A Reckless Desire (27 page)

Of course Rivers had wanted the benefit then, for the sake of the wager. However could she have forgotten the purpose behind all of this? But in six days, he'd no longer have a reason to be with her. Everything would be done, finished, exactly as they'd both agreed from the beginning.

“Thank you, Mr. McGraw,” Rivers said evenly. “If the date is acceptable to Mrs. Willow, then we shall agree upon Thursday.”

“It is acceptable,” Lucia said, for what else could she say?

“Excellent.” McGraw made a final note in the almanac, then tucked it away. “I shall send word of the details to you when I return to London, which I fear I must do directly. My lord, I remain your servant. Mrs. Willow, it has been my pleasure.”

He bowed his way from the room, and the footman closed the door gently after him, leaving Lucia and Rivers alone with the sound of the rain and the awkwardness of the silence yawning between them.

She hadn't seen this room before. It was chilly, even in June, and forbiddingly filled with the dead, preserved trophies of long-ago hunts and long-ago Fitzroys, too. Unlike the rest of the Lodge, there didn't seem to be so much as a trace of Rivers in this room—except, of course, he himself, standing there before her. He was impeccably dressed in subdued clothes fit for the country, the model of an English nobleman, and yet she was far more conscious of what simmered beneath all that expensive elegance. He stood coiled and tense, his shoulders bunched beneath the tailoring and his jaw tight.

Now it wasn't the furious possessiveness that he'd shown toward McGraw that had him on edge, but the same wariness she herself was feeling. Uncertainty did that. She didn't know if he was considering sending her back to London today, or tumbling her here on the carpet. Neither would surprise her.

Yet still she stood before him, letting him break the silence first.

At last he cleared his throat. “You were magnificent, Lucia,” he said. “No, you
are
magnificent.”

Her smile blossomed with relief. At least for now he seemed willing to move beyond their uneasy parting earlier this morning. “Truly?”

“You were, without question or doubt,” he said. “Now all your talent and hard work will most certainly be rewarded.”

“Truly?” she said again, wincing inwardly at her repetition. She'd imagined this moment as being filled with wild elation and joy, and yet because of the awkwardness hovering between them, it didn't feel that way at all. “That is, I hope Mr. McGraw will continue to be pleased with me after the benefit.”

“He will,” Rivers predicted. “You have captured him, and you'd have to be very bad indeed for him to turn against you now. I would not be surprised if he offered you a more lasting place in the company.”

“That is my dream, isn't it?” Her smile faded and turned bittersweet. That
had
been her dream—to become a primary actress on the London stage, applauded by all, celebrated and independent—but much of the luster of it had dulled because going to London in a handful of days meant the end of her idyll here at the Lodge with Rivers. She knew from the beginning that this day would come, knew she shouldn't mourn over it, yet here she was, granted the one thing she'd claimed she desired most and unable to take any joy in her achievement.

“Lucia, what is wrong?” Rivers said when she didn't continue. “Tell me.”

“There's nothing wrong,” she answered automatically. “Nothing.”

“Don't lie,” he said, then sighed, raking his fingers back through his hair. “Please. When I listened to you just now I felt as if you were not reciting lines, but speaking directly to me. Your sorrow, your grief, your loss—have I done that to you?”

She shook her head, startled. How could he have guessed what she'd been thinking? What had she done to betray her thoughts so easily?

“It was the play,” she said quickly. Her aristocratic accent slipped away with her uneasiness, and she paused to recover it. “My lines. That was Ophelia speaking to you, not me.”

“No, it wasn't,” he insisted, “because I saw the same look in your eyes this morning before you spoke a word, and earlier, when you left me on the roof.”

“I am concerned about the rehearsals,” she said, avoiding the truth. “Working with the other actors and actresses on a true stage as their equal. What if they resent me? What if they believe I've no place among them?”

“The only complaint they shall have of you is that the audience will see only your glory, and be blind to their pitiful efforts.” He was trying too hard, his manner forced. “You'll see, Lucia. After next week, the world shall be your oyster, to open as you please.”

She shook her head, not so much denying the compliment as being unable to trust it. She wished he wouldn't speak of next week. Of course she was excited about the rehearsals and the benefit, but at the same time she didn't want to think of how swiftly her time with Rivers was coming to an end. The more he spoke of London, the more she couldn't help but think he was eager to leave the Lodge, and be done with her as well.

