Lucia woke with the sun full in her face, and not the slightest notion of where she was. That was enough to wake her fully, and with a start she sat upright in the bed.

It wasn’t her bed, that was certain. Instead of the narrow little cot beneath the slanting eaves, she was sitting in a wide, high, luxurious bed with tall carved posts, a pleated canopy and curtains, and a veritable sea of snowy linen around her. The bed took up much of the space in the room, a curious square chamber with windows on three sides and a ceiling swirling with ornamental plasterwork. She’d a vague memory of drawing the velvet curtains to one set of windows so she could see the view last night, or, more truly, very early this morning, with the setting moon and the first gray light of dawn making shadowy ghosts of the trees and meadows. For that was what she’d seen: trees and meadows and gardens, as far as was possible from her usual morning view of chimney pots, slates, and sooty skies.

Those curtains were still drawn open, which accounted for the midday sun that had awakened her. Her clothes were still folded neatly over the back of a chair where she’d left them last night, with her little trunk open on the floor beside it. She remembered now, and smiled.

She was at Breconridge Lodge, somewhere far, far away from her old lodgings in Whitechapel, both in miles and in manner. She’d come here with Lord Rivers in his coach, and she’d kept them both awake nearly all the night through by telling him stories, fancies she’d made up as she’d gone along. To her amazement, he’d listened, every bit as rapt as the girls and hangers-on in the tiring room. She couldn’t believe that he had, any more than she could really believe that she was in this room, in this place, in a bed grander than any she’d ever seen, let alone slept in.

She’d been so weary by the time they’d arrived that she’d only the sleepiest of recollections of it, of how Lord Rivers had bowed and bid her good night in the front hall, how a footman had carried her box upstairs to this room for her, and a maidservant had pulled back the coverlet and plumped her pillows for her.

And all because somewhere on that long carriage ride, she’d ceased to be Lucia di Rossi, and had instead become Mrs. Cassandra Willow.

She chuckled to herself, and slipped from the bed to go to the window. Her room seemed to be in some sort of square tower at the end of the Lodge, which accounted for the windows on three sides, and on the top story. Green lawns and trees were spread before her, divided by the long, straight drive to the gates, beyond her sight, that had marked the entry to the property.

It seemed impossible that one person should own the house in Cavendish Square and all this as well, and yet she recalled Magdalena saying how Lord Rivers was the poorest of his family, on account of being the third son and not the first. He himself had jested last night about how humble his country place was, a tiny corner of land carved from his father’s enormous estate, and yet to see this now by day made his jest beyond her comprehension.

Lightly she tapped her fingers on the glass, thinking. From the height of the sun—and the emptiness of her stomach—she guessed it was already afternoon. His lordship had promised that they’d continue her lessons today, but he’d set no time for beginning. She hoped she wouldn’t be late on account of sleeping too long; he’d already made it very clear that sleeping seemed a special irritant to him.

She washed and dressed herself swiftly, wearing the only other clean linen petticoat and jacket she’d brought with her. She’d have to ask if there was a laundry in the house, where she could wash her clothes; she’d so few things of her own, she couldn’t go for more than a few days without laundering. She knew from Magdalena’s lady’s maid that the gentry judged people by the cleanliness of their linen, and she’d no wish to offend Lord Rivers because the cuffs of her shift were grubby. She plaited and pinned her hair into a neat knot, covered it with a fresh linen cap, and then tucked her trunk beneath the bed. Despite what his lordship had told her about thieves, in her experience it was always better not to leave temptation in plain sight.

She opened her door cautiously, not quite sure who or what she’d find on the other side. There was a hall paneled in dark wood with more of the same busy plasterwork overhead that was in her room, plus several enormous paintings and gilt-framed looking glasses on the walls and a few chairs and benches beneath them. But she saw no servants or anyone else, and with a thumping heart she began down the hallway toward the main staircase she’d been led up the night before. She realized she was tiptoeing, as if she were an interloper who didn’t belong amidst such grandeur, and with a conscious effort she made herself walk more firmly. She’d every right to be here; she was his lordship’s guest, as he’d assured her again and again.

Yet when she passed a low arched doorway that led to a much more humble set of stairs, used by servants, she quickly ducked inside it. She told herself that this would be the fastest way to the kitchen, and to something to eat and drink, pretending that this wasn’t an excuse. The truth, of course, was that she felt much more comfortable here, slipping down these back stairs as she had all her life, and in the kitchen and servants’ hall she might meet with her newfound friends among the footmen.

