The Infamous Bride (12 page)

He admired the work they had done. Though it was no Drury Lane, he found himself impressed. This would be no amateurish performance to put the select audience to sleep. His thoughts skipped uneasily from the reality of an audience. He could not imagine the rows of critical eyes watching as he made a fool of himself.

So far he had been playacting for only one person — Juliet herself. He had been more than satisfied with the results. For the last few days she had stayed away from Freddie, even when opportunity threw them together. Somehow his presence, his counsel, or perhaps his willingness to protect a friend had convinced her to give up pursuing a lost cause.

As he watched, Juliet began to lose her battle with a large chest. Typical of her, she did not call for help, but struggled silently and valiantly. No doubt she expected some young swain to materialize and help her without the need to ask.

Quickly, he crossed the stage area and lifted it easily from her grasp. "Where would you like this, fair Juliet." He knew he should not tease her, not tonight, when all her work would be on display. She must be nervous. He certainly was.

She frowned at him, her cheeks pink from exertion. "I could have handled it."

He shrugged and the chest shifted onto his shoulder, emphasizing his movement. Her eyes widened for a moment, and he prodded her by saying, "I have it now. Where would you like it to go?"

She pushed back a tendril of hair that had drifted from the jeweled net that caught it back and sighed. "Over there," she answered, pointing to a corner.

He put the chest where she indicated. "Is there more I can do?"

She arched a brow at him. "It is a bit late to ask. I do believe that was the last item to be moved."

He glanced around to see that she spoke the truth. The frantic movement of moments ago had settled. The twins had put together shapeless wooden objects that, assembled, became remarkably like a balcony of an Italian villa.

The youngest two girls, released from their studies for the day, had spent the previous hours draping scarves and linens seemingly at random. When examined, the effect created an atmosphere of impending doom. A table here, a door there, and all was set.

Around him were the trappings of medieval Italy.

No one gazing upon the stage area would doubt that they were to see a tragedy performed tonight.

The Fenster sisters, including the duchess herself, were standing, hands on hips, surveying the scene with a somewhat cautious approval. He knew the feeling well. No matter how certain you were that you had remembered everything, there was always the slightest fear you had overlooked a critical item.

He smiled at Juliet as he indicated her sisters. "Your family, should it ever find the need, would do well running a theater."

He had thought it was a great compliment until he saw her grow suddenly pale and draw back as if he had slapped her. For a moment he could only stare at her in puzzled confusion. Oh, yes, he had forgotten the foolish aristocratic prejudice against honest work.

Recovering herself, she glanced around. No doubt to make certain that no one else had overheard the unfortunate remark. Once she had consoled herself that no one had been within earshot, she turned back to give him a glare. "We have no need to ply a trade, Mr. Hopkins," she answered frostily.

"I do apologize for the insult, Miss Fenster." Though he still did not think it one. "Please remember I am only an American, and in my country we think a man is worth more for what his sweat is made of than for his blood."

Her lips pressed together into a pale pink line. "A fine thing to say when you and your sister are both over here for a bit of our blood, and a title, too."

The duchess's slightly alarmed voice called out, "Easy, children. Let the blood spilled on this stage be only the false blood of the bard's characters."

"I apologize again, your grace. Miss Fenster. I think it may be my nerves are tender at the thought of the audience who will soon attend my poor debut performance."

"Nonsense, Mr. Hopkins." The duchess spoke briskly as she crossed to him, insinuating herself between the feuding Juliet and Romeo. "You are an excellent player."

"You are too kind." He rather agreed with her, though he would never admit it to a soul, not even to Susannah.

The duchess smiled. "And well you know it, I don't doubt." He had the stray thought that she would have made an excellent Nurse if only she had consented to join the performers.

But to do so would have required neglecting her guests. He suspected she would never do such a thing. There had been many times this week when he had wondered how two such different sisters had come from the same family.

"We are all excellent players," he said generously.

He suppressed the uncharitable thought that her Juliet would have been better played by stiff and obvious Matilda. It was only her own disappointment that Pendrake was not her Romeo that made her performance wooden and passionless.

"Indeed." Juliet's agreement was tart. He wondered if she realized that her own performance was sadly lacking. But he had no desire to risk losing his head by asking when she was at her most frazzled.

He left the sisters to their last whispered plans and retreated to his quiet corner to watch once more. To be truthful with himself, if not with anyone else, he was glad to see the high-spirited Miss Fenster subdued.

Perhaps it was not just Pendrake's loss, he conceded. Apparently her sister Hero had been the director of the previous family plays. This was her first year in charge of direction and sets as well as acting a major role. She had taken the task on with energy. Had she found herself unequal to it?

Certainly the enthusiasm of her performance was lacking. For which he should be grateful, for it was that lack of passion that ensured that he did not make a fool of himself.

Of course, there had been a certain pleasure in exchanging barbs with her. No matter her delight in inconsequentials, Miss Fenster had a most biting wit when she was put out. But the sharpness ensured a distance that kept him from revealing just how closely his feelings had come to echo the impetuous Romeo.

To his surprise, he'd enjoyed playing the melodramatic young lover. Not that he would want to carry the character's predilection for tragedy into his own life. Not at all.

But for playacting he had to admit it was quite enjoyable looking into Juliet's eyes and telling her how beautiful she was. No one could argue with him. He was speaking lines written two hundred years ago. Lines spoken by more men than anyone would ever know. Probably some who had never stepped foot on a stage.

What he would not ever admit was that he would miss this heady license. Freedom to tell a woman that she was the sun and moon and stars. Tell her how she made him burn inside. How he wished to kiss her. He had never let himself utter such nonsense words to a woman before.