It was painful for her even to look at him now, and she shifted her gaze away from him, up to the glass-eyed buck's head looming overhead.

He sighed again, his frustration clearly growing. “Don't retreat from me, Lucia. What have I done to upset you? What have I said? What can I do to make things right?”

Hastily she looked down at her clasped hands, hiding the eyes that had betrayed her.

“You've done so much for me already,” she said. “My training, this audition, the benefit next week. I owe you everything, and have no right to expect more.”

“There's nothing owed,” he said firmly. “Nothing. It's all been given to you freely, with no obligations. I'd give you so much more if only you'd let me.”

Silently she shook her head, too aware of how every last thread and stitch on her body had been his gift. She'd already resolved that, if Mr. McGraw did offer her a place, that she'd put every farthing toward paying Rivers back. She had to do it. She could never have what she truly wished from him, which was to be with him always. She'd known that from the beginning, and there was no point in arguing over things that could not be changed. She knew, too, what he was offering her now: more clothes, jewels, perhaps even a house and a carriage, the gifts men like him lavished on women like her in exchange for warming their beds.

She wanted none of it.

“No more, Rivers,” she said, unable to keep the sadness from her voice. “You've been more than generous to me this last month, but I can't accept anything else.”

“You've only to say what you want, Lucia,” he said slowly, as if that alone could change her mind, “and it will be yours.”

“I told you, Rivers,” she said. “No more
things.
”

He frowned, clearly not understanding. “My love isn't a thing.”

She hadn't expected that, and it made her catch her breath. It was so easy for him to make statements like that, devastatingly lovely statements, as if they truly had a future to share. How could he know how they tore at her heart?

He took a step toward her, his hand outstretched as if she were a wild animal to be coaxed. “I promise you, Lucia, once we're in London—”

“I beg you, Rivers, do not speak of London!” she cried unhappily. “Whatever became of us living minute by minute and day by day, instead of making endless, empty plans for the future?”

He let his hand drop. “I have not forgotten,” he said. “What fate and the stars decree, yes?”

She nodded, short, quick jerks of her chin. “It's what makes us who we are, not what we might become, with no guarantees of certainty.”

“Very well,” he said slowly. “If that is what you desire, then I'll do my best to oblige.”

He called for the footman. “Grant, have the carriage readied, and have Mrs. Willow's maidservant bring her a cloak against the weather.”

“Where am I going?” No matter how brave she tried to be, her voice rose with trepidation, and she hurried toward him with her hands pressed together. “Rivers? Are you sending me away?”

He raised his brows with disbelief. “Why in blazes should I do that?”

“Because—because you have tired of me,” she said, faltering before the truth. “Because you wish me returned to London. Because—”

“Hush,” he said softly, taking her by the arm and drawing her close. “I wish no such thing. I'm taking you with me, not sending you away.”

She settled close to his chest, comforted by the rightness of it. They had been apart for less than three hours, and yet it had felt like an eternity. “We're not going to London?”

“Not at all,” he said, curling his arm around her waist. “You want my trust. I'll give it to you now, in this minute. We're going to my father's house. I'm taking you to Breconridge Hall.”

It had come to Rivers suddenly, this notion of taking Lucia to see Breconridge Hall, and following her plea, he'd acted on it suddenly as well, making the impulsive decision to bring her to the house where he'd spent most of his time as a boy. Impulse or not, he'd time to reflect on the short drive, sitting with Lucia close and snug beneath his arm and the last of the rain splattering on the carriage's roof.

Even that wasn't enough to reassure him. If only he'd taken another moment to consider, he would never have suggested such harebrained foolishness. It wasn't that he was ashamed of the Hall, which was generally regarded as one of the most beautiful and impressive private houses in the country. The Hall had been the center of his childhood, the destination of school holidays when he'd been an adolescent, and remained the heart of his family's major celebrations. It was the gilded, luxurious symbol of the power and good fortune of generations of Fitzroys, which was much of the reason that he'd decided to take Lucia there. How could he not be proud of it? Even His Majesty had admitted a twinge of envy when he'd visited.

And it certainly wasn't that he was ashamed of Lucia. He would be proud to have her on his arm anywhere, and after her performance today and the grace and presence she'd shown, he doubted that anyone would question her right to be a guest of the Duke of Breconridge.

Nor could he be ashamed of his own family, who were, as families went, quite presentable and good-natured. Unlike most noble families, they harbored no feuds, dark secrets, or regrettable choices in their midst. His father was publicly proud of his three sons, and Rivers counted his two older brothers as his closest friends.