She had enjoyed last night’s journey with his lordship, enjoyed his attention and his praise, but she still did not feel at ease with him. True, he’d tried to set things to rights after that unpleasantness about her memorizing his precious passage, but she hadn’t forgotten it. He could declare her to be Mrs. Cassandra Willow all he wanted, but she didn’t yet believe herself to be Mrs. Willow, and she wasn’t sure he did, either. Inside—and outside, too—she was still Lucia di Rossi, running down the back stairs to beg a cup of tea or coffee and a slice of bread from the cook.

She followed the stairs to the basement floor, and then followed her nose down a short hallway to the kitchen. Preparations were already under way for dinner, and the smell of roasting meats and onions made her mouth water. In her experience, cooks were jolly and generous, and eagerly she opened the door, anticipating being offered a taste or two of whatever was simmering on the hearth.

But as soon as she opened the door, she realized the warm welcome she’d anticipated would not be forthcoming. Lord Rivers’s cook was a thin, brittle-looking woman with an oversized ruffled cap and red-checkered apron. Standing over a large copper kettle with a long ladle in one hand, she made a sharp little bark of displeasure when she saw Lucia over her shoulder. With the ladle still in her hand, she turned and made a perfunctory bob of a curtsey, and didn’t wait for Lucia to acknowledge it before she spoke, either.

“My stars, Mrs. Willow!” she exclaimed crossly. “Creeping about, startling a body like that! What are you doing downstairs, eh? You belong upstairs with his lordship, not down here spying an’ prying where you’ve no place to be.”

“For-forgive me, please,” Lucia stammered, stunned by this reception. “I’d no intention of spying on you, Mrs., ah, Mrs.—”

“Mrs. Barber,” the cook said, brandishing before her the ladle with ominous efficiency, “not, ma’am, that it’s any affair of yours. You’d best know that I take my orders direct from his lordship, not any of his guests.”

“I’d no intention of giving any orders, to you or anyone else,” Lucia said, only now noticing the pair of cowering scullery girls peeling apples. The way she’d said guests made it clear that his lordship had brought other women here before her, and it was easy enough to guess that they hadn’t been aspiring actresses.

She smiled bravely, determined to appease the cook. “I can see that you’re busy, Mrs. Barber, but all I wish for is a cup of tea and perhaps a slice of bread, and—”

“Then why did you not ring for it properly, ma’am, instead of coming here?” Mrs. Barber demanded. “Why come here to vex me?”

“I’d no intention of vexing you, Mrs. Barber,” Lucia said. “I only wished—”

“ ‘Only wished, only wished,’ ”repeated Mrs. Barber sourly, waving the ladle in Lucia’s direction. “Upstairs with you now, ma’am, to the green parlor in the back, and I’ll see that one of the girls brings you tea. Unless you wish to explain to his lordship as to why his meal’s not ready when he’ll be wanting it.”

That was enough for Lucia. She fled back up the stairs, to the first floor of the house, and found the front hall where they’d entered last night. In comparison to Lord Rivers’s house in town, where there’d been servants hovering all over the place, the Lodge seemed curiously understaffed, and without anyone to ask, she followed the passage beneath the front stairs. If the stairs were in the front of the house, then the green parlor must be on the opposite side.

The first room she peeked inside was some sort of office, filled with books and a large table covered with papers, which obviously served as a desk. She couldn’t be expected to take her tea here. But the room across the passage had a small dining table with chairs before the open windows, which made it much more likely to be the parlor in the back, and the parrot-green wallpaper made it a certainty.

Dutifully she sat in one of the chairs, smoothing her skirts over her knees. The snowy linen cloth on the table was so immaculate, the pressed creases so sharp and perfect, that she didn’t dare touch it, and so she carefully folded her hands in her own lap, and waited. She’d no idea how long she was expected to do so, and given Mrs. Barber’s bad temper, she’d no idea what she’d be brought when the waiting was finally done.

Yet still she sat, gazing out the open window to the flower garden below. It was a beautiful garden, filled with bright flowers nodding gently in the sunshine, the perfect view for anyone dining. Having lived all her life in cities, her only experience with flowers was the cut variety that attentive gentlemen had had sent to Magdalena. She’d always wondered what it would be like to pick flowers for herself, to choose one blossom over another and make a posy exactly to her own tastes. Perhaps she’d muster the courage to ask Lord Rivers if flower picking could be included in her lessons.

She sniffed impatiently, swinging her legs under her skirts. Right now she’d be content if Lord Rivers simply appeared. He’d told her repeatedly that they had much work to do in six weeks’ time. Well, here she was, ready to begin, and he was nowhere to be seen.

