The footman opened the carriage door and folded down the steps, and Rivers stepped out first. Lucia leaned forward to look past his broad shoulders and black cocked hat to the mantua-maker’s shop. Mrs. Currie must have prospered in her trade, for her shop was elegantly presented, with a curving bow window picked out with glossy black paint, a signboard with gold letters, and a green door with a shining brass plaque engraved with the proprietor’s name. To keep all this from being too sober, a ribbon-tied bouquet of silk flowers hung from the plaque, beckoning customers to the feminine delights within.
Lucia had never so much as looked in the window of such a shop. Now she was not only to enter and be served as a customer, but in the process make her first true performance as an actress, before an audience (albeit an unknowing one) that wasn’t Rivers. She must remember everything he’d told her about being a lady, and make every gesture, every word count to convince the tradeswomen that she was whom she claimed. Anything less and she’d instantly fall to the status of those infamous doxies, and though because of Rivers the women would treat her well enough, she knew that as soon as she left they’d be laughing and ridiculing her.
She didn’t want to fail at this first real test as an actress, and she didn’t want to fail Rivers, either. The enormity of this moment was daunting, and despite her excitement, she hung back in the carriage. She told herself sternly that she could do this and wasn’t a coward, that she was ready, and yet her heart was racing and her palms were damp as she sat riveted to the carriage seat.
“Mrs. Willow?” Rivers had turned and was holding his hand out to help her down. “I know this establishment is not of the quality to which you are accustomed, but there is no need for reluctance. I’m certain you shall be treated with the utmost civility and will find many items to your taste.”
She realized he was speaking loudly for the benefit of the curious passersby, and offering a reasonable explanation for her reluctance. She couldn’t keep him waiting any longer. Her performance had to begin now.
She glanced down at his offered hand, and then back to his face.
“Amaze me, madam,” he said again, softly and so only she could hear. “Take your place, and let the curtain rise.”
And then he winked.
That was enough. She lifted her chin, striving to be an imposing, even regal, Mrs. Willow, took his hand, and swept down the steps and into the shop. A round-faced older woman in a ruffled cap with many ribbons stepped from behind the counter to greet them, with two fashionably dressed younger women in ruffled caps and sheer aprons, pin-balls and scissors hanging from their waists, following closely behind.
“Good day, Mrs. Currie,” Rivers said. “As I wrote, I have brought to you a dear friend, a lady who is in need of a new wardrobe. Mrs. Willow, Mrs. Currie.”
All three of the tradeswomen curtseyed in unison. It was the first time Lucia had ever been honored this way, and she had to fight the automatic impulse to curtsey back in return.
“Good day, Mrs. Currie,” she murmured, taking special care to round her vowels. “Lord Rivers speaks only the highest praise in regard to your work.”
The mantua-maker nodded graciously, and to Lucia’s relief there wasn’t so much of a hint of suspicion or scorn. She’d tricked them royally—or as Rivers would say, she was winning them with her performance.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Mrs. Currie said. “We are most grateful for your custom. How may we serve you? What would it please you to see first?”
“She needs everything, because she has nothing,” Rivers declared. “A half-dozen gowns for day, two for evening, a habit or Brunswick for travel, hats, stays, hoops, stockings, muffs, and all the rest. You know better than I what is required, Mrs. Currie.”
“Oh, indeed, my lord,” the mantua-maker said, her smile warm at the potential of such a sizable sale. “We will be honored to oblige Mrs. Willow in every way. Shall this be on your account, my lord?”
Rivers waved his hand with studied nonchalance. “Of course, of course, send the reckoning to me,” he said. “What matters most is that this dear lady be clothed as befits her, and swiftly, too. I should like everything delivered to Breconridge Lodge the day after tomorrow.”
Mrs. Currie gulped. “It can be done, of course, my lord—anything for his lordship!—but pray be aware that such speed must come at a price.”
“I understand completely,” Rivers said, smiling. “All that concerns me is that this lady is accommodated as she requires.”
But Lucia understood, too, and his nonchalance stunned her. From her work among the costumes, she knew that anything made as quickly as he was requesting came at a dear price indeed. Extra seamstresses—likely every skilled one in Newbury—would need to be hired and set to working by the expensive light of candles instead of the free light of day.
“Very well, my lord, very well.” Mrs. Currie exchanged a few meaningful glances with her assistants, who at once began producing lengths of fabric and trimmings. “If you please, Mrs. Willow, let us begin with one of the gowns for day, so that I may learn your tastes. May I suggest a round gown, or one gathered up in the Polish manner?”