No, his unsettled feelings regarding Breconridge Hall were more complicated than that, and all of his own doing. He had the Lodge and the house in Cavendish Square for his own, and thanks to his mother's family, a handsome income. He was free to do what he wanted, when he wanted, without any obligations. His life was exactly as he ordered it, and most men would eagerly trade places with him.

But the inescapable fact of his existence was that he was a third son: necessary, but ultimately extraneous. From birth he'd known he was the third son, and the likelihood of him ever becoming the next Duke of Breconridge was remote. He wouldn't wish it otherwise, of course, because the cost would have been the deaths of his father and his brothers. But Breconridge Hall was the glittering, golden prize for every generation's duke. It would never belong to Rivers or his sons, and as welcome as they'd be to visit, it would never truly be their home, either.

It was no wonder, really, that he couldn't begin to explain this incoherent jumble of loyalties to Lucia, especially since he couldn't really sort it out to his satisfaction within his own head. Thus he did what he'd always done when confronted with similar puzzles: he turned pedantic and tedious.

“There was an old manor house on the site when the land was initially granted to the first duke a hundred years ago or so,” he said, talking not so much to Lucia, who was still curled against him, but intoning to the air over her head. “Most of that was torn down in the 1690s when William Talman designed the south façade, with interiors overseen by Nicholas Hawkesmoor. Talman is not well-known today, but he was a pupil of Sir Christopher Wren, and his sense of proportion carried the master's gravity, evident in the Palladian influences of the window bays.”

“Rivers,” Lucia said. “Please.”

“Please?” he repeated, though he could guess what she meant.

“I mean, please don't,” she said softly, twisting about to face him. Her maid had brought her a short blue cape embroidered with silver flowers, and though it had covered her from the raindrops as she'd stepped into the carriage, the front kept parting as she moved, granting him tantalizing glimpses of her pale skin beneath. “You only become a schoolmaster like this when you're uneasy, and you needn't be with me.”

He frowned, knowing she was right but not quite ready to admit it. “I am not being a schoolmaster.”

“If any mere schoolmaster spoke of such lofty things as proportion and window bays, then yes, you are,” she said. She ran her fingers lightly across the breast of his coat as if to smooth away any harshness from her criticism. “I am certain that these gentlemen you mention were most esteemed in their time, but I care far more about what the house means to you than to them.”

He sighed, striving to think of things to tell her. “It was my home when I was a child,” he said. “My mother believed that children should be raised in the country, not in London. While my parents remained in town, my brothers and I were kept here with a phalanx of nursery maids, governors, and tutors attempting to mold us into proper young gentlemen.”

“That must have made for an enjoyable childhood,” she said, and he didn't miss the wistfulness in her voice. Compared to her first years, his own had been positively idyllic.

“It was,” he admitted. “My brothers and I were—are—close. Being older, they led the way in the mischief, and I happily followed. There was much potential for mayhem for three boys in a house of that size.”

“
That
is what I wish to hear,” she said, and for the first time that day she smiled with the eagerness that he loved so well. “Master Hawkesworth is well enough—”

“Hawkesmoor,” he corrected from habit. “Nicholas Hawkesmoor.”

She laughed, the merry sound like Heaven to him. “Oh, Rivers, you cannot help yourself, can you? Show me the places where you and your brothers were wicked, and I shall be a thousand times more content than if I learned what joiners put the windows in place.”

He smiled sheepishly, realizing that he, too, had not smiled much today before now. Hawkesmoor had been a lofty and legendary architect, not a humble joiner, but Rivers would not give her the satisfaction of being a schoolmaster again by pointing out the difference. And she was right: it didn't matter. He still wasn't entirely sure why he was bringing her to Breconridge Hall, but he knew it wasn't for an architectural lecture.

“Then I shall show you the picture gallery where we ran races with our dogs when it rained,” he said instead, “and the marble statue of a Roman goddess whose toe we knocked off with a cricket bat. We lived in fear that Father would notice, but I doubt he ever has.”

She laughed again, and he laughed with her: not because the goddess's broken toe was that funny, but because laughing with her was one of the things he most liked doing with her.

“I promise
I
won't be the one to tell your father,” she said, “though I'd like very much to see the poor goddess.”

“Father won't be there, in any event,” he said. “No one will, not with Parliament in session and the Court in town until the end of the summer. The house will be empty except for the servants. We shall have the place to ourselves.”

