A Dangerous Love (40 page)

Beset by a complex mix of emotions—envy, hurt, and perhaps a little betrayal—he lifted his head to gaze into her tearful blue eyes. “Is that why you never remarried? Because you were still in love with Rosalind’s father?”

She sighed. “I never remarried because I learned the hard way that some people only love once. And there’s simply no point to marrying where you do not love.”

He shook his head, trying to take it all in. There’d been so much in his world that he hadn’t seen, too wrapped up in his own concerns to pay it any notice. “I never dreamed you felt all this. That certificate belongs to you more than to me, yet I never once considered that. I never even considered telling you about it or my plans or—”

“You’re telling me about it now,” she said, smiling. “That’s all that matters.”

She squeezed his shoulder, and he clasped her hand tightly, feeling a connection to his mother that he hadn’t felt in years. He hadn’t realized until now how much he’d shoved her out of his life, as he’d shoved away everything and everyone who hadn’t been material to Knighton Trading.

The door suddenly burst open and Daniel hur
ried in. “Griff, an invitation of sorts has arrived for you. I think you’ll want to look at it. It’s from Mrs. Inchbald.”

Griff sat up straighter and released his mother’s hand. “The playwright. She was in Kemble’s office at Covent Garden when I asked about Rosalind.”

“She used to be an actress there, and I believe she was on the stage around the time Rosalind’s mother would have been.” Daniel strode to the desk and tossed down a paper with a note attached. “She’s sent you this playbill. It’s for
Antony and Cleopatra
at Covent Garden.”

Shakespeare. Damnation, of course! Where else would Rosalind go but to the theater that not only contained a marble statue of Shakespeare, but had scenes from the plays painted in the lobby?

What a dunce he was. Rosalind must be Mrs. Inchbald’s “cousin.” His heart pounding, Griff read the note first. All it said was “You may find this performer interesting.” He glanced at the top of the playbill. It was for tonight’s performance, the first. He scanned the bill, hoping against hope until he noticed a circled item that listed the actress for the part of Iras as “Miss Rose Laplace.” Nothing else.

“The woman who married Percival was named Solange Laplace,” Griff’s mother said, reading the playbill over his shoulder. “Does that help?”

Griff nodded as relief coursed through him. “It’s her, thank God. It has to be. And if Mrs. Inchbald was the ‘friend’ Lady Helena spoke of, then Rosalind is at least safe, for the woman is well respected and responsible. Though I do wonder why Mrs. Inchbald decided to send this to me today when she said nothing about Rosalind yesterday.” He stared down at the playbill. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be at that performance tonight, you can be sure.”

Then what? He had to see Rosalind, if only to make sure she was happy and well. He wanted so much more, but he feared he didn’t deserve it, and she’d surely feel the same. She might even truly want to remain on the stage. Well, she could perform on horseback at Astley’s amphitheater every day for all he cared, as long as she agreed to marry him.

But what if she wouldn’t even see him? Or worse yet, suppose she saw him and refused his offer of marriage again? He didn’t think he’d survive that. Yet how the devil was a man to convince a woman he loved her when she’d lost her faith in him, when she thought he cared for nothing but himself and his company?

You will do anything for Knighton Trading—whether consorting with smugglers or defaming innocents—so what place could a mere woman like me have in your life? Well, I can’t marry a man who cares so little for me
.

It suddenly came to him what he must do. Rosalind wouldn’t believe mere words anymore, and he couldn’t blame her. But he could offer her something she would believe.

He glanced at the time for the play, then at the clock on the wall. He only had five hours to manage everything. It would have to be enough—because he couldn’t wait another day. Not for this.

“Mother,” he said as he rose from his chair, “I’m afraid I must leave you. I have some urgent matters to attend to before the play.”

She arched one silver-streaked eyebrow. “I hope you plan to bring me to this performance tonight. I should like to meet my future daughter-in-law.”

“I warn you, it’s by no means certain she’ll agree to marry me. I’ll ask her, but I won’t try to change her mind if she refuses. I did that before, and the result was disaster.”

“She’ll marry you. I know she will.” His mother
eyed him fondly. “How could anyone refuse my son?”