She swept a length of shimmering green silk—lustring, she called it—over her arm while one of the assistants held up a fashion plate of the Polish-style gown, with a close-fitting, pointed bodice, skirts looped up over contrasting petticoats, and pert small bows at the gathers and along the stomacher for accents. Forgetting to act, Lucia made a wordless sigh of admiration, for she’d never seen such a deliciously charming gown.
“It is a very cunning choice, ma’am,” the mantua-maker said, noting Lucia’s reaction. “A très belle robe à la mode, as the ladies say in Paris.”
Lucia smiled, automatically shifting to French. “Les dames françaises savent tout sur la mode, non?”
“As you say, ma’am.” Mrs. Currie flushed and looked down at the silk over her arm, smoothing it with her palm to hide her confusion. Too late Lucia realized she’d gone beyond the limits of the mantua-maker’s grasp of French, and that her single sentence of French had unwittingly made the other woman feel foolish and discomfited.
“The French ladies do know everything about fashion, don’t they?” she repeated in English, not wanting the other woman to feel ill at ease on her account. She’d been ridiculed often enough herself never to wish to inflict the same misery on anyone else. “If you say a Parisienne would wear this gown, then surely it’s as fashionable as it is lovely.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Currie said quickly, nodding in eager agreement. “The Paris ladies are most wise in setting the fashions. I can tell you have traveled widely, ma’am, and recognize quality and style. You possess such a dainty figure, ma’am, very much like the ladies at the French court, that you would wear such a gown to perfection.”
But Rivers was not nearly as impressed, or susceptible to the mantua-maker’s flattery.
“I suppose that will do for one of the day dresses,” he said with a shrug as he sat on one of the leather-covered benches for customers. “But first I would like you to provide a gown for this evening, when Mrs. Willow shall be dining with me.”
“But it is already two, my lord,” Mrs. Currie protested. “Not even my girls could make a gown—a gown worthy of this lady’s beauty—in so short a time.”
“Surely something can be arranged,” Lucia said, wondering if he truly had planned some special dinner that required a new gown, or if this was only another part of Mrs. Willow’s role. “His lordship has been so kind to me that I could not disappoint him and appear again in this.”
She held her worn skirts out to one side and looked beseechingly at the mantua-maker, and tried to focus on being Mrs. Willow, and not think of whatever it was Rivers was planning for her this evening.
Mrs. Currie dolefully shook her head. “I am sorry, madam, but as much as I regret disappointing you, I do not wish to promise what I cannot deliver.”
“Then perhaps there is another gown, nearly complete, here in your shop that could be made to fit my form?” she asked with her most winning smile. From her own experience as a tiring-girl, she knew that an even-tempered request would work much better for a favor than imperiously raging about like Magdalena would have done. “I know it shall be a great inconvenience to you, Mrs. Currie, but if there is any possibility, I shall be very grateful, and so shall his lordship.”
The mantua-maker hesitated, studying Lucia so closely that Lucia feared the worst. She must have somehow given herself away, and the woman had seen she was an imposter, and the whole thing a ruse. Perhaps it was the lapse into French, or perhaps some intangible droop to her posture that betrayed her humble, unladylike origins. And oh, if only she’d paid closer attention to her infernal vowels!
“I may be able to oblige you, Mrs. Willow,” Mrs. Currie said at last, and thoughtfully, too. “You are such a pleasant lady, I only desire to please you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Currie,” Lucia said as graciously as she could, somehow managing to keep her relief from showing. She hadn’t failed, or given herself away. She’d played the lady, and won her audience.
“It is my pleasure, ma’am,” Mrs. Currie said, beaming. “There is a gown in the workroom at present—a splendid gown of silk taffeta in the deepest shade of scarlet that would be most becoming to you—that could be made to suit. Miss Jenny, fetch the scarlet gown for Mrs. Willow’s consideration.”
“I like a lady in red,” Rivers said, which as much as sealed the scarlet gown’s fate as far as Lucia was concerned. If he liked it, then she would, too.
But when Miss Jenny reappeared with the gown, there was no need for compromise, no need to be obliging. It was simply beautiful, the silk taffeta rich and the color subtly changing with the light. There was ruching trim around the neck and down the front, and more in serpentine borders along the edges of the open petticoat. Tiny gold silk flowers were scattered over it, as if they’d grown there of their own accord, and the entire effect was both charming and elegant.
The most difficult part for Lucia of playing Mrs. Willow was pretending, as grateful as she was, that she’d already owned gowns like this one by the score. She let herself be whisked to a dressing room behind the shop, where Mrs. Currie herself fitted the gown to her small figure, smoothing and pinning and taking a pleat here and narrowing a seam there before the gown was taken off to the seamstresses for finishing.
