A Reckless Desire (4 page)

Father had given the Lodge to Rivers on his twenty-first birthday as a personal retreat, a generous gift indeed for a third son. As country houses went, it was decidedly eccentric, with old-fashioned mullioned windows and an ornate stone balcony across the entire front, but it had become home to Rivers in a way that his London house never would. The Lodge was the place where he conducted his various projects without worrying about interruptions. It was his private sanctuary, from the small library crowded with books to the flat roof with a telescope for stargazing, as well as the experiment with lightning that had so distressed Harry.

“Tell me at the very least that you're not taking some poor milliner's apprentice with you again as a companion,” Harry said, looking serious and very older-brother-ish. “You frightened that last one nearly to death with the lightning. I heard that she was so convinced you were in league with the devil that she ran screaming all the way to the Hall.”

“I assure you that it wasn't nearly so dramatic as that,” Rivers said, striving to remember more about the girl. She'd been exceptionally beautiful, but also exceptionally foolish, as he'd soon come to realize during the week she'd been with him. What in London had seemed like an entertaining and amorous notion had turned woefully bad once they were alone together in the country. She had bored him to the quick, and if she hadn't run shrieking from the Lodge like a madwoman, he would likely have soon packed her back to town anyway. He thought her name had been Fanny. Or was it Annie?

“So no pretty milliner's apprentices will be accompanying you this time?” Harry asked, still suspicious. “No nymphs to chase beneath the ancient oaks and elders?”

“Not this time, no,” Rivers said in perfect honesty. Lucia di Rossi was neither a pretty milliner's apprentice nor a nymph, and he was certain there would be no chasing whatsoever. Thinking of her enormous eyes and pale face, her small body swathed in drab, dark clothing, he knew she'd offer no temptation of that variety. She might have spirit and presence, but those were not qualities he sought in a woman he wished to bed. Far from it. No, Lucia would be there for another purpose, one that would let her sleep entirely undisturbed in his single, small guest room. He was taking her to the Lodge only so he could transform her far away from any distractions—and from curious, interfering observers, especially Everett.

“No diversion of that sort,” he continued. “Suffice to say that there is a small wager with Everett involved—a wager that I intend to win.”

“A wager?” Harry repeated with fresh interest, cocking a single dark brow. “Now I am intrigued. I don't suppose you'll tell me more?”

Rivers shook his head, and smiled, relishing the mystery. His earlier misgivings had entirely vanished, and now he'd not a single doubt that he'd make the girl succeed.

“Not a word more,” he said, stopping just short of ungentlemanly boasting. “But I can assure you, brother, when I am done in six weeks' time, you and the rest of London will be amazed—
astounded!
—by what I've achieved.”

But the next morning, on the stage of the Prince's Theatre, the subject of Rivers's future brilliant achievement met with a much different reception to the news of the wager.

“Please, Uncle Lorenzo, I must speak with you,” Lucia said, bravely stepping before him to block his path. She had been trying all morning to catch his attention and each time he had brushed her aside. She hated to interrupt her uncle here on the stage during the middle of a rehearsal, but Lord Rivers had told her to return to his house for the first lesson by noon, and if she waited any longer, she'd be late. “It's of great importance.”

Clearly displeased, her uncle scowled down at her. Although he no longer performed himself, he took his role as the head of their family as well as the
maestro
of their troupe very seriously, and expected to be treated with the respect due to a great artist who had danced for kings and queens. Although he dressed like a macaroni, in an oversized frizzled wig, snug striped waistcoat, and gold hoops in his ears, he was still an imperious figure, and an impatient one as well.

“What is it, Lucia?” he said now, looking over her head toward someone or something else that he considered more important. “You know how important this dance will be for the benefit next week. There is nothing you can say to me now that will be worth your interruption of my thoughts.”

Lucia flushed. When she'd failed at dancing, she had ceased to be of any value to her uncle, and this was how he always addressed her, as if she were the most insignificant and irritating creature imaginable.

“Forgive me for that lost moment, Uncle,” she said. “But I must tell you that I am leaving the company.”

His scowl deepened to thunderous proportions. “Do not be foolish, Lucia,” he said. “You will not leave us. You are a Di Rossi. Where would you go? What would you do? You cannot leave.”

She raised her chin, steeling herself against his temper.

“I am leaving,” she repeated. “I have taken another…another position.”

“ ‘Another
position
'?” he repeated with booming incredulity. The dancers who had been rehearsing had also been pretending not to eavesdrop, but his exclamation was enough for them to drop the pretense. They stopped and shamelessly turned to watch and listen, their hands resting on the waists of the loose men's drawers that they wore for practice. “What
position
could that possibly be? You have no skills, no talents, no gifts, no beauty or graces. Holy Mother in Heaven! Who would ever employ you?”