Three quick raps on the door behind her, then it swung open. At once Lucia slipped from her chair, hoping that her grumbling thoughts had somehow summoned his lordship. But instead of Lord Rivers, it was the same maidservant who’d shown her upstairs last night, a woman of middling age with a broad, determined face with full cheeks. In her hands was a large silver tea tray, heavily laden with all manner of tea things.

Automatically Lucia hurried forward to help her, but the maid held the tray from her reach, her expression scandalized.

“If you please, Mrs. Willow, I can manage well enough,” she said, brusque and a little out of breath. “Please sit, ma’am, please, and let me tend to you.”

Self-consciously Lucia sat back in her chair, and the maid placed the large tray down on the table. No matter how sharp Mrs. Barber had been earlier, she’d sent up a splendid assortment of good things to eat. In addition to a steaming pot of tea, there were also two plates of neatly trimmed sandwiches, a bowl of oranges, and small dishes of sweet biscuits and candied nuts.

“Shall I pour, ma’am?” the maid asked.

“Thank you, yes,” Lucia said, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of food before her. As part of the company, she’d been given lodgings and board, but those meals, like her wages and the room she shared with the other girls, had been meager indeed. Even before, when her father had been alive, most of his money had gone to drink, and for food they’d made do with what had been left. As such, she could never remember having so many good things to eat presented to her like this, and she could only stare as the maid poured her tea.

“What is inside the bread?” she asked at last as the maid handed her her cup. The white porcelain, painted with orange and gold dragons, was so fine that the sunlight shined through the rim, and Lucia held it with infinite care, half-afraid it would shatter in her hand. The tea itself was sweet and fragrant and redolent of mysterious places she’d never see, and far, far better than the watery gray stuff she drank at the lodging house.

“Sliced roasted beef in the first tray, ma’am,” the maid answered, “and sliced breast of duck in the other, both with cress. Mustard on one slice of the bread, and butter on the other, as his lordship prefers.”

“Where is Lord Rivers?” Lucia asked eagerly. “I haven’t seen him yet today.”

“I do not know, ma’am,” she said with the merest hint of rebuff. “I do his lordship’s bidding, not ask his business. Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

Lucia shook her head, and the maid withdrew, the door closing after her with the click of the latch. Lucia sighed; while Lord Rivers’s male servants had liked her well enough, the female ones were making it abundantly clear that they regarded her as only one more of his lordship’s doxies, brought down from London for his passing amusement. Which of course she wasn’t, but she doubted anything she could say would persuade them otherwise. At least they’d brought her splendid things to eat, and with resignation—and anticipation—she set the teacup down and pulled her chair closer to the table.

She reached first for one of the beef sandwiches, marveling at the pillowy white bread cut into neat triangles with the darker crusts cut away. What a spendthrift thing to do, she marveled, even if it made for a much more dainty morsel. Then she bit into the sandwich and instantly forgot those discarded crusts. The tenderness of the beef, the spiciness of the mustard, and the peppery crunch of the cress, all wrapped within the featherlight fresh bread—ah, she’d never had anything to compare.

In three bites the sandwich was gone. She wondered whether it would be unseemly to have another, and then reminded herself that the tray had been brought to her alone. She wiped the mustard from her fingers on the overhanging edge of the cloth, and reached for another sandwich, and then another, and another after that. Before she’d quite realized it, she’d eaten nearly all the sandwiches on both plates, the crumbs on the cloth before her the only proof she’d left.

Yet still she wasn’t full, and she reached for one of the oranges, digging her thumb under the dimpled peel. This orange wasn’t at all like the oranges that were sold at the playhouse: sorry, wizened fruit that the orange-girls plumped by dropping in boiling water the afternoon before a performance. This orange was sweet and delectable, with juice that dribbled down her chin and left her fingers pale and sticky, and made her smile from the pure, delicious joy of it.

And it was at that point, of course, when she was covered with crumbs and orange juice, that the door opened once again, this time without a warning knock. First Spot came bounding into the room, followed—inevitably—by Lord Rivers. She gulped and slid from her chair, dropping into a hasty, sticky-fingered curtsey. Spot came to her at once, snuffling at the crumbs on her skirt, his tail whipping furiously.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Willow,” Lord Rivers said. “Spot, leave her alone. Here, here, you wicked devil-dog. Please, Mrs. Willow, take your seat again. No ceremony on my account, I beg you.”

She did as he’d bidden, took her chair, and finally lifted her gaze to meet his. His voice was loud and hearty in the parlor, booming away as if he were roaring across open fields.

Which, from the look of him, was exactly what he’d been doing. His riding boots were comfortably worn and caked with mud, making her remember how he’d been so stern about Spot’s muddy paws—a rule that apparently did not apply to his own feet.

