Rivers sat in the drawing room at the back of the Lodge, and pretended to read. As the most formal room in the house, this drawing room was also the one he used the least. It remained most true to the Lodge’s original use for hunting, with heavy, dark oak furniture from the last century and dark paneling on the walls. There were a handful of paintings of long-ago hunts and hunters, and a pair of stuffed stag heads with many-pointed antlers, one on either end of the room. He’d found those stags forbidding when he’d been a boy, convinced their glass eyes were watching him wherever he stood in the room. He didn’t find them much more welcoming now, either, nor did Spot, who always lowered his head and growled on principle at the doorway before he entered.

But Rivers had decided that the room would make an excellent place for receiving the theater manager. He expected the man to be cocky and full of bluster, the way his letter had been, and if ever there was a room that had a gloomy, aristocratic omnipotence to it, this was it. Without a word, the room would remind the man that he was dealing with the Fitzroy family, whose ducal crest was carved into the stone mantelpiece, and that Lucia was a Fitzroy protégée. This was also the reason why Rivers had chosen this chair, an imposing throne-like monstrosity fashioned of antlers with red leather cushions beneath the arched window. McGraw might be from the world of playhouses and actors, but Rivers knew a bit about theatrics as well.

But the best reason for choosing this room was how it would flatter Lucia. The acoustics were splendid, and would amplify every word she spoke. All the dark wood and masculine hunting memorabilia would serve to make her appear more feminine, more delicate, more beautiful, by comparison. The gloominess, too, seemed appropriate for the dark drama of Hamlet. Even the weather was cooperating. He had never traveled to Denmark, but he imagined it as a dank and melancholy place, and the rain driving against the windows outside only contributed to a suitable setting for a play filled with tragic mayhem. He’d even ordered a fire lit in the huge fireplace, something he seldom did in June, but felt was necessary for this day. What better setting could there be for Shakespeare than this?

Yet as Rivers sat near the window, Spot sleeping on the floor beside him, his thoughts were not on Shakespeare or Denmark, or even McGraw’s impending arrival. All he could think of was Lucia, and how badly he’d botched their earlier conversation. He had wanted to make a great, generous revelation of McGraw’s visit. He’d envisioned her excitement and joy, and how fondly she’d display her gratitude toward him.

But he’d made a mess out of the whole affair. Instead of being generous, he’d sounded selfish and controlling and uncaring, and the more he’d tried to unsay what he’d said, the worse he’d made things. He should have told her as soon as he’d received the letter from McGraw. No, further back than that: he should have told her he was writing to McGraw in the first place. He shouldn’t have kept the audition from her until now, and she’d every right to be upset with him.

He knew the reasons why he hadn’t, too, which didn’t make it any easier to bear. He had wanted the dinner he’d planned for her on the roof to be entirely about love, without any distractions. He hadn’t wanted to think about the future, which would inevitably pull them apart. Most of all, he hadn’t wanted her to think she was obligated to love him on account of the audition. He had wanted her to feel the same unconditional love and desire, friendship, and trust he felt for her, and now it seemed that all he’d accomplished was the exact opposite.

She’d said he didn’t trust her, which couldn’t be further from the truth. He’d trusted her with his home, his books, his thoughts, and his past, and most of all his heart, and yet clearly there was something more that was missing. How could he win her trust? How could he win her?

And why, why, when he’d had the chance, hadn’t he told her again that he loved her?

She’d called herself his mistress. That wasn’t how he thought of her, not at all. Her cousin Magdalena had been his mistress. Lucia wasn’t. The difference seemed clear enough to him. A mistress was for pleasure, for amusement. Lucia was that, of course, but more important she was his lover in the best sense of the word, his friend, his partner in the wager, even his inspiration. But he hadn’t corrected her, and now it was likely too late to do so.

He swore softly to himself, making Spot groan in sleepy sympathy beside him as he stared out at the garden. It was raining hard now. The rain beat down the heavy heads of the open roses, scattering their petals on the dark soil, and filled the garden paths with dappled puddles. He could only imagine what the roads must be like. At this rate, McGraw couldn’t—or wouldn’t—be able to come, and this morning’s misunderstandings would have been for nothing.

He wondered what Lucia was doing now. He’d always been a man comfortable with his own company, but he’d grown so accustomed to the pleasure of having her beside him that he felt lost now without her. She’d been right. Books really weren’t the same, and chagrined, he gave up the pretense of reading and closed the book on his lap. Was she dressed and waiting for his summons? Was she studying the play one more time, making certain she knew every word? Or was she, too, watching the rain?

He was so lost in his thoughts that he started when the footman knocked to announce McGraw’s arrival. Quickly he glanced at his watch: to his surprise, the manager was right on time, and Rivers called for them to enter.

“Good day, Mr. McGraw,” he said as the manager came forward and bowed more grandly than was necessary. Sleepily Spot rose, wagging his tail and stretching his head forward to sniff at the newcomer. “I hope your journey was not too arduous. Who expects so much rain in June?”

“It was nothing, my lord, nothing at all,” McGraw declared, his smile broad in his round, ruddy face as he glanced about the room in swift appraisal. During McGraw’s few steps from his hired carriage to the door, raindrops had speckled his serviceable gray suit and florid orange waistcoat, but clearly had not dampened his personality one whit. Only a hint of the good looks that had once led him to acting himself remained in his face, but in their place was an unabashed shrewdness that likely served him much better as a manager than any actor’s perfect profile.