What followed was a whirlwind of choices and purchases made, of Italian silks and Indian cottons spread across the counter, of ribbons unfurled, and trimmings considered. Dimities and dresdens, camlets and calamancos and cherryderrys, laylocks and broglios and siamoises: even the names of the fabrics were like an exotic foreign language to Lucia. While Rivers would occasionally offer his opinion, for the most part he retreated into the book he’d brought along for the purpose of diversion, and left the decisions to Lucia herself in what was for her a heaven of unimaginable, indulgent beauty and luxury.
Yet by the time the last ribbon had been chosen and the final fitting made, the afternoon had begun to fade into evening, and Lucia was thoroughly exhausted. It was not simply the challenge of being Mrs. Willow, but also the stress of choosing so many new things for herself in an elegant lady’s shop. She had never purchased so much as a length of ribbon from a place such as this. Instead she’d always worn jackets and petticoats that had been passed down from others in the company, plus the rare plain linen gown that she’d bought for herself from one of the peddlers and small shops that sold secondhand (or third-, or fourth-, or fifth-hand) clothing in Whitechapel.
She’d no experience with costly silks and precious lace and other trims, or having a small flock of seamstresses and apprentices hovering about her, ready to obey her every suggestion or whim. While she knew Rivers had meant this as a treat, a pleasurable indulgence, she’d been unable to shake the uneasy feeling that she didn’t quite deserve such luxury, and beneath the smiling façade of Mrs. Willow, her inexperience had made her uncertain and anxious. If only she’d had written lines to memorize so she’d be certain to say the right thing!
With each decision that Mrs. Currie presented to her to make, she feared she’d choose a color or cloth that was somehow wrong, and she’d be eternally grateful for how the mantua-maker tactfully had guided her as to what was not only fashionable, but flattering as well. The red gown would be finished so that they might bring it back to the Lodge with them today, and Mrs. Currie herself would come out with the rest of the things in two days for more fittings.
It was all more than Lucia could keep straight herself, and when at last Rivers handed her back into the carriage, she was too exhausted and overwhelmed to take pride in what she’d accomplished, or pleasure in her new wardrobe.
“You were brilliant,” Rivers said proudly as the footman latched the carriage door shut. “Not only did you convince Mrs. Currie that you truly were Mrs. Willow, but you were also so endearing that she went out of her way to please you.”
“Do you think so?” she asked with a sigh, sinking wearily into one corner of the seat. “I hoped I’d done well, but I could not tell for certain whether I’d succeeded, or if she was simply being nice to me because of you.”
“When we first arrived, I would guess she was being agreeable in deference to my family name,” he said, settling beside her. “But it didn’t take long for you to win her over in your own right.”
“I shouldn’t have spoken French,” she said, wincing a bit at the memory. “That was wrong. I did it without thinking, and I shouldn’t have.”
“No, it was exactly right,” he said. “Every English lady speaks French, or at least the clever ones do. Clearly Mrs. Currie does not, but the way you salvaged her pride for her showed both kindness and understanding. That’s why she gave you the red gown, not because of me. You played a lady to perfection.”
That was exactly it: she had played a lady. She must remind herself of that. Mrs. Willow was a role, improvised without lines to memorize, but only a role, a character, a part to be learned. She’d welcomed the chance to put aside her old life for a better one, but she hadn’t realized that by becoming Mrs. Willow, she’d lose so much of Lucia di Rossi. Instead of feeling proud of what she’d done, she felt confused and unsettled, and having Rivers praise her like this somehow only made it worse.
“It didn’t seem perfect to me,” she said, shifting back to her old way of speaking. She untied her hat and placed it on her lap so she could lean her head back against the squabs. “If I did, then it was your doing, Rivers, not mine.”
“No, it wasn’t,” he said firmly. “It was all yours, and your serious study and work. I merely led the way.”
He patted the seat beside him and with a sigh she slid across the cushion to join him. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, and with another sigh she nestled into his side, finding comfort in the warmth and strength of his body.
“Thank you so much, Rivers,” she said softly. “For—for everything.”
“I knew you’d enjoy choosing some new clothes,” he said, clearly enjoying having given her such a gift. “I know how much you ladies do love your finery.”
She smiled wistfully at how he’d unconsciously included her among the ranks of ladies of his acquaintance, a place where she never would belong.
“It was not easy for me, Rivers,” she confessed, gazing across the carriage to where the new scarlet gown, swathed in protective linen, had been carefully laid on the other bench for the drive back to the Lodge. “I do not know how ladies make such choices every day when they dress.”
“ ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks,’ ” he said, teasing by quoting more from Hamlet. “It’s true that Mrs. Currie had a veritable bazaar of temptations for you, but what lady doesn’t relish making such decisions?”
“I didn’t,” she insisted, twisting around to face him. “And that line of Queen Gertrude’s makes no sense at all here.”