He could only wish the words were less true in reality. But some madness had overtaken him, and a part of him wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her breathless. To have the privilege of calling her Juliet in front of the world and not be referring to the bard's young beauty but to the spoiled and faithless Miss Fenster, who somehow inflamed all his senses in a way he had never experienced until now.

Accursed play. It should never be allowed to be performed again, for the safety of lovers everywhere. Fortunately for both, it was nearly over. Tonight they would perform the damned thing. He hoped his performance didn't make Annabel faint.

* * * * *

All was ready. It was a miracle. If she survived this night, she would post a letter to Hero first thing tomorrow. Her quiet older sister had always made the plays seem like an easy and amusing event to manage. But the work was astonishingly difficult and neverending. If it were not for Miranda, she might never have stood here, seeing that everything looked nearly as perfect as she had planned.

Of course, her plans had included Pendrake as Romeo. But Mr. Hopkins had stuck it through, and she had no doubt he would garner nothing but admiration for his work tonight. Given how sanctimoniously he preached the virtues of hard work to her, he should be pleased with himself.

She sighed. Her own performance would have to change tonight, though. Her plan to treat him as rudely as she could manage had worked to keep him far from her except when they must say their lines and pretend to be young lovers eager for the future and unaware of the disaster that awaited them a few short scenes later.

However, her reckoning had come. She could not perform so woodenly when all eyes were upon her. At least she hoped she would not. She never had before. But then, she had never had to deal with anyone like the American before.

She looked at him, lounging casually, watching everyone else run around. Why did he not look nervous? It was his first performance. The audience would not all be friendly to an American taking the title role.

There would be those who would dine out for a week in London on the mistakes made by the players tonight. But perhaps he did not realize that. He was not of her society really, as he continued to remind her.

The one consolation she clung to was that this was the end of it all. She watched as those guests who had chosen not to participate in the play seated themselves in the audience. They had dressed as they would for the grandest of theater evenings. It had always been part of the fun before.

Indeed, the other players seemed to feel nothing amiss in this performance as they milled about offstage, waiting for their turn to stride onstage and play their roles. When it was his turn, the American strode onto the stage as if it were the finest in London. As if he owned it. She took a breath, again in awe of his ability to portray unbridled passion, and felt the audience draw in a collective breath as well.

Now, realizing that she would have to put aside her defenses and act the part of Juliet as it should be played, she swallowed hard and fought a cowardly urge to flee. She could do it if she didn't think too hard about what she was doing. Tonight would be the last time she must gaze into his eyes and tell him she loved him. And then it would be over.

Surely once he was back in London or — she ignored the twinge of dismay the thought caused her — home in America an ocean away, she would no longer feel this connection to him. This need to have him near despite the fact that he drove her mad with his disapproving comments.

"Juliet, the audience is ready; it is time for you to go onstage now!" Kate, perfect as the stage manager despite her tender years, as bossy as she was, glared at her, hands on her hips. "Hurry!"

Juliet swept onto the stage, her eyes focused only on Romeo. She knew, in a small corner of her mind, that Lord Forsby lisped Capulet's lines well. That the whispering, tittering group of gentlemen and gentlewoman were making the most of their brief appearance onstage. That the audience had ceased its impatient rustle and leaned forward.

His eyes met hers as he said his line. "What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand of yonder light?"

Within moments, he was addressing her, asking for permission to kiss her. It was time to say her line. For a moment no words would leave her throat, and she thought she would not be able to do the role justice. But then she saw the gleam of amused query in his eyes, and a flood of assurance filled her.

She let all the passion of her twenty-three years show in her eyes and was pleased to see him respond. With her head tilted in coy fascination, she made her voice husky, used the training her song master had taught her to send her voice in a thrilling rush over the crowd.

"Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which manner of devotion shown in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers kiss."

He said his line and leaned in to kiss her. She felt a coil of hope that he would touch her lips in truth.

But he did not. The warmth of his breath was all she felt. The coil of hope knotted into disappointment.

In a dream, she moved through the play, following his lead. The brushing of his lips, so near and so far. The words of love as she looked down from her balcony. The vows of forever taken by young lovers who would have no future. The look in his eye, the passion that was only playacting.

She had not thought he had it in him, and now she wished it were real so that she could bask in its warmth herself.

It took no real sacrifice to say her last lines. No effort to force tears to her eyes as she knelt over his supine, lifeless Romeo. "O churl! Drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me after? I will kiss thy lips. Haply some poison yet doth hang on them to make me die with a restorative."

She kissed him. Not a brush. Not a feint. But a full kiss.

With wonder, she said softly, ''Thy lips are warm!" He did not move after the first surprised quiver when her lips came down warm upon his.

She felt a fool, but she played her part as if she truly were mourning over a newly wed and newly dead lover. Indeed, she had the thought that he was a corpse, so still did he lie as she finished her death scene.

Her body lay near his, but she did not dare to touch him as she had originally thought to do.

The other players gathered around Balthasar for the final moments of the play while she lay as dead and still as he, yet still achingly aware of him, close enough to touch and yet so far away.

Would he condemn her for the kiss? Could she explain it so that he would not know her heart? An accident. Yes. She would claim she had dipped too low in her desire to make her performance worthy of the London stage.

He would not doubt her. He had already made it abundantly clear that he thought her frivolous enough to have no heart. He would not ever suspect that she had lost it to him this last week.

As the audience began to clap and stomp their feet on the grass, the players onstage sprang up, those offstage converged, and they all took their bows.

Kate and Betsey, dressed like the little angels she knew they were not, handed her two bouquets of roses. Kate's were red, Betsey's white. From the duke's gardens. She knew she should feel triumph. And part of her did. But another greater part of her felt defeat. He already thought her an incorrigible flirt. What would he think of her now?