He’d shed his coat and his hat somewhere else, for now he was bareheaded, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled carelessly over his elbows. She was not accustomed to seeing the forearms of a gentleman, which were usually tucked away beneath silk coats and lace cuffs. Lord Rivers’s forearms, however, were worthy of any laboring man, strong and well muscled and dusted with golden hair, and exceptionally…pleasant to gaze upon. The collar of that shirt was unbuttoned and open, too, with a blue printed cotton scarf knotted loosely around his bare throat.

And his breeches: leather breeches were common enough for men, but not like these, closely cut of such soft buckskin that they clung to every muscle and sinew and everything else in a way that was thoroughly distracting. She forced herself to look away, to keep her gaze on his face alone, but that wasn’t much easier to do. He was like an extension of the country day itself, his face browned from riding, his eyes blue as the sky and his hair golden like the sun. For Lucia, who had lived nearly all of her life in the most crowded parts of cities, and whose days had been turned around into most people’s nights by the playhouse’s schedule, he was almost blindingly brilliant.

Not that he was aware of any of this. Instead he dropped into the chair opposite hers, his legs stretched out before him as he reached down to ruffle Spot’s head.

“So,” he said. “Are you feeling quite restored now?”

She nodded, still tongue-tied by having all his manly magnificence dropped here before her. That tongue-tied-ness made no sense, she told herself fiercely. Hadn’t she just spent hours and hours with this same man in a carriage? What was the difference now? If he hadn’t attempted to dishonor her when they’d been alone together on an empty highway at night, then surely she’d nothing to fear from him now.

But then, perhaps the risk wasn’t with him, but with herself. She was the one who’d been reduced to tongue-tied silence simply by his presence, not him by hers.

“Are you sure you’ve had enough to eat?” he asked, surveying what little remained on the tray. “You certainly didn’t leave much for me.”

She gasped with horror. Why hadn’t the maid told her that the tray was intended for his lordship? “Forgive me, my lord, I did not know! I thought it was for me!”

“All for tiny little you?” he asked, and laughed. “No, Mrs. Willow, I’m afraid not. Mrs. Barber always sees that there’s tea waiting for me here when I return from riding. She might have added a bit more knowing you’d likely join me.”

Now she realized there were two teacups and saucers, and her mortification grew. “Oh, my lord, I am so—”

“Hush,” he said gently. “You were hungry, and now you’re not. There’s no sin to that. Adam, here!”

Instantly a footman entered, so instantly that Lucia was certain he’d been listening on the other side of the door. Not that his lordship appeared to care as he sent for another tray of food and a fresh pot of tea.

“So tell me, Mrs. Willow,” he said when the footman left them. “You’re a tiny creature for having such a prodigious appetite. Didn’t your family ever feed you?”

“The company looked after me, my lord,” she said carefully, unsure whether he was teasing or not. “I took my meals with the others, in my lodgings.”

He studied her, appraising. “From the look of you, I’d guess that Magdalena and her lot must have reached the table first.”

She flushed, unwilling to admit that was very close to the truth. They weren’t treated equally in the company; and she didn’t need him to point it out to her. It was an unwavering hierarchy determined by Uncle Lorenzo. Because the first dancers like Magdalena earned the money that supported everyone else connected to the company, they were the ones rewarded with the best lodgings and plenty of food and drink so they’d dance their best. The tiring-girls like Lucia brought no income to the company, and therefore were expected to content themselves with watered tea and gruel for breakfast; and pease porridge, coarse bread, and gristly stew for supper; and rooms beneath the roof. According to Uncle Lorenzo, they received what they were worth, and they weren’t worth much.

“We were looked after, my lord,” she said carefully. “Everyone in the company was. I did not want.”

He frowned, skeptical. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “You’re far too thin. I want you to eat as much as you please. You could do with a bit of plumping. You want the people in the last rows of the playhouse to be able to see you, don’t you?”

“They’ll hear me, my lord,” she said, eager to turn the conversation away from her size and appetite. She knew she was too thin, especially compared to Magdalena and the others, and it stung to have him remind her of it. Purposefully she raised her voice as if she were in fact projecting to those last rows. “I won’t let them overlook me.”

“No, I doubt you will,” he said drily. “They wouldn’t overlook a yowling fishwife anyway.”

She scowled. “I am not a fishwife, my lord, and I don’t sound like one, either.”

“Nor do you sound like a queen, a princess, or even a duchess, which are the parts I wish you to make your own,” he said, thoughtfully rubbing his left temple. “It would be easy enough to turn you loose on broad humor and drollery, and let you bellow and flounce your way around the stage where the audience would no doubt adore you. But that’s not the wager. You’re to become the next Madame Adelaide, which means I must make you fit for the exalted roles.”