He smiled indulgently. “I only meant it as a jest, sweetheart.”
“And I meant it as the truth.” She sank back against him, her head pillowed against his shoulder, and thought of the significance of the new dress, pale and ghostly in its linen wrapping. “I’ve never had bespoke clothes, Rivers, not so much as a single petticoat. This gown is my first. With so many things to choose from, it was hard for me to know what was right to pick.”
“What was right was what you wanted, and what gave you pleasure,” he said, his voice growing more gentle and losing the edge of teasing. “But how did you come by your clothes before, if not from a shop?”
She shook her head, reluctant to explain exactly how very different their circumstances were. Most times he understood, but there were others, like now, when the distance between them felt yawning and insurmountable. He’d been born to enormous wealth and position, and she had not, and she’d no wish to emphasize the difference between them any further, especially not today.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, evasive. “Not at all.”
“Everything about you matters to me,” he said, with such conviction that she wanted very much to believe him. “There must have been one special gown in your life. Every woman has one.”
“There was one,” she confessed slowly, remembering. Although she’d worked among the bright and glittering dancers’ costumes in the tiring room and wardrobe, only one dress had been special in the way he meant. “The pink silk gown that Papa bought for me in an old-frock shop in Lancaster. I wore it as my costume the summer we toured with the circus-folk.”
“What was the gown like?” he asked, his interest genuine. She’d always loved that about him: he wished to learn everything, not to make light of it, but because that knowledge made him wiser, and better, too.
“I remember the dress as being vastly beautiful,” she began slowly. In the fading light of day, here in the carriage, it was easy for her to imagine that long-ago dress, and easy to trust him with the memory of it. “It had a damask pattern of swirling pomegranates, and it was unlike anything else I’d ever worn.”
“You must have looked beautiful in it,” he said gently, falling into the reverie with her. “If I’d known, I would have asked that Mrs. Currie bring out every pink silk damask in her stock for you today.”
She smiled at his enthusiasm, and his generosity, too.
“It would not have been the same,” she said wistfully, “nor could it have been. Although I believed that gown was magical, it had been worn by so many others before me that the damask was soft and nearly in tatters, with a large blotchy stain on the side of the skirts.”
He chuckled fondly. “I doubt anyone noticed,” he said. “Not on you.”
“No, they didn’t,” she agreed, also remembering how undiscerning her audiences had been, and how often half-drunk, too, at the end of a fair-day. “We were in the country, and the audiences believed the dress was every bit as beautiful as I did. They wouldn’t notice that the cut was years out of date, and the silver thread that had once outlined the pomegranates—there were still a few traces of it left—had been picked out to be resold, leaving hundreds of little holes in the faded pink silk. Even so, every time I wore it I’d felt like a princess, standing in the lantern’s light on the back of the wagon to recite my pieces.”
“Do you have the gown still?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” she said, knowing how foolish such a memento would have been in her life. One day after they’d returned to London, the gown had simply disappeared; most likely Papa had sold it away to another old-frock dealer. “By the end of the summer, I’d outgrown it, and I do not know what became of it after that.”
“No doubt your father was proud of having such an accomplished daughter,” Rivers said. “Rightly so, too.”
“He was,” she said sadly, a memory that was not quite so fair. She’d often thought how differently their lives would have turned out if she and Papa had been able to stay with the circus-folk in the green fields and wandering roads in the country, and had not returned to London, and the company. Papa might not have fallen so deeply into despair and strong drink, and she herself would never have had her final hopes of becoming a dancer beaten from her by Uncle Lorenzo.
But then she would not have landed here, either, with Rivers’s arm protectively around her shoulders. For now, with him, she felt safe, and she settled a little more closely against him, her hand curling lightly on his chest.
“When I was with Mrs. Currie in the shop, I felt wrong as Mrs. Willow, as if I were hollow and empty and false,” she confessed, her words coming out in an anxious rush. “I felt as if I was forgetting who I was and where I’d come from, that all I had left was the lie of being Mrs. Willow, and…and it frightened me, Rivers. I feared that I had—that I have—lost myself.”
He drew her closer. “That won’t happen, Lucia,” he said. “You’re far too strong a woman for that. Besides, I like you too much as you are to let that happen.”
She looked up at him, startled. “You do?”
“I do,” he said solemnly. “I’m vastly proud of how much you’ve accomplished, and how as an actress you’ve learned to transform yourself so completely into another. But it’s Lucia di Rossi who has become dear to me, not Mrs. Willow, and I’m far too selfish to let her vanish.”
“Oh, Rivers,” she said, tears stinging her eyes. “I do not wish to go away.”
