Tomorrow's Dreams (8 page)

“Right intonation, wrong word,” Seth quipped, winking down into her scowling face.

With a growl the actor sprang forward, his dark eyes flashing with rage. “I ought to do Denver a favor and break your neck right here and now, you-um—” His face went blank as he tried to think up an appropriate denouncement. He stuttered several times before finally blurting out, “You—despoiler of innocence!”

“Shut up, Miles!” commanded a husky female voice.

All three heads snapped around to stare at the newcomer, a stunning blond woman standing at the foot of the stairs.

“M-mother …” Miles whined, retreating like a whipped cur.

Dismissing her son's sniveling with a frown, the woman turned her glacial gaze on Penelope. “As for you, Lorelei, we'll discuss your appalling lack of professionalism later. Right now, however, you have a performance to finish.”

Penelope nodded, her mouth suddenly too dry with dread to speak. Adele was staring at her in a way that clearly boded ill, and the possible consequences of the woman's fury terrified her.

Desperate to obey her command, Penelope tried to slip from Seth's lap. But again he foiled her escape. “Please, Seth,” she whispered in a suffocated voice. “You promised to give me six weeks to arrange everything. You promised.”

Ignoring her struggles, and her frantic pleas, Seth focused his attention on the woman ascending the stairs.

Dressed in an evening gown of rich violet silk, she carried herself as regally as Queen Victoria, whom he'd once had the honor of meeting. Unlike plain Victoria, however, this woman was blessed with the kind of classic elegance that kept the tally of her years a carefully guarded secret; a secret that was betrayed the second her gaze bore into his. Pale as ice and twice as cold, her blue eyes glinted with malice that could only have come from years of bitter disillusionment and the futility of a hard life.

Feeling a shiver convulse Penelope's body, Seth crushed her protectively against his chest and announced, “Lorelei has had a nasty shock. I say she's finished performing for the evening.”

The woman fixed him with a disdainful stare. “As her employer, I say she'll finish her performance.”

“And as
your
employer, Adele, I say that Miss Leroux is excused for the rest of the evening.” It was Floyd.

Adele glared at the saloon owner, her resentment of his intrusion abundantly clear. “Surely you don't want to disappoint the audience?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“What's left of the audience is either lying in the corral knocked out from the ruckus, or too corned up to care,” Floyd replied reasonably. “'Sides, I promised Mr. Tyler here a get-acquainted supper with our Lorelei.”

Penelope groaned at that idea. The last thing she wanted to do was to resume her sparring match with Seth. But before she could voice her objections, Adele snapped, “As Mr. Tyler pointed out, Lorelei has had a nasty shock. In which case, she should be resting, not”—her mouth contorted as if she'd just taken a mouthful of cod-liver oil—“
entertaining
.”

Turning a deaf ear to Adele's protests, Floyd gave Penelope a wink of conspiracy. “A glass of champagne should spruce her up right 'nough. Ain't that so, Miss Leroux?”

Hoping to escape Seth's imprisoning embrace, and Adele's obvious displeasure, Penelope made a sudden lunge forward. Unexpectedly Seth released his hold, and she would have gone diving headfirst down the stairs had Miles not caught her.

Pulling herself from Miles's too eager grasp, she murmured, “Adele is right. I am feeling out of sorts.” To Penelope's relief, her remark drew a curt nod of approval from Adele.

“If Miss Leroux is feeling ill, she should be allowed to go home to her bed,” Seth said, standing up and straightening to his full height. He didn't miss the look of alarm that swept across the actor's face, or the speculative gleam in the blond woman's eyes as she scrutinized him from head to toe. Coolly disregarding both parties, he stared at Penelope, adding, “I'll have plenty of time in the future to get acquainted with Miss Leroux.”

Adele looked none too pleased at that prospect. “You intend to be a regular customer of the Shakespeare?”

“You can bet your bloomers on that!” trumpeted Floyd, giving Seth a hearty slap on the back. “Folks. Say hul-lo to the new owner of the Shakespeare—and your new boss—Mr. Seth Tyler.”