“I know that, my lord,” she said, inching forward on her chair with excitement. This was the reason she’d agreed to the wager. “That’s what I was born to do!”

“Rather, you were not born to play the frivolous parts, since they require dancing and singing as well,” he said. “I am assuming that if you cannot dance, you also cannot sing, yes?”

“No, my lord,” Lucia admitted, adding a huge sigh of regret. She’d thought he’d seen some genius for tragedy in her, not simply a lack of the dancing and singing required for comedy. “Not at all.”

“I thought as much. Ah, more reinforcements from the kitchen,” he said as the same maid as before returned with another tray and even more plates and saucers. This time, she was all smiles for his lordship, fussing about him and cooing at Spot and generally pretending that Lucia did not exist.

Fortunately Lord Rivers did not feel the same. “Set the tray there, Sally, where Mrs. Willow can reach it,” he said, smiling so wickedly at Lucia that her cheeks grew hot. “I wouldn’t wish to stand in her way where a biscuit was concerned.”

Sally cleared her throat to make sure they knew how much she disapproved, and left them alone.

“You shouldn’t have said that, my lord,” Lucia said as soon as the door closed after the maid. “She and Mrs. Barber already hate me, and now you’ve only made it worse.”

Lord Rivers laughed, taking one of the sandwiches and feeding it to Spot.

“They don’t hate you,” he said. “More likely, they do not trust you, and that’s not the same thing. You’re younger than they are, and considerably more attractive, and you’re sitting here with me. That’s reason enough for them.”

Lucia remained unconvinced, especially the part about her being attractive. He was teasing; he couldn’t mean that at all. She could well imagine the sorts of women he ordinarily brought here for his amusement, and they’d all look much more like Magdalena than her.

“They think I’m another of your London doxies,” she said darkly. “They think I’m stupid and foolish and not worth their time.”

“Then they’re mistaken on every count.” He chose a sandwich, studied it briefly, and then popped the entire thing into his mouth. “Especially the stupid and foolish part. I wouldn’t have agreed to this wager otherwise. Here, help yourself to another morsel or two.”

“I’m not hungry any longer, my lord,” she said impatiently. “When will we begin my lessons? We’ve only six weeks—forty-two days, and we’ve already wasted three of them. Four, if you count today, too. When will we begin?”

“We already have,” he said, smiling with irritating smugness as he leaned back in his chair.

“We have not, my lord.” At least for now she’d stopped noticing his alarmingly male person, distracted by his equally male smugness. “All you have done is given me that one short, silly passage to remember, and now you sit here stuffing food into your mouth while we could be working!”

Deliberately he reached for another sandwich and poured himself a cup of tea. “Forgive me, but I’m rather late to arrive for the food-stuffing. I’m trying my best to catch up with you.”

She lowered her chin and glowered, angry and disappointed. “I thought you’d wished to help me, my lord, and that you wanted to win that foolish wager. I thought you’d keep your word as a gentleman.”

His eyes narrowed, enough to make her wonder that she’d said too much. Wonder, yes, but not apologize. He was the one who wasn’t doing what he’d promised.

“That one ‘silly passage,’ Mrs. Willow, is from perhaps the greatest play ever written in the English language,” he said, each word clipped. “It’s from The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, which was written by William Shakespeare. I trust you have heard of him?”

She nodded, a quick little nod with her anger still simmering. She had heard of this Shakespeare, barely, from playbills and from the cover of the book he’d handed her last night, but he couldn’t possibly be the great playwright that Lord Rivers claimed he was. The passage he’d given her was silly, and old-dated, too, and besides, if he was such an important fellow, then why didn’t his plays have ballets, and why weren’t they being performed at the King’s Theatre, where she would have seen them?

Her cursory nod clearly didn’t please him, and he set his cup down with a saucer-rattling thump.

“The passage I gave to you belongs to the character you will learn whilst we are here,” he continued curtly. “She is a young noblewoman about your age, tragically in love with Prince Hamlet, heir to the Danish throne. You say you like to make others weep. If you learn this part well, you will make all London weep, and love you for it.”

“A lovesick, tragic noblewoman, my lord?” she asked, her anger fading before this intriguing possibility. She’d like to make all London weep; she’d enjoy nothing more. “How was I to know that from what you gave me last night?”

“I didn’t wish to overburden you with too much at once,” he said. “But now that I know that your memory is equal to the challenge, I shall give you the entire play to read and learn.”