But before Lucia could answer, Magdalena pushed her way forward, her dark eyes flashing.

“Some poisonous bawd has filled your head with nonsense, hasn't she?” she demanded heatedly. “She has promised you that you will be the queen of Covent Garden, surrounded by fine gentlemen who will cover you with jewels. Isn't that so, Lucia? Isn't that what you wish, you lazy slut?”

“It is not!” Lucia cried, shocked. “I would never sell myself like that.”

Magdalena sniffed with disgust, and snapped her fingers in Lucia's face.

“Of course you would, you little jade,” she said, each word sharp and scathing and meant to wound. “Every woman has her price, whether it is jewels or a wedding ring. But you—you have so little to sell on that market that you would do well to work in a stew by the India Docks, serving a dozen filthy sailors a night who will be too drunk to complain that they'd bought nothing but a little bag of raggedy bones to lie upon. Strumpet! Whore! Slat—”

“Enough of your venom, Magdalena,” ordered Uncle Lorenzo, holding his arm outstretched to keep her away from Lucia. “Let the wretched chit speak for herself. Is this the truth, Lucia? That after all we have done for you these last six years, you would leave us like this?”

“You do not care for me,” Lucia said, finally saying aloud the words she'd kept bottled within for so long. “You never have. Ever since Papa died, you've never considered me to be more than an imposition, an obligation, a slave you could force to do your meanest tasks for nothing. For
nothing
!”

“Nothing is more than what you are worth,” he said angrily, his eyes bulging. “Impudent donkey! Ungrateful baggage! I see it now, the sins of your whoring French mother at last revealed in you.”

Tears stung Lucia's eyes, tears not of suffering, but of fury. “You've no right to call my mother—or me—any such names. Papa swore she was an angel, both on the stage and in her life. He loved her and me with all his heart, something that you would never—”

“Silenzio!”
Her uncle raised his stick, threatening to strike her. “You have disturbed my rehearsal long enough. Go back to your work.”

“No,” Lucia said, her hands clenched into tight little fists at her sides. “I am done with your work, and I am done with the company.
Done.
”

Before he could reply, she turned and walked swiftly across the stage. She kept her head high and her back straight, not looking at any of the faces of the others that she passed. Some had been friends who had treated her with kindness and affection, friends she would miss, but she did not dare to pause and say farewell. She knew she must leave now, before her uncle tried to stop her, and her steps quickened as she hurried down the theater's back passages to the stairs and the alley below, past the idlers who always gathered there, and finally into the street.

Yet it was only when she'd reached the cook shop on the corner that she slowed enough to wipe her face with her handkerchief, and blot away the last of her tears. She retrieved the box with her belongings that she'd left with the keep behind the counter—she hadn't wished to take the time to return to her lodgings—and resolutely turned to the north, away from the playhouse and toward Cavendish Square.

She'd once heard in a heroic play that great generals would burn the bridges their soldiers had crossed to keep any cowards from retreating or deserting. This morning, she'd as good as burned her own bridges with her family's company, and there'd be no returning now. Instead she'd cast her future entirely into the hands of Lord Rivers Fitzroy, and by so doing she had either made the wisest decision of her life or the worst, and—

No.
She was determined not only to think the best, but to believe it as well. What other choice did she have now, really? With her box held tightly in her arms, she headed toward the fate she'd seized for herself with Lord Rivers.

Rivers stood in his doorway and surveyed the traveling carriage waiting before him. He did not plan to return to London until the end of next month, when the wager was over, and he'd ordered a great many things brought with him. Several large trunks of books and other belongings had been lashed to the back of the carriage, with his coachman and two footmen still straining to secure the last. He'd trust most of his clothes to the baggage wagon that would follow, but not his books and journals.

Another footman appeared from the kitchen carrying a wicker hamper with provisions, followed by Rivers's ever-vigilant manservant, Rooke, to make certain no stray apples or pasties were removed from the hamper to disappear into one of the footmen's pockets.

Rivers smiled with anticipation. It wasn't a long journey to the Lodge, but exactly the right length to be enjoyable, not tedious. Driving through the night with the full moon to guide them, they should arrive early tomorrow morning. He intended to stop to dine tonight, but there would be many more hours on the road when he might wish the comfort of a glass of wine and whatever tasty little pleasantries his cook had tucked into the hamper for him.

