudden knock at the door startled everyone, and before a response could be made, one of the cast members peeked in, her painted brows rising high when she took in the strange view.

“Uh, Lottie, two minutes,” the girl mumbled hesitantly. “And you need to change costumes.”

Colin glanced back at his wife. She looked pale and anxious, and utterly beside herself with anger and dejection. He could read her face like a book.

The muffled sound of music began anew, saving Colin from taking three steps forward and killing his brother-in-law for causing her so much hurt for so many years. Instead, he reached for Charlotte's hand and turned her around to face him.

“We'll finish this later,” he said with a tentative smile. “Right now, you're needed on the stage.”

He could see the hesitation in her eyes, the shock and confusion and frustration in her features. He cupped her cheek with his palm and murmured, “Go and sing and make me proud, my beautiful duchess. You are the star.”

She nodded and tried to smile in return. Then glancing back to her brother, she hissed, “We're not through with this conversation, Charles.”

Brixham scoffed and looked away as his sister walked from the dressing room. Sadie stood and brushed her palms down her costume. “I'm needed as well.”

“I don't think so,” Sir Thomas chimed in. “In fact, I think it's high time we began investigating your involvement in this scheme.”

Sadie glared at him. “I need to sing.”

Colin replied, “As I said before, you're in the chorus. You won't be missed.”

“How dare you!”

“I suppose I could follow you,” Sir Thomas interjected, “make certain you don't corrupt the performance with any antics.”

The Frenchwoman gasped. “Antics?”

“An excellent idea,” Colin said. “If you must be on stage, Sir Thomas can watch you from behind the curtain, and then the two of you can continue your little chat when the performance ends.”

“This is ridiculous,” she spat.

“Not as ridiculous as your thinking you could ever compare yourself to the grace, beauty and talent of Lottie English,” he murmured, his words overflowing with contempt.

She gasped at his gall.

Colin ignored her, glancing a final time to his brother-in-law. “I'm sure you'll not want to miss the third act, Brixham,” he said wryly. “It's time for the world to discover who Lottie really is.”

His eyes opened wide as the sweat began to roll down his reddened cheeks. “You wouldn't,” he warned in a choked whisper.

He shook his head and chuckled. “Oh, I would. With pleasure.”

Then he turned his back on them, nodded once to Sir Thomas, and quit the dressing room.

E
ven after all the turmoil she'd just endured, with a new anger and sorrow bubbling up in her heart, Charlotte would always be a professional singer, the star of English opera, beloved by her country. Although her identity would remain a mystery for now, she would never give anything less than her best with each performance, regardless of place or part.

And so she didn't.

The third act went as perfectly as she could have ever dreamed; even Porano, oblivious to what had just transpired with her behind the stage, sang flawlessly. The night was indeed magical, made even more so because her husband had stood beside her, in every possible way, defending not only her honor, but her choices as a woman, to her scoundrel of a brother and the ignorant girl she'd actually considered a friend.

She had no idea what her future would bring
now that she'd learned the truth behind her offers to perform in Italy. But as she sang her last this night, at the end of the opening night for Balfe's
The Bohemian Girl
revival, it hardly mattered to her anymore.

As the cheers erupted, Charlotte curtsied deeply to the adoring public with tears in her eyes as they one by one began to stand to salute her performance. She'd never felt more revered in her life as minute after minute passed with unending applause, some shouting “Bravo!” and ladies in finery handing her flowers from the edge of the stage.

Charlotte acknowledged the orchestra, then Porano and Walter as they took their places beside her, bowing to the crowd, Adamo making a grand example of Italian joviality as he grabbed her and kissed her once on each cheek.

And then as sudden as it was odd, a hush fell upon the audience, as the cheering and clapping turned to murmurs, the roar of adulation swiftly changing to a low drone of whispered conversation.

Charlotte turned, noticing at once what had caused the commotion.

From the side of the stage, her husband appeared, stately and dashing as always as he began to walk toward her.

“What is your lover doing on the
stage
?” Porano whispered through his forced smile.

Charlotte didn't answer him. Excitement and a surge of tenderness welled up inside of her to the point of nearly overflowing when she caught sight of
the enormous bouquet of red roses he held nestled in one arm.

In all the years he had admired her from afar, he had never given her flowers. That this night was his first to do so made the gesture so much more meaningful, and it instantly brought back the memory of the evening they met in her dressing room all those months ago. That night she had been nervous and overwhelmed by the handsome man who gingerly propositioned her. Tonight, with his gaze locked with hers, looking more handsome than she'd ever seen him, he emanated a devotion for her so powerful it took her breath away.

