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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

BOOK: When You're Desired
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Rourke opened his mouth to pour more oil, only to find that it was no longer necessary; her mood had changed. “I just need one more good run, Davey! Is that too much to ask? Just give me one more good run!”
“
Twelfth Night
should answer, my love,” Rourke said gently. “In your first scene you wash up on the shores of Illyria, half-naked and soaked through to your skin. Then you spend the rest of the play in tight breeches. Who wouldn't pay to see that?”
“We've no Olivia!”
“I'll work with Belinda. She'll be grand; you'll see.”
Celia sighed. “No, she won't,” she said, sounding more resigned than belligerent.
“She will, she will,” he insisted. “Anyway, we've a more pressing matter: Mr. Palmer's benefit.” He paused hopefully, but St. Lys merely lifted her brows in cool disdain. “As you know, Mrs. Copeland was to play Juliet,” he went on glumly. “Obviously, we'll be needing someone to take her place on short notice. Would you be an angel, Celia darling?”
“Why don't you ask Miss Archer?”
“I did; she turned me down.”
“What?” cried Celia, rounding on him furiously.
“I'm only joking you,” he said quickly. “You're the only one who can do it and you know that well.”
She did not laugh as he had hoped. “Mr. Palmer won't want
me
in his benefit, surely. What is it he says about me, Flood? ‘Ah! St. Lys! Precious little face; precious little bottom; precious little talent!'”
“If you don't play, Celia darling,” Rourke persevered, “he'll have to cancel, poor man, and then he won't be able to feed his five long children. And you know how little Charlotte worships the ground you walk on. Be an angel! Be a saint! Do it for the children!”
As Celia stood unmoved, there was a knock on the door. It opened, as if of its own accord, and a tall young man in scarlet and gold regimentals strode into the room. From his actress mother Captain Fitzclarence had inherited his dark good looks, while his royal father had provided him with something more practical: a commission in the Life Guards. Just nineteen, he was quite five years Celia's junior.
“I am come to fetch you, Celia,” he announced.
“High time, too,” Celia grumbled, motioning to Flood to fetch her cloak. “I'm bloody starved. I want my supper.”
“I was detained by Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Berkshire,” he protested. “What a sight! She is like a little doll stuck all over with emeralds and diamonds.”
“How nice for Her Grace,” Celia returned. “May we go now?”
“Not just yet,” he replied. “Her Grace has expressed the desire to meet you. She awaits you in the Green Room. I am to take you to her.”
Flood, her mistress's cloak in hand, was brought up short by this announcement. Her mouth fell open and her eyes swung to her mistress's face.
“I'm afraid I'm in no mood for one of your jokes, Clare,” Celia said, frowning.
“It's no joke,” Fitzclarence assured her, seizing her by the hand. “You are desired this instant. Upon my honor, 'tis true,” he insisted in response to her obvious doubt.
“Oh, yes?” Celia scoffed at him, her hands on her hips. “And what, pray, does the Duchess of Berkshire want with me?”
“The name of your modiste, perhaps,” he quipped. “Or, possibly, acting lessons? I
suppose
she means to congratulate you on your performance. Is it so strange? You were utterly divine tonight.”
For once, flattery seemed to have no effect on the actress. “But, surely—Surely I am quite beneath the notice of such a lady,” Celia protested. “I'm hardly Sarah Siddons, am I? I'm only an actress, for heaven's sake!”
“Oh, that's perfect,” he congratulated her. “That's just the right touch of humility. Play it just like that, my dear, and you'll have the old bitch eating out of your hand in no time at all.”
“No, thank you,” Celia said tartly. “I'd rather not be nibbled on, if it's all the same to you.”
“Her Grace might be after wanting you for a private performance, Celia darling,” Rourke suggested. “There's money in that.”
Celia's expression hardened. “Celia St. Lys is not available for private performances,” she announced. “If anyone wants to see me, he or she can bloody well buy a ticket.”
“I wouldn't put it quite like that to Her Grace,” Rourke advised her lightly.
“I shan't put it to Her Grace at all,” Celia declared. “I haven't the slightest intention of putting myself on display in the Green Room tonight. I'm tired and I'm hungry. I want my supper. Tell Her Grace I've left the theatre already.”
“But Her Grace does you great honor,” Rourke protested, “and 'tis a great fool you'd be to go offending her.”
“He's right, Celia,” Fitzclarence told the actress. “She's not just any old duchess, you know. She's one of the patronesses of the ton.”
Celia laughed scornfully. “So? I ain't a debutante. What can she do to me? Revoke my vouchers to Almack's? Somehow I think I'll survive Her Grace's disapprobation.”
“Don't be a fool, Celia,” he cautioned her. “One cannot snub a duchess.”
“Why not?” she wanted to know. “Where is it written that an actress may not snub a duchess? This may be my only chance to do so.”
“She has brought her son with her,” said Fitzclarence persuasively.
Celia lifted her brows. “Which one? The lady has two, and there is a vast difference between the elder and the younger.”
“Is there really? Do tell,” said Fitzclarence.
“One can only hope that His Grace is nothing like his brother.”
Clare chuckled. “Don't worry,” he told her cheerfully. “It is not the cursed younger son. I shouldn't bother if it were only Lord Simon. No, it's the good one: Berkshire himself, in the flesh, the soft, pallid, unmarried flesh. Here is your golden opportunity. You shall have five minutes at least in which to fix the man's interest—plenty of time, if I know you.”
Celia sighed. “I suppose it would be foolish to offend them.” Fitzclarence pulled her, unresisting, to the door. “It would indeed. 'Twould be the height of folly to keep Their Graces waiting any longer.
You
may be of the aristocracy of talent, my dear, but
they
are the aristocracy.”