At his feet, his favorite Dalmatian—ridiculously named Spot by one of his young nieces—whined and paced back and forth, eager to be off.

“Almost ready, boy, almost ready,” Rivers said absently, pulling out his watch once again to check the time. Hating to be late himself, he was habitually early, and expected others to do the same. By his reckoning, Lucia di Rossi should have been here by now. He'd told her noon, and it was a quarter to the hour. Until this moment, he hadn't considered the possibility that she might have changed her mind. He'd sealed the wager with Everett and told his brother about it; he'd feel like a damned fool if the girl had quit before they'd even begun.

He crouched down to ruffle the dog's ears, more to calm himself than the restless animal. With everything in readiness, he supposed he'd go on to the Lodge anyway, even if she didn't come.

But he couldn't deny that he'd be disappointed. He'd been thinking of the wager ever since the girl had left yesterday, and he'd spent much of last night choosing books of plays with her in mind. He'd already decided she was too solemn for the comic roles, and he was determined to concentrate on tragic parts for her, the kind that built a serious actress's reputation with theatergoers. He'd been looking forward to working with her, to seeing how much he'd be able to transform that determination of hers into something rare and special.

There was more, too, though he wouldn't admit it to anyone else. She amused him, and surprised him, in a way that most women didn't. He was
intrigued.
He'd never expected to feel that way about a plain little wren like Lucia, but as she'd stood before him yesterday morning, he'd realized how vastly entertaining these next weeks might prove to be with her for company.

He smiled again, remembering how she'd stood up to Crofton. If she could marshal that self-assurance into a performance, she'd have audiences falling at her feet.

Spot's ears pricked up with interest and he shifted sideways to look past Rivers, and Rivers turned, too, to see what had caught the dog's eye.

“Ahh, it's Lucia di Rossi at last,” he said, smiling with relief and a bit of pleasure as well. They were nearly eye level, with him crouched beside the dog on the step, and she standing on pavement. “I am glad you are here. You're almost late.”

Her cheeks pinked, and she dipped an awkward excuse for a curtsey while Spot sniffed and snuffled around her skirts, making things more awkward still. The curtsey wasn't awkward from the clumsiness that Magdalena had accused her of possessing, but from the more obvious fact that she was clutching a small, battered trunk in her arms.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said. “But I am not late. According to the clock on the tower I just passed, it still wants five minutes to twelve.”

He hadn't expected that. It had been very amusing when she'd corrected Crofton, but much less so when she did it to him.

He rose, pointedly looking down at her. “I didn't say you were late. I said you were
almost
late. Which, in fact, you are.”

She shifted the trunk in her arms. “Yes, my lord,” she said evenly. “But if we are to speak of the future, then all the world is also almost dead and buried, and I cannot help that, either.”

He paused, not sure how to reply. If she were his servant, he likely would have had her sacked for such impudent familiarity. But she wasn't a servant, although she was dressed like one, in some dreary linen petticoat and jacket with a little gimcrack necklace around her throat. She wasn't exactly a guest, either, and she certainly wasn't his equal. How was he to address her? He should have given this some thought earlier, to be better able to establish their relationship, and to have prevented this kind of…awkwardness.

Until he did, he had little choice but to overlook this little speech if he wished to win the wager. He cleared his throat, attempting to look properly lordly, and changed the subject.

“I see you have brought your, ah, your trunk,” he said. “That was wise of you.”

“I didn't have a choice, my lord,” she said, shifting it again to the other arm. Whatever was in it must be heavy, and he fought the gentlemanly urge to take it from her. “Are you leaving town, my lord? Have you had a change of heart about the wager?”

Her glance darted toward the waiting carriage laden with his belongings and back to him, her mouth twisting anxiously. Of course she wouldn't know his plans. He'd decided to go to the Lodge after she'd left his house yesterday. Seeing the coach now, she'd every reason to believe that he'd changed his mind.

He grinned, delighted to be able to surprise her. “I am leaving town for the country, yes,” he said, “and you are to join me. I have decided to continue your education at my country place, away from distraction.”

Her eyes widened with distress. “How am I to travel there, my lord? I haven't the coin for a stage fare.”

“I wouldn't expect you to take a stage,” he explained patiently. “You'll be coming with me, in my carriage. We'll leave directly, stop to change horses and dine when necessary, and if all proceeds as it should, arrive early tomorrow morning. Now pray give your box to Walker so he can strap it on top with the others, and we may be off.
Finally.
”

Yet still she hesitated, studying the carriage and the horses and the trunks and boxes and making no move to hand her own to the waiting footman.