“For my sake, I hope you’re right and not just speaking from motherly affection.” He forced a smile. “I suppose this would be the right time to ask for your blessing.”

“As if you’d pay me any heed if I didn’t give it,” she teased. “You don’t care in the least if you have my blessing. You never have, you rascal.”

He stared at her, realizing for the first time how much his ambition must have cost her, how often he’d thoughtlessly left her alone to worry while he pursued his own dreams. Why had he never seen it before?

Because he hadn’t had Rosalind to show him all his faults before.

Impulsively, he caught her hand and kissed it. “I confess that if Rosalind will have me, I plan to marry her even if you do protest. But I don’t think you will. I may have disappointed you in the past, Mother, but this is one time I think you’ll be pleased. And yes, it does matter to me that I have your blessing.”

Her eyes again filled with tears as she gazed into his face. “Of course you have my blessing, dear boy. And you could never, ever disappoint me.”

Scowling at her tears even as a lump caught in his throat, he dragged out his handkerchief and handed it to her. “Then stop that crying, will you?” he said gruffly. “I swear, you and Rosalind with your tears—you’ll drive a man mad.”

As she sniffed and made good use of his handkerchief, he turned to Daniel. “All right, man, let’s go. You and I have business to take care of at my solicitor’s.”

“Business?”

“Yes. I’m going to do what most decent men do
when they plan to marry: I’m getting rid of my mistress. The woman I love won’t have me unless I do.”

And without bothering to explain his enigmatic statement, he strode from the room.

Chapter 23

For my part, I confess I seldom listen to the players: one has so much to do, in looking about and finding out one’s acquaintance, that, really, one has no time to mind the stage…One merely comes to meet one’s friends, and shew that one’s alive
.

Fanny Burney, English novelist, diarist, and sometime playwright
, Evelina

R
osalind paced backstage, surprised she wasn’t more nervous. She’d seen the packed theater—it ought to terrify her, yet it didn’t. She wasn’t sure why. It might be different if her family were here or…

She squelched that thought at once.

Mrs. Inchbald approached to survey Rosalind’s costume with obvious approval. “I’m delighted to see they made it fit. Your first appearance shouldn’t be marred by a shabby costume.”

“Once again, I’m in your debt. If I’d realized I’d
be better off providing my own costumes, I’d have brought clothes from home to remake.”

She glanced down at the flowing gown Mrs. Inchbald had loaned her. Its gold threads and filmy fabric made it look more Egyptian than anything in the properties room, though it consequently displayed a scandalous amount of flesh. Then again, a dressmaker could only accomplish so much when the original wearer of a costume was as slender as Mrs. Inchbald and the new one as full-bodied as Rosalind.

Tugging the deep bodice higher, she smiled sheepishly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have started as an Egyptian handmaiden after all.”

“Nonsense. You look lovely.” Mrs. Inchbald pulled aside the curtain and scanned the audience, then smiled. “It’s a good thing, too, since your Mr. Knighton is here.”

Rosalind’s curst heart fluttered uncontrollably. “He can’t be!” She hurried to look out at the woman’s side.

Mrs. Inchbald gestured to a box near the stage. “There. That’s him, isn’t it?”

Rosalind immediately spotted the dark-haired man standing in the first-tier box with his profile to the stage. Dear God, oh, dear God. “Yes, that’s him.”

“He’s a handsome one, isn’t he?”

She nodded as she examined every inch of him. He was, more’s the pity. She should have guessed he’d look delicious in evening clothes. The perfectly fitted tailcoat and breeches suited him. But he was wealthy, after all. He probably spent more on a tailor in one month than she spent on gowns in a year.

He was accompanied by Daniel and a silvery-haired woman Rosalind could only assume was his mother. Rosalind eyed “Georgina” with painful
curiosity. So that was the woman Papa had once loved so much that he’d destroyed her son for it? Rosalind could see why. Georgina was still pretty, and her smile held a brightness that would captivate any man.

The woman sat down, and Rosalind returned her attention to Griff. She thought he looked pale under the light from thousands of candles. He wasn’t smiling, though Daniel seemed to be doing enough of that for both of them. Seeing him so close and yet so inaccessible made her heart twist in her chest.