“I do sometimes think the French had the right idea about the aristocracy,” Celia grumbled.
The Green Room was neither green nor a room, at least not by strict definition. It had neither walls nor a door. Situated off the stage, just out of view of the audience, actors waited there to go onstage during a performance. After the performance, it became a place where patrons of the theatre might mingle with the actors and actresses. In this environment, pretty young actresses could easily meet rich admirers, and rich admirers could easily acquire attractive mistresses. Needless to say, it was not a place much frequented by respectable females. For those actresses who valued their reputations, it was a place best to be avoided. Celia regarded it as little better than a slave market, and those admirers who sought St. Lys there did so in vain.
Why had the duchess chosen to meet her in the Green Room? she could not help wondering. And why tonight? “Did Her Grace say why this honor was to be bestowed upon me?” she asked aloud, tucking her hand into the crook of Fitzclarence's arm.
“Her Grace is a lady very much accustomed to having her own way,” he replied. “I'm sure 'tis nothing sinister. I daresay 'tis nothing more than a whim. You're not nervous, are you?” he asked curiously.
“Certainly not,” Celia replied sharply. Though more than a little unnerved, she was determined not to show it. “I simply prefer to have these things arranged in advance.”
“This is real life, Celia,” he informed her. “There are no playwrights or stage managers in real life.”
“I don't need a playwright,” she said, annoyed. “For your information, this ain't my first duchess. It certainly ain't my first duke. I just hope they don't keep me too long. I might faint from hunger.”
“Just be yourself,” he murmured, as they drew closer to the curtain that set the Green Room apart from the rest of backstage.
She laughed shortly. “Be myself? Are you wise? It's St. Lys they want, not Celia.”
“Are they not one and the same?”
“Lord, no. Chalk and cheese.” Celia paused behind the curtain to take a deep breath, then gave her escort a slight nod. “Let's get this over with, shall we?” she murmured, fixing her mouth into a smile of supreme confidence.
The Duke of Berkshire was already on his feet when St. Lys appeared, but he snapped to attention and offered her a full, ceremonious bow. His Grace's companion, a plump young woman in puce satin, merely stared, her eyes almost starting from her head.
“Who's the girl?” Celia murmured to Fitzclarence, without losing her smile.
“That is Lucasta Tinsley, the great heiress. Didn't I mention her?”
“No, you did not,” Celia replied, still smiling.
A chair, or, rather, a throne, had been brought from the property room for the duchess to sit upon. Her Grace was occupied with Miss Charlotte Palmer, the pretty little Columbine who, with her brother, had gathered up St. Lys's roses after the play. As Celia moved toward them, the dowager looked up, her green eyes widening in astonishment. “Good heavens, Miss St. Lys!” she exclaimed involuntarily. “You are even more beautiful than I thought.”
The famous and beautiful St. Lys seemed not to hear the compliment.
“Come, Charlotte,” she said to the little girl, stopping halfway across the room and stretching out her hand.
“Oh, do please let her stay with me, Miss St. Lys,” the duchess said quickly. “She is not bothering me in the least. She's so adorable! I'd like to take her home with me,” she added, pinching the child's cheeks. “Isn't she adorable, Dorian?”
The Duke of Berkshire, caught staring at St. Lys as if she were a painting or, perhaps, a statue in a museum, gave a start, and said yes. Yes, she was.
“Come here to me, Charlotte,” Celia repeated clearly, still holding out her hand. “I will show you the proper way to curtsy to a duchess. One must be taught these things, after all.”
The child ran to Celia eagerly. Celia demonstrated the proper form, sinking into a very deep curtsy, her head bowed in tranquil reverence. The child copied the graceful movement as best she could, to the duchess's delight. Her Grace applauded, saying, “I wish you would take some of our debutantes in hand, Miss St. Lys. The last drawing room at St. James's Palace was the most shocking display of gaucherie I have ever had the misfortune to see.”
“Go and tell your papa that I will play in his benefit tomorrow night,” Celia whispered to Charlotte Palmer, sending her from the room with a kiss.
“Bring her closer, Fitzclarence,” the duchess commanded Celia's escort. “Don't be afraid, Miss St. Lys,” she added kindly. “I shan't bite you.”
Celia laughed. Even her laugh was famous; no one who ever heard that delightful low, throaty purr ever forgot it. “I am very glad to hear
that
, Your Grace,” she drawled, coming forward. “One can never be too careful these days.”
The duchess smiled indulgently. In her opinion, beautiful actresses ought to be at least somewhat impudent. Certainly they should not behave like prim young ladies straight out of the schoolroom.
That
would be intolerable. “May I present my son, the Duke of Berkshire? Oh, and—er—Miss Tinsley,” she added rather vaguely.
Dorian bowed again, but Miss Tinsley did not curtsy.
St. Lys merely inclined her head. “How nice. I do hope you all enjoyed the play?”
“Very much,” said the duchess. “Did we not, Dorian?”
“Yes; very much,” Dorian murmured.
“You are very kind to say so,” said Celia. “Praise, you know, is the lifeblood of the theatre. ‘The drama's laws the drama's patrons give, for we that live to please, must please to live.'”
“Is that Shakespeare?” Dorian asked eagerly. “I'm awfully fond of Shakespeare. I did a little amateur acting when I was at Eton.”
St. Lys glanced at him. “I'm afraid that was Dr. Johnson, Your Grace.”
“Well, you certainly pleased us tonight, my dear,” the duchess told her warmly. “You were charming, from first to last! Absolutely charming! We were in raptures.”
“I was not in raptures,” Lucasta declared. “You were very good as the barmaid, Miss St. Lys. I grant you that much. But, I suppose, it is a part that comes
naturally
to a person like yourself.”

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