“Then we shall both be content, yes?” With his fingers on her jaw, he turned her face the fraction more that was necessary for him to kiss her, his lips finding hers in a way that felt like a sensual pledge, a promise that he would do exactly as he said, and keep her safe and with him. She closed her eyes, relishing the kiss. In that moment, she trusted him completely, more than she’d ever trusted another, and whatever fears she’d held before slipped away, forgotten. He’d done that for her, and she felt strangely at peace.
“I am content,” she whispered against his cheek, her eyes still closed. “I am.”
The moon had risen and the stars with it when at last the carriage turned into the long drive that led to the Lodge. Rivers glanced down at Lucia, asleep in his arms, and smiled. She was soft and warm against him, her long, dark lashes feathering her cheek and her lips parted as if frozen in a kiss in her dreams.
He had not expected her to fall asleep like this; he supposed he should feel slighted that she had, even insulted. If any other woman had drifted off like that after he’d kissed her, he would have been. But Lucia wasn’t like other women, and what he was feeling toward her now was far, far from insulting.
He hadn’t expected her to completely become Mrs. Willow in the mantua-maker’s shop, or to so thoroughly project the essence of a well-bred lady that Mrs. Currie and her assistants never doubted her for even an instant. There had been not so much as a breath of a rapacious highwayman and no tigers. Instead she’d played her part to near-perfection, from her accent to her posture to the smattering of French, and how she’d been the one to smooth over Mrs. Currie’s gaffe had been pure gracious genius worthy of any duchess, including his own impeccable stepmother.
She’d every right to crow after such a triumph, and savor the success she’d earned. But again she’d done what he hadn’t expected, and instead of crowing in the carriage, she’d wilted in a way that had reminded him of her old days in the tiring room, when she’d been nearly invisible. Her explanation had touched him deeply, and he couldn’t imagine how the brave little woman he saw each day could fear she’d disappear like an insubstantial wisp of smoke.
He’d grant that she had changed in these last weeks. She now walked with confidence, and spoke with assurance. The shadows were gone from around her eyes, and the hollows from her cheeks. She’d learned how to hold a teacup, and not to wipe her fingers on the tablecloth. Not only had her accent changed, but her vocabulary had blossomed as well. The young woman who’d only read broadsides and the Bible now stayed awake at night to devour the books she borrowed from his library.
So yes, she’d changed, but to his mind these changes were only little improvements to the woman she already was. He’d done his best to reassure her, hoping to ease her anxieties, and he’d hoped, too, that the spree of free spending he’d granted her in the shop would have cheered her. Every other woman he’d known would have wallowed happily in a greedy sea of silk.
Yet she’d surprised him there as well. Instead of finding joy amongst the taffetas and dimities, she’d been overwhelmed and miserable, and convinced she didn’t deserve such largesse. He was so accustomed to her usual confidence that he hadn’t quite believed her, not until she’d confided that heartbreaking story of the stained and holey pink gown. Only Lucia could have infused a raggedy secondhand dress with enough of herself to make it sound magical and fit for a princess. He hoped the new gown he’d bought her today would come to hold even more of her magic.
He glanced across at the gown and smiled, trying to picture her wearing it. He hadn’t gone back to the shop’s dressing room with her for the fitting—they weren’t yet on the terms that would permit that kind of intimacy—but in a way he was glad, because it meant he’d have the great pleasure of seeing her wear it for the first time tonight, just for him.
Tonight would be special in many ways, or so he hoped. For any other woman, he would have arranged the obligatory small supper in his dressing room, the sort of small supper that every young nobleman of means was expected to order for fair young creatures. There would be much wine and a Frenchified meal that might or might not be eaten before they moved on to his conveniently nearby bedchamber. In the course of the night, there would also be many declarations of passion and affection that neither party would believe, and after a small parting gift in the morning, there would be mutual satisfaction with the arrangement, which would soon be forgotten.
But Lucia deserved more from him than that. Her words this morning about how he lived too much through his books had struck home. He wanted to prove to her that he could be as impetuous and romantic as any Neapolitan. He was determined to put aside his customary British reserve, and share with her a side of himself that no one else had ever seen, and prove to her that he knew how to experience the very best that life had to offer firsthand, not through words written by another.
Lightly he kissed the top of her head, her dark hair mussed like a child’s from her hat, and she stirred, but did not wake. He hoped she’d understand. No, he knew she would, because she was Lucia.
There was one more thing he intended to share with her tonight, something he would have already revealed if she hadn’t fallen asleep. Tucked inside his coat was the letter from Mr. McGraw, the manager of the Russell Street Theatre. The letter had arrived shortly before he and Lucia had left for Newbury, and though Rivers had had time to read it only once, the significance of its contents had been running through his mind all afternoon.