The orchestra started playing, and Rosalind jerked back from the curtain. She was in the second scene. She didn’t have time to stand here gawking at Griff.

When Mrs. Inchbald also drew back and smiled, a sudden suspicion leapt into Rosalind’s mind. “How did Griff know I was here?”

Her friend shrugged. “Perhaps he likes Shakespeare.”

Rosalind groaned. “Of course.” How stupid of her to take a role in a Shakespeare play, especially the only one currently being performed in London. Well, perhaps he wouldn’t realize it was she. How would he make a connection between Rose Laplace and her? He couldn’t know her mother’s stage name, and besides, she was in costume.

She rolled her eyes. Oh, yes, a costume that hid nothing. She wasn’t even wearing a wig, for pity’s sake, since they’d deemed her hair dark enough for the role. And that box he was in practically sat on the stage.

The play started.

Now
she was nervous.

The first scene passed before she was ready, and all too soon she was entering the stage with the other eight performers. Thankfully, her first line
came well into the scene. By then, she was caught up in the story enough to put Griff from her mind. Or as much as she could ever put him from her mind.

Iras, along with the character of Charmian, was Cleopatra’s attendant, destined to die with her. In their scene, Iras and Charmian were having their fortunes told by a crafty soothsayer whose every word had a double, more dire meaning. For most of the scene, Rosalind easily fell into her part.

There was one frantic moment, however, when she lost her role. The soothsayer had just told Charmian that she had the same fortune as Iras, and Iras had asked if she wasn’t at least an inch of fortune better.

Charmian’s next line was, “Well, if you were but an inch of fortune better than I, where would you choose it?”

The meaning behind Iras’s rejoinder, “Not in my husband’s nose,” struck Rosalind suddenly. She blushed and nearly tripped over the line, but thankfully recovered in time to give it the comedic delivery it deserved.

Throughout the rest of the scene, however, she was only too painfully aware of Griff, though she didn’t dare look at him. All she could think about was their discussions of Shakespeare’s bawdy humor. Dear God, how would she ever perform Shakespeare without thinking of it? Of Griff? Would the man intrude even here, in this part of her life?

She half feared, half hoped he’d seek her out during the interludes between the acts, but when the third act came and went with no sign of him, she decided perhaps he hadn’t recognized her after all. She told herself she ought to be relieved.

Instead she was annoyed. Here she was, making
her great debut on the stage, and he didn’t even know it. It was enough to make her flounce out there and tell him. Of course, that would be foolish in the extreme.

Then again, he might have recognized her and not care. She scowled at the thought, then cursed herself for scowling. Why did it matter what he did, how he felt?

Because it did. It just did.

By the last scene, the one in which she was to die with Cleopatra, she finally worked up the courage to look at him during the first part, when she had no lines and nothing to do but stand by on stage.

She regretted it instantly. He’d certainly recognized her. His gaze was locked on her—earnest and grave, mirroring her own desperate need. Daniel and his mother conversed in low whispers beside him, but he ignored them. Cleopatra spoke, and he ignored
her
. He only had eyes for Rosalind.

And she only had eyes for him. She drank him in greedily, wishing she could see him better past the candles at the foot of the stage.

In that instant—when all her attention was off the play and focused on Griff—she realized that nothing mattered to her except him. The acclaim of the audience meant nothing next to his; the demands of the play were as dust next to his. If he attended all her plays and looked at her like that, they might as well take her out and shoot her, for all the good she’d be as an actress. Because right now, for her, the only person in the entire huge Covent Garden Theatre was him.

She played the rest of the last act in a daze, hardly caring how she gave her lines. All she wanted was to see him, and now she felt sure she would. The fact that he hadn’t tried to interrupt her perfor
mance by accosting her between the acts touched her, but surely he wouldn’t delay once the play was done.

She was right. When she exited after the final curtain call, he was waiting in the wings. Actors and actresses milled around, chatting about the performance, evaluating the crowd, but she saw no one else. She walked toward him, a sudden apprehension piercing her. What if he didn’t want her back? What if he was here merely to be polite?