“If you please, my lord,” she said, clutching her box to her chest. “I'd rather not give it over, my lord, on account of the thieves.”

“Thieves?” he repeated, mystified. The road his driver took through Hampshire was well traveled and generally uneventful, with the glory days of armed highwaymen long past. It would take a brave thief indeed—or one who couldn't read the crest painted on his door—to challenge a coach belonging to a Fitzroy, especially not when his driver kept a brace of loaded pistols in the box with him.

“I sincerely doubt we'll be plagued with thieves,” he said. “Your box will be safe enough with my things.”

Yet still she shook her head. “All I own is in here, my lord, and if some wicked rogues were to snatch it away as we passed, why, then I'd be left with nothing.”

He glanced again at the humble little box, clutched so possessively in her arms. To think that it was all she owned in this world was sobering. He hadn't the heart to tell her that no thief would give her trunk a second thought, not with the much richer promise of his own costly leather cases, padlocked and studded with gleaming nail heads.

“There is always some peril to one's belongings whilst traveling,” he agreed. “If these things were so precious to you, then why didn't you leave them behind in your lodgings?”

Her eyes widened, if such a thing were possible, considering how very wide her eyes already were.

“Because I don't have any lodgings anymore, my lord,” she said. “I've quit the company, just as you told me to do, and my lodgings with it. If I'd left anything behind, my lord, Magdalena would've been sure to sell it to the old-frock sellers, just out of spite.”

Now it was Rivers's eyes that widened. “She would do that to you?”

“She would indeed, my lord,” she answered so firmly that there was no doubt it was the truth. “From purest spite, and meanness, too.”

“Hah,” he said, taken aback. The other night, he'd believed that Magdalena had not wanted to part with her cousin from family devotion, but it seemed the truth was much less appealing. He'd already known Magdalena was greedy and supremely selfish; now it appeared she was jealous and vengeful toward her own kin. It was just as well that Lucia had left, but he felt a wave of unexpected responsibility for her welfare, too, for having blithely ordered her to leave her extended family behind.

“Exactly, my lord:
hah,
” she repeated grimly. “That would be the sum of it. If it does not offend you, my lord, I'd as soon keep my trunk with me.”

“Of course you may,” he said. “Keep it with you, if that pleases you. Now are we finally ready to depart?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said with another curtsey. As she rose, she smiled, her eyes bright with excitement. “Forgive me for speaking plain, my lord, but I haven't left London since I was brought here as a tiny girl, and never in a coach like this one.”

He smiled back, his humor improving by the second. He couldn't help it; like all women, she was prettier when she smiled. Not exactly pretty, but prettier. He had made this journey to the Lodge so many times that he generally spent it with his nose buried in a book to pass the time, but now he was beginning to see it through her eyes as a grand adventure.

She handed the box to the nearest footman, and shook her arms out. He couldn't imagine how stiff they must be if she'd been carrying it clear from her lodgings, but the way she was wiggling her arms and shoulders was making the rest of her body wiggle and jiggle, too. Before this he had not been aware of her breasts, but with all this shaking, he couldn't help but take notice of them, small but round and jostling there as her kerchief came loose. It was a common sort of display, exactly the kind of thing he'd have to put an end to, but it was also unexpectedly fascinating to watch. Certainly he was watching her, and so were his footmen, and it was a relief to them all when she stopped, and swept him a grand curtsey, her eyes sparkling.

“I am most very grateful to you for all this, my lord,” she said, raising her voice more than was necessary. “Most very blessed grateful for everything, and that's a fact.”

How in blazes had she passed beneath his notice when he was with Magdalena? How could he ever have believed her meek? At least he knew now she'd the personality for the stage; Everett might as well concede the wager right now. The proof was right here on the pavement. Every one of his footmen plus his driver and Rooke (who generally had the most professional of blind eyes regarding women, as every gentleman's manservant should) had stopped what they were doing to watch and listen to her, and even the passersby—generally a jaded group in this neighborhood—had halted in their tracks to gawk without shame.

“Into the coach,” he said brusquely. “Now. We've squandered enough time.”

She nodded, and clambered up the carriage steps, giving Rivers and all the other men who were ogling her a quick flash of neat little ankles in darned gray stockings. He pretended not to notice as he followed her, and whistled for Spot to jump into the carriage as well. The footman closed the door and latched it shut before he climbed onto the box with the others, the driver flicked his whip and the horses pulled at their traces, and finally—
finally
—they were on their way.

Rivers checked his watch one more time. It was only noon, the time he'd said they'd leave, but he couldn't help feeling that somehow he'd already fallen behind.