When he’d first made his wager with Everett, he’d envisioned training Lucia to perform a single scene for Everett and a small circle of other acquaintances in the drawing room of his house in Cavendish Square. If there were interest enough, he might even have hired the ballroom of a local inn, and offered a subscription for tickets, so she’d have some kind of payment for her performance that didn’t come from him.
That would have been sufficient to win the wager, and it was how he’d described to her his plans for a performance when she’d asked, early in their time together. She had trusted him to make whatever arrangements were necessary, and had asked nothing more, concentrating instead on perfecting her role.
But as Rivers had discovered the depth of Lucia’s talent and witnessed the progress she’d made, his own ambitions for her had grown. He’d no longer be content with an amateur performance for an invited audience. He wanted her to have the opportunity to become a true actress, able to make her living on the stage, the way that she wanted. She’d said he believed in her and he did, and to prove it, he’d written to McGraw to request an audition for Lucia to play Ophelia in a staged production of Hamlet at the Russell Street Theatre.
It would be considered a benefit, a single, pared-down performance on a single night, the kind of thing that was often done in the theater, but it would also become a public audition for her as an actress. In that night, she’d also become a professional, for while McGraw would take his share of the ticket sales, Rivers intended to make sure that she herself would receive the lion’s share of the benefit’s profits, a surprise reward.
Russell Street was second only to Garrick’s own Theatre Royal in Drury Lane—the two playhouses were in fact within sight of each other—and a very grand place indeed for an aspiring actress to make her debut before the notoriously critical London crowds. Now the manager would present himself at the Lodge in three days for an impromptu audition, and Lucia would take her first step toward being the actress she’d always wanted to be.
It was the greatest gift that Rivers could give her, one that would make an entire shop of clothes pale in comparison. Yet as much as he wished her to have her dream, he did not want her to think there was any obligation to him in return. If they became lovers—which he now hoped very much that they would—he wanted her to come to his bed freely. He wanted her to love him for himself, and not because she felt she owed him for this very sizable opportunity.
It was foolish of him to be so sentimental, he knew, and he could only imagine how his brothers and friends would howl with laughter if they ever learned. She’d earned this chance, and she deserved it. From the very difference in their rank, his relationship with Lucia would always have an inescapable mercenary air to it. But for tonight at least, he could pretend otherwise. He could simply enjoy her company for who she was, and pray she did the same with him.
Of course he’d tell her when the time was right, and he reminded himself again of how much he wanted her to have it. Because he did, didn’t he?
For now, McGraw’s letter and its news would keep for another day or two, buried deep in his pocket and away from his heart.
“Almost ready, ma’am,” Sally said, critically arranging the gathers at the back of Lucia’s skirts. The maid had had experience dressing ladies, and was on occasion called up to Breconridge Hall to help with the guests for balls. “His lordship wanted everything perfect before he sees you.”
Obediently Lucia stood without moving, even as her heart raced with anticipation. She had dressed countless other women at the playhouse, but she’d never before been the one being dressed, and it was an odd experience. She sat still as a statue while Sally had brushed out her long hair and skillfully curled and pinned it into a fashionably tall pouf with trailing curls down the back. She lifted one foot and then the other for Sally to roll on her yellow silk stockings with the red embroidered clocks at the ankles, tie her red silk ribbon garters, and slip on her heeled shoes with buckles of glittering paste stones. Then she stood with her back to the looking glass to have her shift adjusted, her stays laced, and her red silk gown slipped over her shoulders and pinned into place.
For the first time in her life, everything was new, and while all the newness was exciting in itself, it was also a bit disorienting as well. The new linen and silk sat differently against her skin, slightly apart and crisp, unlike her old familiar linen petticoats and shifts that were so worn and soft that they’d become almost a part of her. The pins that held her hair in place jabbed against her scalp, and the unfamiliar weight of her hair piled high made her hold her head up straighter. The hoops tied around her waist held her petticoats away from her hips, giving her the sensation that they were floating away, and she with them.
Unconsciously she touched her mother’s cameo for comfort and reassurance. Not everything was new; not everything could be bought and replaced. She hadn’t lost herself, not at all—it would take more than new clothes to do that. Hadn’t Rivers told her exactly the same thing in the carriage?
“There, ma’am, you’re finished,” Sally said, clearly taking no pleasure in what she’d done. “Turn about and see yourself in the glass.”
Lucia was almost afraid of what she’d see. She’d never been one to spend time admiring herself in the glass, not possessing that kind of vanity. She knew perfectly well what she looked like, and there had never been that much to admire. The looking glass in this dressing room was large, nearly pier-sized, and would show her from head to toe. There’d be no hiding. Slowly, very slowly, she turned, and forced herself to look.
And gasped.