Chapter 6

Seth leaned back in his chair, frowning as he watched Adele du Charme regally ascend the stage stairs. He was deranged, definitely deranged. How else could he explain the bargain he'd just made with the woman?

Emitting a snort of self-disgust, he lifted his glass of whiskey in a mock salute to her retreating form, then tossed down the entire contents in one fiery gulp. Not only was he as crazy as a bedlamite; he was an imbecile to boot.

After Adele had ordered Penelope to go change out of what was left of her costume, she had cordially invited Seth to join her for a drink in the now-deserted variety hall. Determined to get to the bottom of Penelope's mysterious presence at the Shakespeare, he'd readily agreed. More fool he.

The woman was shrewd, he'd give her that. So shrewd that he'd been duped into seriously underestimating her cunning, something that seldom happened these days. As a result, she'd not only expertly dodged his questions regarding Penelope, she'd used his obvious interest in the actress to her own advantage.

Muttering a self-denigrating profanity beneath his breath, he dug his cigar case out of his pocket and snapped it open. The interview had started out innocuous enough, with Madame du Charme graciously inquiring about his comfort at the American House and congratulating him on his purchase of the Shakespeare. Indeed, even their exchange over the agreement between the theatrical company and the variety hall couldn't have been more genial. Instead of whining or hedging as he'd expected, she merely shrugged and discussed it in a surprisingly philosophical manner.

Her son, Miles, it seemed, had a problem with gambling: he lost more than he won, and like most compulsive gamblers he truly believed that his next big win was only a card turn away. As a result of his weakness, he'd accrued an immense faro debt during the company's original week-long run at the Shakespeare.

To repay his debt, Adele had committed the company to an additional twelve weeks at the variety hall, with the Shakespeare keeping all the monies collected at the door. As she'd so succinctly pointed out, the Shakespeare was coming out on the winning end of the deal, since every performance by Mademoiselle Leroux yielded a veritable gold mine.

Heaving a gusty sigh, Seth drew his last cigar from the case. In all honesty, he'd been so overwrought at seeing Penelope again, that he'd only half listened to Adele's inane pleasantries and rote explanations. Like most women he knew, her chatter was agreeable but not particularly stimulating or interesting.

However, when she'd segued her dialogue from her deal with the Shakespeare to an anecdote about how some man had offered a small fortune for the privilege of dining with—how had she phrased it? Oh, yes—Lorelei Leroux, Toast of the West, she'd done more than stimulate his interest; she'd aroused his jealousy. To Seth's dismay, her narrative had sent a startling rush of possessiveness through him that he had no right or desire to feel for Penelope.

As if sensing his mood and correctly guessing its cause, Adele had chosen that moment to deliver her coup de grâce: she proposed that he accept the beauteous Lorelei as his evening companion—his
platonic
companion, she stipulated—in exchange for reducing their performance obligation from twelve weeks to six.

Like the fool she'd obviously and, it seemed, correctly taken him for, he'd promptly agreed, never once stopping to consider the havoc such a deal would play with his heart … or his loins. With jealousy masquerading as gallantry, he'd justified his actions by telling himself that he'd be better able to protect Penelope if he kept her close during her hours at the Shakespeare, which he figured was when she faced the most peril.

Trouble was, he hadn't stopped to think of his own impetuous feelings or how he would protect himself from them.

Seth groaned aloud at his own folly. Whatever had possessed him to let himself be roped into this fiasco? Especially in light of his pathetically erratic behavior during his earlier encounter with Penelope. Why, he was mad to have thought he'd be able to endure her company and not let his emotions get the best of him.

Mad
. Seth stared bleakly at the greenish-brown cigar in his fingers. After almost three agonizing years of waiting, it appeared his nightmares were becoming reality: his tainted blood was poisoning his mind. At long last the madness was upon him.

At long last?
his conscience mocked him.
Since when have you ever acted the least bit sane in matters concerning Penelope?

Smiling bitterly, he acknowledged that truth. From the very instant Penelope had looked at him as something more than just her brother's best friend, he'd lost not only his heart, but his self-control and good sense as well. For the first time in his life he'd been in love, and had found himself acting from raw emotion instead of his usual cool intellect. And because he'd let his illogical heart rule his sensible head, he'd made one inexcusable mistake after another. Take, for example, the ignominious way he'd treated her in New York.