“Yes, my lord, yes,” she said, now eager. “You heard how I learned the passage perfect. You heard how I gave it the right tragic manner, too, all solemn and gloomy.”

“Oh, it was solemn and gloomy, all right,” he agreed. “Solemn and gloomy enough to make a man queasy from the thump of it.”

She frowned uncertainly. “I read the lines exactly as Madame Adelaide would have done it, my lord. With awe.”

“But I don’t wish you to emulate Madame Adelaide,” he said. “Madame Adelaide’s tragic ways were old in the reign of good Queen Anne. Have you seen Mr. Garrick perform?”

She shook her head. “Not if he hasn’t played the Royal, I haven’t.”

“I already guessed as much from your…your interpretation.” He took another sandwich and rose to pace back and forth across the room, waving the sandwich in his hand for emphasis. “You say we haven’t begun your training, but we have. Last night I learned that you have a quick memory, an ear for mimicry, and a facility with the language. I learned that you can improvise and invent at will, and that you can be thoroughly entertaining. I also learned that you are not nearly as timid as you pretended to be with your cousin.”

Lucia sighed. “Those are no mysteries, my lord,” she said. “I could’ve told you the same if you’d but asked.”

He nodded, agreeing as he bit the sandwich. “But what I have also learned is that you have acquired dreadful habits of what you believe an actress should be from Madame Adelaide and her ilk. There is a world of theater beyond the doddering old King’s, which is much better known for its dancers than its actors. You deliver your lines like a canting peddler, and you believe that shouting is the same as speaking loudly with authority.”

“I do not,” she said indignantly. “That is, my lord, I know what makes a proper actress.”

“If you wish to be a proper actress who is not a hack, you will follow Mr. Garrick’s more modern ways, and not Madame Adelaide’s.” He motioned for her to stand. “Go to the door, and when you turn back to me, I want you to make your entrance as if you are a noble lady, betrothed to a prince.”

Eagerly Lucia slipped from her chair and hurried toward the door, smoothing her hair back beneath her cap. This was the chance she’d been waiting for, her opportunity to show him exactly how much she’d already learned about acting from observing all the actresses (and not just Madame Adelaide, either) who’d played the King’s Theatre. She took a deep breath and raised her chin so high that she was looking down her nose. With another deep breath to swallow her nervousness, she spread her arms out on either side with her palms turned up, and turned her body sideways.

It was exactly the posture that Madame Adelaide took for entrances, and Lucia saw no reason to abandon it. Even if his lordship dismissed Madame as a hack—a hack!—Lucia had witnessed how audiences worshipped her, and she’d also seen the handsome carriage that Madame was able to keep because of her success.

Imagining those audiences as her own, Lucia turned and began to walk slowly across the patterned carpet to where his lordship stood. While Spot bounded along beside her, convinced this was a game of some sort, Lord Rivers had his arms folded over his chest and an awestruck expression on his face as he watched her draw closer, an expression that made her proud of the impact she was creating as a noble personage. She stopped before Lord Rivers, grandly circling her wrists with her nose still pointed toward the ceiling.

“What in blazes are you doing?” he demanded, his eyes widening with bewilderment. “You don’t look noble. You look utterly deranged.”

Disappointment swept over her, and she dropped her hands to settle them squarely at her waist. She had wanted so much to earn his praise!

“I am not deranged, my lord,” she said. “You asked me to portray a noble lady, and that’s how it is done.”

He shook his head, more in disbelief than in contradiction. “I cannot fathom why you should think such a thing. You have your head bent back as if your neck is broken, your hands fluttering like wings, and your body all twisted around.”

“I’m walking that way to display my costume to the audience, my lord,” she said, wounded that he hadn’t recognized her purpose. “So my hoops are crossways. You must pretend I’m wearing a rich costume, my lord, with spangles and ribbons and hoops, the kind of costume an audience pays to see. As for holding my head back—that’s to show I’m high-born, and superior to everyone else, my lord.”

“No noble lady would dare appear at Court in such a fashion,” he said flatly. “If she did, she’d be removed directly.”

“How do you know?” she demanded, her apparent failure making her turn defensive.

He tipped his head to one side, and too late she realized she’d forgotten his title.

“How do you know, my lord?” she repeated.

“Because of exactly that,” he said with irrefutable logic. “I’m the son of a duke, and my entire family is riddled with titled ladies. I know how they behave, because that’s what I’ve seen all my life. Even the duchesses don’t walk about believing they’re superior to everyone else at Court, because they’re not. There’s always His Majesty above us all. Apparently Madame Adelaide and her ilk forget that.”