For seconds, she couldn't speak. Then, her throat closed tight with emotion, she whispered, “Colin…”

“My darling Lottie,” he replied, his eyes filled with adoration and a trace of amusement. “You are, and will always be, the prima donna of the London opera.”

As if escaping a trance, Charlotte became aware of the crowd once more, staring at her, some of them undoubtedly appalled that the married Duke of Newark so callously took the stage to salute his lover.

Recovering herself, she curtsied, then took the roses he offered as she replied, “Thank you, your grace. I'm—so glad you could attend this opening night.”

Nobody moved. Several long, uncomfortable seconds passed as the audience, consisting of nobles, the elite of society and dignitaries, grew quiet, some of them gaping, some whispering.

Suddenly she heard a loud gasp, then a squeal from the balcony.

Colin winked at her, then stepped to his side. In a rather loud voice, he said, “Mr. Michael William Balfe, may I present to you my wife, Charlotte, the Duchess of Newark.”

For a long moment of absolute incredulity, the entire Italian Opera House in Covent Garden stood silent and transfixed. Charlotte stilled as a wave of panic coupled with astonishment washed over her.

From behind her husband, in walked the portly form of Great Britain's most celebrated composer of the nineteenth century, his oiled hair smoothed down atop his head, his beard outlining his jowls, now widened with a smile.

Her knees suddenly went weak beneath her as the man strode slowly to her side, then reached for her hand.

“You have done my music proud, madam. I'm honored to meet you,” he said with complete sincerity before dropping a light kiss on her knuckles.

Charlotte thought she might faint, though she did manage a curtsy. “Mr. Balfe,” she murmured, her throat unnaturally dry.

She could hear Porano behind her mumbling in Italian, and she made her best effort in introducing him, coming to her senses as she realized everybody in the cast and orchestra, even the audience, remained at a complete loss for words.

Balfe evidently understood the reaction, for he waved once to the crowd, then leaned in to say,
“Your husband invited me several weeks ago to sit in his box this opening night. I think he thought to surprise you.”

She gazed back to Colin, who stood to the side a little, his hands behind him, watching her with a wicked grin on his mouth.

“Then I shall thank him later,” she replied, her nervousness finally fading.

Balfe chuckled. “Truly, madam, you have a magnificent instrument. Perhaps you'll do me the honor of singing for me in a new production one day.” He scratched his side whiskers. “I am, in fact, returning to St. Petersburg in the coming months, and probably Vienna as well. Perhaps you and your husband can join me so that you can sing on the Continent for a season.”

She fought back tears of utter joy. “It would be my greatest pleasure, sir. But…um…I would need to discuss it with him, of course.”

“And on your behalf, so will I,” Balfe returned, his eyes sparkling in good humor. “But I don't think it will require much persuasion.”

Charlotte laughed as the atmosphere grew more relaxed around them. The audience had begun to disperse, some in the crowd hesitantly stepping onto the stage, presumably to meet the great composer, others leaving through the back as they exited into the foyer. The cast and orchestra started to encircle them now, all wanting their chance for introduction as well.

“Open the card, Charlotte,” Colin interrupted in murmur as he moved closer to her side.

She blinked, uncertain at his change in subject. “The card?”

“With the bouquet,” he clarified, nodding to the flowers in her hand.

She dropped her gaze to the beautiful roses he'd given her only moments ago, at least two dozen of them, wrapped in a white satin ribbon. It took her only seconds to find it, tucked into the ribbon at the base of the flowers.

She shot him a quick glance, then offered another smile to Balfe, who watched with his arms closed over his chest.

The whispers around her died down once more, and she suddenly felt a grave sense of anticipation course through her.

Colin took a step even closer, and she could feel his gaze on her face. Then she opened the card and began to read.

For seconds, she couldn't move, couldn't look away from the handwritten note. Then she started trembling, and very, very slowly, she raised her lashes to look into his eyes.

She saw only a trace of uncertainty in his candid gaze, and then he whispered, “Love me?”

His face became a blur as tears filled her eyes. In a voice barely heard, she breathed, “I do. Always.”

Then oblivious to everything but him, she dropped the roses and walked into his arms.

Penzance
September, 1864

C
olin stirred from what he supposed was a nap, glancing up to the late afternoon sun, then squinting as he cleared the fog from his head and searched for his wife.