Seth cringed inwardly, as he always did when he remembered that night. Like the misguided ass he was, he'd rationalized his boorish behavior by telling himself that he'd broken her heart for her own good. After all, how could he marry her knowing what he was and what he might become?

Like hell it was for her own good
, his conscience scoffed.
It was for the good of your own insufferable pride
.

That admission sent a wave of self-condemnation crashing through him. It was true: he had been too proud to confess the humiliating truth about his parentage to Penelope. He still was. Except for his friend, Jake, whom he'd asked to be custodian of himself and his fortune when the worst happened, he hadn't confided his secret to anyone. His pride wouldn't allow it.

Not for the first time, Seth cursed his overweening pride. During rare moments like this, when he allowed himself to remember his disgraceful conduct in New York, he sometimes wondered if, like love and jealousy, pride, too, was a form of madness. For what, if not madness, had possessed him when he opened that door and found Penelope in Julian Tibbett's arms?

Guilt crushed at his chest as he remembered Penelope's face when he'd walked into her dressing room that night. Even if she hadn't had a ready and admittedly plausible explanation for her compromising predicament, the expression on her face would have been enough to dispel any notions of wrongdoing. Hell. She'd practically glowed with happiness at the sight of him. And the way she'd held out her arms to him, her love burning like emerald fire in the depths of her beautiful eyes, was hardly the action of an unfaithful woman caught in a tryst with her lover.

But because of his damnable pride, he had ignored the truth in her eyes, just as he'd ignored his heart's prompting to have faith in her love. It had been far easier to play the wronged bridegroom than to confess his mortifying secret.

Making a sound of disgust deep in his throat, Seth shoved the cigar into his mouth. Tensely clenching it between his bared teeth, he searched his pocket for his cigar cutter. There was a name for what he had been that night, one more dishonorable than that of madman or bastard. That name was coward.

Being a coward might account for your demented conduct in New York
, his mind jeered.
But what of your lunacy in agreeing to Adele du Charme's proposition? If you were in complete possession of your wits, you'd drag Penelope back to San Francisco and let her brother deal with whatever trouble has landed her here
.

Frustrated at his lack of self-control, Seth bit down so hard that his teeth punctured the tobacco-leaf cigar wrapping. Grimacing at the acrid taste, he pulled it from his lips and tossed it to the floor.

How the hell was he going to keep his emotions in check for the next six weeks? With a low, tormented moan, he buried his face into his hands. All this time he'd honestly believed that his love for Penelope was dead. He had wished it to be so. Yet, when he'd looked into her tear-filled eyes, he had once again experienced the desperate, almost obsessive, need he'd always felt for her. Dear God! What was he to do?

There was only one way to handle the situation: ignore his feelings and continue to provoke Penelope into thinking that he was the most black-hearted bastard to ever walk the earth.

Slowly Seth raised his face from his hands, a bleak smile contorting his lips. The latter part of the plan shouldn't prove too onerous a task. Penelope had made it bitingly clear that she still harbored ill feelings toward him for the way he'd treated her in New York. Not that he'd expected any differently, for her pride ranked only second to his. That being the case, there should be no danger of an unintentional reconciliation.

Are you so sure about her feelings?
his devil's advocate of a conscience piped in.
It seems to me that if she truly despised you, she wouldn't have cried in your arms and clung to your chest like you were the last piece of flotsam on a sinking ship
.

The remembrance of Penelope crying in his arms made Seth do something he hadn't done in decades: he blushed. Despite his best efforts to remain aloof during their physical contact, the feel of her body against his had aroused him almost beyond endurance.

The heat in his face deepened to a slow burn. Had she noticed his inflamed state? He groaned. How could she not have noticed? She'd been sitting directly on top of his hardness.

Seth shook his head. Well, it didn't do any good to worry about it now. He'd just have to take care to exercise more control in the future. Perhaps he'd accept the offers made by several of the saloon girls, and spend his lust to the point where he wouldn't be able to get an erection even if he wanted one. At least then he could concentrate on the more difficult problem of grappling with his emotions.