“I still do not see how—”

“You agreed to trust me, Mrs. Willow, and to do as I say,” he said firmly. “That was our understanding.”

Lucia didn’t answer, considering how best to salvage her tattered pride. Of course he was right, or at least partly right. She had agreed to follow his instruction, and he would know better than she about how a true noble lady would enter a room. But she still wasn’t convinced that was what audiences would be willing to pay to see.

Bored, Spot yawned, and settled on the carpet behind his master, his head on his legs.

“Have you ever been to Court with His Majesty, my lord?” she asked, stalling. “Inside the palace, I mean?”

“More times than I can count,” he said with a nonchalant shrug that proved it was the truth. “My father began hauling us there when I was barely in breeches.”

“Truly, my lord?” she asked, impressed. “I’ve seen Their Majesties in their carriage on holidays, but only from far away. To think you’ve been in the same room with them!”

“I assure you, it’s not very exciting,” he said. “Now, are you willing to try your entrance again?”

She sighed deeply, letting her shoulders sag with resignation. “Very well, my lord. What do you wish me to be instead of Madame Adelaide?”

“I don’t wish you to be anyone other than yourself,” he said firmly. “That is what Garrick advises. Aspire not to ‘act,’ but to capture reality. You needn’t play so obviously to the audience; rather, let them come to you.”

“How shall that work, my lord?” she asked incredulously.

“You must trust me that it does,” he said. “Now think of the most confident woman you know, and imagine how she would enter a room.”

“That would be Magdalena,” she said, thinking of how her cousin made every man in any room look her way without even trying. “But I do not believe any noble lady walks like Magdalena.”

He sighed, doubtless remembering her cousin’s commanding entrances.

“That is true,” he agreed reluctantly. “No noble lady would ever undulate like Magdalena. Perhaps instead you should imagine Magdalena entering a church—a church filled with nuns, and no men. A penitent Magdalena, if such a thing exists.”

“Oh, it does, my lord, it does,” Lucia said thoughtfully. “Magdalena has done many, many things to be penitent for. I shall try my best.”

She crossed the room and again faced the door. She remembered Magdalena on her way to confession, of how her cousin still walked with her usual confidence, but with her head lightly bowed beneath her shawl, as if the burden of her sins somehow made her temporarily demure. Lucia could copy that, even if it was the furthest thing imaginable from Madame Adelaide’s grand dramatic entrances. If nothing else, she’d demonstrate to his lordship how wrong he was.

Composed, she turned back to face him. This time she thought of Magdalena and walked toward him with her spine straight, her shoulders drawn back, and her hands clasped at her waist. It felt much different from her own usual self-effacing walk, the walk of a servant whose role was to be invisible, and with each step she felt her confidence was her own, and not borrowed from her cousin.

She stopped directly before his lordship, her head bowed just enough that her chin was dipped toward her chest, and she ignored the imaginary audience, as he’d directed.

He watched her critically, one hand beneath his chin and his arm resting in his other hand. He wasn’t exactly frowning, but he was concentrating hard upon her, which was disconcerting, and made her in turn concentrate harder on how she was standing and holding her shoulders.

If only his eyes weren’t so very blue…

“Much improved,” he said finally. “Now do it again, but this time, do not clench your hands together. They should be gentle, like resting doves.”

“ ‘Resting doves’?” she repeated, stunned by the description. Automatically she looked down at her hands, chapped and rough from work and cold water, and without so much as a feather of the elegance or purity of white doves. She blushed, ashamed by how unladylike they were, and tried to hide her fingers in the folds of her skirts. “Forgive me, my lord, but not my hands.”

“Show me,” he said, and slowly, self-consciously, she held her hands out for him to see.

He took her hands in his own and held them lightly with his thumbs, turning the palms upward to study as if they were some rare curiosity worthy of his scholarly attention. His were gentleman’s hands, with long, strong fingers accustomed to holding a pen, a crystal goblet, or the reins of a fine horse; on his right hand he wore a heavy ring with a carnelian signet, the gold gleaming against his skin. In comparison, her hands looked small and rough, and the only birds they’d be likened to would be the scruffy little starlings that scratched out their living around the rooftops of Whitechapel.

“It’s from the laundering, my lord,” she blurted out, uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny. “My uncle doesn’t trust the costumes to be sent out for washing, so the other tiring-girls and I had to wash all the dancers’ things for them.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” he said, his thumbs lightly tracing little arcs across her palms, as if to prove he didn’t care how rough they were. “That time is done. Your hands will improve while you’re here, since you won’t be working. I’ll send for some manner of unguent that will heal them.”