“Truly?” she asked curiously. “None of your family?”

“Not a one,” he said. Their absence was so obvious to him that he hadn't considered that she might have wished to meet them. “I'm sorry to disappoint you.”

“Oh, I am not disappointed,” she exclaimed. “I am
relieved.
I do not think I could be presented to Mr. McGraw and His Grace the Duke of Breconridge in the same day.
Dio buono,
I would perish from too much magnificence.”

She smiled, full of her old impish charm. Yet the fact that she'd fallen back into that little bit of Italian—she'd nearly abandoned it entirely along with her old accent for the sake of Mrs. Willow—proved that her true feelings were likely as unsettled as his own. Had she expected him to introduce her to his family?

He loved Lucia, loved her more than he'd ever loved any other woman. Yet to introduce her to his father, in his father's house, was so unthinkable that he hadn't even thought it, and he didn't like himself for doing—or not doing—so. In fact, as he looked at her lovely, trusting face as she smiled up at him, he felt shamefully unworthy, and a coward in the bargain.

“Perishing from magnificence is entirely possible where my father is concerned,” he said, striving to continue the jest. “I suspect there have been more than a few people at Court who have felt that way in his presence. Here we are.”

The carriage had stopped before the door on the West Front, the wheels crunching on the white stone that was raked daily. This wasn't the main entrance to the house—that would be the even more formal South Front—but this was the closest to the Lodge, and the door by which Rivers usually entered. It was a mark of just how large the house was that it even had three separate fronts and formal entrances, each added by a different generation of dukes, and each, too, calculated to be more imposing. The West Front had been built by the second duke, Rivers's great-uncle, and it was still sufficiently grand to leave most visitors awestruck.

It definitely had that affect on Lucia. He'd stepped out of the carriage as soon as the footman had opened the door, and now he stood waiting to hand her down, yet she remained half-standing in the door, her mouth open as she tipped her head back to stare up at the curving double staircase and the large house it led to.

“Madre di Dio,”
she murmured faintly.
“Non ho parole.”

I have no words.
Perhaps Father should be here after all, thought Rivers, because he would have relished her reaction.

“I warned you,” he said, thankful they hadn't gone around to the South Front. “The Hall can be daunting from the drive.”

Still she didn't move. “It didn't seem nearly this big from the Lodge.”

“No, it doesn't,” he agreed. “But from the Lodge's roof, the Hall is a good two miles away.”

“That's true.” At last she recalled herself and took his hand to step down. She flipped the hood to her cloak over her hair, looked up at the skies, and then flipped it back. “And at least the rain has stopped.”

“In your honor, madam,” he said gallantly, leading her up the curving stairs. He usually took the steps two at a time, but on account of her shorter stride and because she was openly gaping up at the front of the house, he kept to a more leisurely pace with her on his arm. Besides, he liked having her beside him, with her little hand in the crook of his arm and her silk skirts blowing against his legs in the breeze. “I've arranged the weather entirely to your liking.”

Skeptical, she glanced up at him from beneath her lashes, and found an appropriate quote from
Hamlet. “ ‘How is it that the clouds still hang on you?' ”

He laughed as they reached the door. “Because I've taken them away from your head to hang over my own, entirely for your benefit.”

The door was opened by a young footman that Rivers didn't recognize. This wasn't surprising; the butler, Mr. Maitland, usually stood guard at the primary door, and left the other entrances to lesser servants, especially when the family was not in residence.

“My—my lord, good day,” the young man stammered, bowing repeatedly as he held the door wide.

“Good day to you, too,” Rivers said, striving to sound as kind and unassuming as possible. “You're new, aren't you?”

“Since Michaelmas,” the footman said. From his downy cheeks to the livery coat inherited from a much larger predecessor, he could not be more than fifteen. “I'm Tomlin, my lord.”

“Welcome to Breconridge Hall, Tomlin,” Rivers said as he ushered Lucia inside the house. “I trust you'll serve my father well for many years to come.”

“Yes, my lord,” Tomlin said, carefully closing and latching the door as he'd been trained. “Mr. Maitland didn't say you was expected.”

“That's because I wasn't,” Rivers said. “I'm here on a whim, for a brief ramble about the house, that is all.”

The footman glanced at Lucia, flushed, and swallowed hard. “Will you be requiring tea, my lord, with the ah, the, ah—”