It took him only a moment to find her, down by the sea, holding Olivia and Sam's second child, Matthew, a baby of only eight weeks, in one arm while she spoke to Gracie, Matthew's three-year-old sister, who appeared to be building a sand castle. Or attempting to. He watched them for a moment, taking note of the children, as Will and Vivian's son, Henry, suddenly jerked his hand free from his mother's and ran up from the shoreline to kick the clumps of sand, then jump up and down on the creation to his own great amusement.

Gracie began screaming, which in turn made the
baby cry, and Charlotte looked at him and waved, a huge grin on her mouth which no doubt came from the fact that they, as yet, remained spared from the torture of shrieking children.

Colin turned on his side, resting his head in his palm as he took in the scene. Will and Sam, who stood a short distance away, talking to each other by the sea, only briefly glanced over their shoulders at the commotion, then returned to their obviously more important conversation. Vivian scrambled up from the shore to scold her son, who then began crying and throwing a fit of his own for all to enjoy.

It amused him, really, when he considered how their lives had changed through the years. He had been the one to avoid marriage the longest, deathly afraid of losing his independence, and now he found it difficult to remember what it felt like when he didn't have Charlotte by his side, to comfort him, get angry at him, make love to him. In many ways, he and his friends had grown closer since he'd married, probably because their wives had all become great friends themselves. They only saw each other once or twice a year now, but they always made a point to holiday in Penzance together before the end of summer. And he truly looked forward to these times. Even screaming babies didn't bother him anymore. They were simply part of life, a joy of growing older, and one he'd begun to wish he could experience for himself.

They hadn't really talked about children, as Charlotte had been touring the Continent to great and growing acclaim these last few years. True, they had been careful in their lovemaking, but somewhere
inside he'd begun to feel a spark of concern that she might not be able to conceive. He hadn't mentioned his thoughts to her, and she'd seemed enormously content just knowing he stayed by her side when she traveled, and so up until now it hadn't really mattered.

He'd accompanied her abroad, naturally, and had thoroughly enjoyed the experience himself, meeting and dining and conversing with various dignitaries, members of the aristocracy, and just those individuals who adored the opera and admired the gift that was his wife. If he'd been proud of her before, nothing compared to watching her take the stage in the grandest opera houses in Italy, Austria, Russia. She was magnificent, and every day his love for her deepened.

As if knowing he suddenly needed her beside him, Charlotte handed Matthew to Olivia and began to walk toward him, brushing her unruly, gorgeous hair off her face as the breeze pulled it from the ribbon at her nape. He grinned, feeling a surge of lust as he watched the wind pick up for a few seconds to sweep her skirts to her side, outlining her curves from breasts to ankles for his view.

“I think I slept,” he drawled as she approached.

“Hmm. Would you be shocked to know you snored so loudly, my darling, that you frightened the birds from the shore?”

He chuckled. “I did not.”

She sat beside him, pulling her legs up and under her skirt, then wrapping her arms around her knees. “You did.”

He remained quiet for a moment, gazing out to sea. “It's lovely here, as always.”

She sighed. “I know. I think I could live here.”

Reaching for her hand, he began stroking her fingers. “Charlotte, I've been thinking…”

She turned her head, gazing down at him. “I thought you were sleeping,” she replied lightheartedly. “Well, until Henry destroyed Gracie's marvelous architectural achievement,” she amended. “I don't think anyone for a mile could nap through that.”

He chuckled. “That's exactly what I was thinking about.”

“What? Screaming children?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

She laughed, throwing her head back, her strawberry-blond curls brushing his arm. “You mean have one of our own, Colin, my love?”

Grabbing her around the waist, he yanked her down onto the blanket beside him, pinning her there as he began to nuzzle her neck. “Let's have five or six.”

She screeched. “Stop that, it's indecent.”

“I don't care,” he murmured against her skin.

She tucked her palm under his chin and pushed him back a little, holding him a few inches away. After a moment of skimming his face with her gaze, she whispered, “Do you know how much I love you?”

He absolutely adored it when she asked him that. “How much?”

She ran her thumb along his jaw. “Enough to give you the world.”

“My Lottie,” he teased, rubbing his nose on the tip of hers. “You've already done that.”

“Then how about a baby,” she whispered, “next March?”

He pulled back a little and looked at her strangely.

She gave him a crooked grin. “Why talk about it when I'm already carrying?”

 

On March 25, 1865, their daughter, Sophia Victoria, entered the world, strong and healthy and wailing louder than any child he'd ever heard in his life. Every night Colin would stare at her while she slept, his love profound, his joy beyond description, wondering, with her piercing voice, how he would be able to afford her tour when she begged him to sing upon the stage in twenty years.