The reflection before her was unlike any that had ever stared back at her. The robe à la Polonaise was every bit as beautiful as she’d expected, the scarlet silk shimmering and catching the candlelight like an ever-changing jewel. It didn’t need gold thread or spangles: the color, the rich fabric, and the exquisite style were what would make it impossible to ignore in any gathering. The bodice was cut low over her breasts and sleekly fitted to her body, with narrow sleeves, lavish flounces at the elbows, and petticoats looped into extravagant poufs on either side, which served to make her waist look even smaller. This was the kind of gown that most women would only dream of owning, and she could scarcely believe it was now hers.
But the gown alone wasn’t what had made Lucia gasp. It was how she herself looked that did that. She glowed. Her hair, her skin, her eyes: there was a vibrancy that she couldn’t recall having seen in herself for a long while, if at all. It was as if she’d a candle lit inside of her.
“You’re not the same as when you came here, are you?” Sally observed, shrewdly watching Lucia’s reaction. “Even the lowest stray from the streets would improve with Mrs. Barber’s cooking.”
True, her cheeks were more plump and the ribs that she’d once been able to feel through her skin had disappeared, but she knew the change wasn’t entirely due to Mrs. Barber’s cooking. Rivers could make much more of the claim. His lessons and her time here with him at the Lodge had worn away the dull, self-effacing mask of unhappiness and frustration that she’d unconsciously assumed while in the playhouse. The self-confidence and accomplishment that she’d discovered thanks to him showed in her face and even how she stood, for gone were the hunched, defensive shoulders and the tightly clasped hands. She was happy, happier than she’d ever been, and it showed.
And, though she didn’t wish to admit it, she was also more than a little in love with him.
The thought alone made her blush, her cheeks a guilty red that nearly matched her gown. She’d heard the gossip from the other women in the tiring room, and she knew in great detail what men expected once they’d gotten beneath a woman’s petticoats. To some, it had sounded like a tedious chore to be endured for the sake of a reward afterward, but to others it was a magical, earth-shattering experience with the right man.
Lucia was certain that lovemaking with Rivers would be magic. Certainly kissing him was, and that was only the beginning. But no matter whether or not she ended this night in his bed, she must remember that he could never be hers, not entirely. She could have his friendship and his kindness as well as a hundred other little things that they’d shared and laughed over together, and if she dared, she might claim his passion, too, but she’d never have his heart, not to keep.
Perhaps that was what she thought most as she studied her reflection. Dressed like this, she could now have held her own among the other Di Rossi women, and been every bit as attractive, even seductive, as Magdalena. But because of Rivers, she was different from her cousin and the others, and always would be.
Because of him, she was better. Most likely he believed he’d only improved her as an actress, but in the process he’d also helped her become a more thoughtful, more polished, and more honorable woman that any other Di Rossi had ever been. He’d never know how much he’d done for her, just as she knew she’d never be able to repay him. Whatever happened tonight they could share a memory that would become endlessly special to her no matter what happened a week, a month, a year from now.
“See now, there’s a smile,” Sally said, not bothering to hide her contempt. “High time you did, too. When you first came here with his lordship, none of us could figure what he’d seen in you. Now there’s no doubt to it. I suppose his lordship knew it from the beginning. Looking as you do now, ma’am, there’s no doubt at all.”
“I must join his lordship now,” Lucia said hurriedly, glancing away from the looking glass to the little porcelain clock on the mantelpiece. It was already eight, long past their customary time for dining, and although Rivers had told her to take as long as she required to dress, she knew how much he hated to be kept waiting. “Has he gone downstairs yet?”
Sally shrugged and stepped back, leaving a clear path for Lucia to the door. “I do not know, ma’am.”
“Then I shall go discover for myself.” Lucia ran her palm along the front of her bodice, smoothing silk that did not need smoothing, then turned away from her reflection and toward the doorway and the staircase beyond. Everything was in play now; everything would happen as fate would have it.
Yet still she took the time to pause before Sally, placing her hand on the other woman’s upper arm.
“I thank you, Sally,” she said. “I know that you have done this for me from an order, not an inclination, but still I am most grateful for the care you have taken with my dress tonight.”
Sally flushed. She looked down, avoiding Lucia’s gaze, and bobbed a quick, noncommittal curtsey.
Given any encouragement, Lucia would have said more, but she recognized a purposeful slight when she saw one, and she knew, too, the best way to respond was to ignore it. The Lodge’s female servants had disliked her from the first day she’d arrived, and nothing she’d done had changed their minds. Perhaps they’d resented how their master had favored her, a low, common woman from London who they all looked down upon; or perhaps it was simply because they knew she’d be gone from their lives in another week, they figured she wasn’t worth their trouble.