Tears stung her eyes at the unexpected kindness. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, grateful for more than the promised unguent. “But they’ll still never be white doves.”

He smiled wryly. “I know it does sound foolish, but doves are the conventional allusion for noble ladies’ hands. You have small, slender hands with delicate fingers that many ladies would envy. I’m certain they will improve, and be a graceful asset to you on the stage—a stage I am certain you’ll claim as your own. Now, as we were. Keep your hands folded before you, but relaxed and easy.”

“Shall I curtsey this time, my lord?” she said. The breathlessness of her words surprised her. “A proper entrance for a noble lady should end that way, shouldn’t it?”

He nodded, his gaze finally leaving her hands to settle on her face, and make her blush all over again.

“A curtsey isn’t necessary now,” he said, clearly believing she’d no idea of how to perform one. “Concentrate on the rest instead.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, intending to add the curtsey regardless of what he said. “But I swear to you I can do one.”

“Then show me,” he said. At last he released her hands, and she quickly pulled them free and hurried back across the room to the now-familiar door.

She needed these few moments to herself. He’d had good reason to hold her hands, and yet the simple gesture had left her heart racing. She was sure he hadn’t intended anything flirtatious by it—why should he, given who and what she was?—but she also couldn’t deny the impact that his touch had had upon her. No man had ever held her hands in such a way, and she couldn’t have predicted the intimacy of it. By sharing his confidence in her, in turn he’d somehow made her own confidence blossom.

She gave her head a little shake, preparing herself yet again. But this time when she turned and crossed the room, she wasn’t trying to copy her cousin, nor was she rattled by nervousness. Because she wasn’t, the role she was playing became a seamless, effortless extension of herself, and when she swept across the carpet toward his lordship, she felt every bit the noble lady she was supposed to be.

She didn’t look ahead to see his reaction. She didn’t have to, for instinctively she knew that what she was doing was right. When she came within a few feet of him, she paused, and sank into a sweeping curtsey, her head nearly touching her knee, and stayed there, waiting for him to respond.

Over her head she heard him swear, in the quiet way that men did when they were caught by surprise. Then he reached down and took her hand, and raised her up to stand close before him.

“Where in blazes did you learn that?” he demanded.

“My uncle Lorenzo taught every woman in the company how to present honors and make a curtsey like that in case any royalty ever came backstage, my lord,” she said, unable to tell if he was pleased or not as she looked up and searched his face. The way he’d pulled her had left her standing close to him, with little space between them. Yet she didn’t step back, nor did he, and she didn’t pull her hand free, either, relishing the warmth of his fingers around hers.

“My uncle Lorenzo learned what was proper when he was a member of the Ballet de l’Opéra de Paris, my lord,” she said, hating herself for babbling like this but unable to stop. “He said a quick, common bob-curtsey was well enough for every day, but for a prince or higher, we must do—”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said abruptly, cutting her off. “I meant how you walked, how you crossed the room, how you were. Where did you learn that?”

“I did what you said, my lord,” she said, bewildered. “I put aside Madame Adelaide, and instead only thought of how I should be as the noble lady you described. Did I misunderstand, my lord? Was I wrong?”

“Not at all,” he said slowly. “You were very nearly perfect.”

She gasped with delight and at last slipped free of him, stepping back to clap her hands together in amazement.

“Oh, my lord, I am so pleased!” she exclaimed happily. “Now you’ll believe that I’ll do whatever you say, whatever you want, to be the actress I know I can be.”

But to her confusion, he didn’t smile in return.

“That will be enough lessons for today, Mrs. Willow,” he said, looking past her. “I do not wish to tire you.”

“But I’m not tired, my lord, not at all,” she pleaded, disappointed. “We have so little time to accomplish so much, and I—”

“I said that will be all,” he repeated, an unmistakable distance to his voice that hadn’t been there earlier. “I have made arrangements to dine with a friend. Request whatever you wish for your own dinner. I shall leave word with Mrs. Barber to oblige you and send a tray to your room.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said wistfully, the prospect of a solitary dinner and evening alone yawning before her. She supposed she should be grateful for his hospitality, but she’d much rather continue to work. “As you wish.”

“Yes,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I will have the copy of Hamlet brought to your room, so you may begin reading it in its entirety.”

“Yes, yes, my lord,” she said eagerly. “The sooner I can begin to learn my role, the better.”

He nodded, still avoiding her gaze as if her enthusiasm made him uncomfortable. He whistled low, and Spot rose, sleepily wagging his tail.

“Well, then,” he said, retreating. “Until tomorrow morning. Good day, Mrs. Willow.”

And just like that, he—and his dog—were gone.