Yet still their scorn stung because it was unfamiliar. Lucia had always been so invisible that no one else had bothered to be jealous or envious of her. Still, if she was going to make her way in the London theater she’d have to weather much worse than this, and with as pleasant a smile as she could muster, she turned away from Sally and walked through the doorway.
It was all one more lesson to learn, she told herself fiercely. One more reason to be strong so that she might succeed.
As much as she longed to join Rivers, she didn’t run, but walked deliberately with the grace that he had urged her to find in herself. The silk petticoats rustled around her legs with each step, as if whispering more encouragement, and by the time she reached the parlor, her smile was genuine with eagerness to join him again, and her heart was racing with anticipation.
For once a footman—Tom, her first acquaintance amongst the staff—was stationed beside the parlor door in full livery, ready to bow and open it as soon as she approached. That made her smile, too, for life at the Lodge wasn’t generally so formal. Having Tom there was much like having Sally dress her, both servants signifying the special importance that Rivers had placed upon this evening. As Tom held the door open for her she took one final deep breath to calm herself, and swept into the room with her head high, making the entrance that Rivers—and her new gown—deserved.
But instead of the blaze of candles and the impeccably set table that she’d expected, the room was nearly dark except for the moonlight. There were only two candles lit on the mantel, and the table where they usually ate was not only not set, but at rest against the wall with the leaves folded down.
And Rivers wasn’t even looking at her. Instead he stood at the open door to the garden, gazing out at the night sky with his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed for evening, too, and the moonlight glinted on the silver threads in his embroidered front and cuffs of his dark silk coat, just as it gilded on his golden hair, and reminded her once again how glad she was that he didn’t powder it, or wear a wig. His long shadow stretched out behind him, away from the door and across the flowered carpet. She’d often before seen him lost in his thoughts like this, but not when he was supposed to be waiting to welcome her.
Panic and disappointment rose within her. Had she completely misjudged his intentions for this evening? Was he planning not to make love to her as she’d imagined, but to send her packing and bid her farewell, with the clothes purchased today no more than a lavish parting gift? She swallowed hard, wondering what she was to say and do under such circumstances, and how she would ever live with the disappointment.
But then he turned, and the way his face lit with pleasure when he saw her swept aside all her doubts, all her fears. She sank gracefully into a curtsey, her skirts crushing around her in a soft, silken pillow, and smiled up at him. It was a curtsey meant for the stage, not for Court—according to Rivers, smiling up at His Majesty would have been considered a terrible impropriety—but now she found, and charmed, her audience.
“My God, Lucia, but you’re beautiful,” Rivers said. He stepped forward and bent to raise her up, taking her by both her hands and keeping them. Without breaking his gaze from hers, he lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed her open palm, and then the other.
“It’s entirely the gown that you bought for me,” she said, breathless from what he’d said and the touch of his lips on her palms and everything else about being here alone with him. “You’re dazzled by the scarlet silk.”
“I’m dazzled by the woman inside the silk,” he said, more solemnly than she’d expected. “You are more dazzling than the stars and the moon in the sky.”
She was thankful for the half-light that would hide how she blushed. She still was not accustomed to compliments from him, nor to the great rush of pleasure that she felt when he gave them. Compliments were not idle, empty things with him, the way they were with most men, who saw them only as a means toward a kiss or other favor. To Rivers a compliment was purest truth, or not said aloud, and to hear him speak such things of her was glorious indeed.
“Such fancies, Rivers,” she said shyly, betraying her blush even if he couldn’t see it. “The stars and the moon?”
“Every one of them,” he said. “Come, and I’ll show you.”
Still holding her hands, he began to lead her from the room. He meant to take her upstairs already, to his bed, without supper or any other preliminary. There could be no other explanation. Though she’d thought she was eager for that, she hung back, suddenly uneasy, or perhaps only disappointed. She’d thought Rivers would be different from other men, and take his time to win her. She’d thought he would woo her, enchant her, seduce her in every sense of the word.
“I—I thought we were to dine,” she said hesitantly, unable to say what she was thinking. “That is why I am dressed like this, yes?”
He frowned, confused. “Of course we shall dine,” he said. “I would never deprive you of a meal, Lucia.”
Under any other circumstances, his literal answer would have made her laugh, but not now.
“But when you said you’d show me the stars…” she began, faltering.
“When I said it, that was exactly what I intended,” he said firmly. “This morning you accused me of relying too much upon knowledge gleaned from books, and not enough from life itself. I wish to prove you wrong, Lucia. No, that’s not right. Rather, I wish to show you, so you may judge for yourself. Trust me. That is all I ask. Trust me, and see.”
How could she not trust him after that?
She took a deep breath, her smile wobbly with emotion.
“Then show me, Rivers,” she said. “Show me.”