“I am honored, most honored,” he continued effusively, “to be invited here by your lordship, and for such an exciting reason, too. I am always on the hunt for new faces and novelty to cast before the ever-ravenous public.”

“Mrs. Willow shall be entirely new to London, that is true,” Rivers said, motioning for McGraw to sit in the straight-backed chair across from his. Spot, too, resettled; having decided McGraw passed muster, he promptly fell back asleep. “She is most eager to perform for you as well.”

McGraw flipped the skirts of his coat up and deposited himself heavily on the chair.

“She must be new, my lord,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Her name is entirely unknown to me, and I am not merely flattering myself when I claim that I am aware of every young actress, good, bad, and indifferent, traipsing upon the London stage.”

“Mrs. Willow’s performances have been limited in the past to the north and on the Continent,” Rivers said, falling back on the final version of Mrs. Willow’s biography that he and Lucia had agreed upon. “She had in fact retired from the stage with her marriage.”

“Most ladies do,” McGraw agreed sagely. “Husbands don’t care to have wives on the stage.”

Rivers nodded in agreement, hoping that he was relaying Mrs. Willow’s fictional past convincingly. It was impossible to tell if McGraw was trustworthy or not, given the general blather with which all theatrical people swathed themselves. Spot had the best method, deciding worthiness with a brisk sniff, but that would not work for Rivers. Instead he forced himself to look somber, and plowed on ahead.

“Mrs. Willow herself would not have agreed to the notion of this benefit were it not for the unfortunate death of Mr. Willow, and the change in her circumstances,” he said, omitting all references to tigers. “I need not say more.”

“A lady should always be able to rely upon her closest friends in times of need, my lord,” said McGraw with a knowing smile. “What gentleman wants to see a poor delicate creature suffer, I ask you?”

“Indeed,” Rivers said coolly, determined to offer no more details about his friendship with Lucia. He didn’t like how McGraw said the word lady, emphasizing it in a way to show that Lucia must be anything but a lady, and more likely a whore—exactly as she’d predicted. “That is why I have convinced Mrs. Willow of the wisdom of a benefit performance of Hamlet.”

“Oh, yes, yes, my lord, it’s a wise plan indeed for any lady in her circumstances.” Pointedly McGraw looked about the room as if hoping to spy Lucia hiding beneath one of the stag heads. “Mrs. Willow herself is present today, my lord, isn’t she?”

“She is.” Rivers lowered his voice for emphasis. “But I wished to speak with you alone first, Mr. McGraw, before she joins us.”

McGraw smiled again, that sly and knowing smile that Rivers did not like.

“Oh, I know how important it is to keep a lady content, my lord,” he said, “especially where money’s concerned. Most especially, my lord. They get greedy, don’t they, my lord? I vow I won’t reveal a word to her about your, ah, support of the production, if that’s what concerns you.”

“It is not,” Rivers said, his displeasure gathering into anger. The man was damnably presumptuous, and insulting as well. Money had never been an issue between him and Lucia, nor had she even once displayed a hint of greed. “Not in the least.”

“Ahh.” McGraw lowered his head toward his chest, with the same demeanor as a man who’d inadvertently poked a stick into a large nest of snakes. “I intended no offense, my lord.”

“I am glad of that,” Rivers said, each word clipped. “Because I expect you to show only the greatest respect to Mrs. Willow, and treat her with the regard due a lady, and an artist.”

“Oh, of course, my lord, of course,” McGraw said, attempting a recovery, and failing. “Clearly she is a special, ah, lady to you.”

“She is my friend, Mr. McGraw,” Rivers said, “and I hold her in the highest regard, and with the greatest respect possible. And if I ever learn that she has suffered any insult or slander whilst in your company or elsewhere, then you will answer directly to me. To me. Is that clear?”

“Entirely, my lord.” McGraw nodded vigorously. “You have my every assurance, my lord, that I shall offer the lady every opportunity for her gifts to shine, with no offense whatsoever.”

“As it should be,” Rivers said, only a little mollified. “As she deserves.”

He could tell exactly what McGraw was thinking: that Lucia was a talentless and inconsequential bit of fluff, and that Rivers himself was blinded by desire into believing she was more than that.

But Rivers had had enough, and briskly he waved for the footman to summon Lucia. He was confident—more than confident—that Lucia herself would prove to McGraw exactly how wrong his assumptions about her were; he could not wait to see it.

The footman reappeared so quickly that he suspected Lucia must have been waiting not far from the door. He would have been surprised if she’d been late. Not only was she as prompt as he was himself, but he knew how eager she was for this audition.

“My lord, Mrs. Willow,” the footman droned, holding the door open wide for her to enter.

And enter she did.

Gone forever were the awkward dramatics that she’d shown three weeks ago, and gone, too, was the self-effacing maidservant who’d begged for his attention. Instead she entered the parlor with the exact mixture of confidence, grace, and elegance that many noble-born women spent their entire lives striving to achieve. Her gown was the palest blue silk, painted with scattered wildflowers, and she’d tucked some manner of filmy lace kerchief around her shoulders and into the front of the bodice. The neckline was cut very low, yet the lace kerchief was more tantalizing than modest, with the fullness of her breasts only faintly veiled. Resting against the hollow of her throat was the only jewel she ever wore, her mother’s necklace with the little cameo.

The pale silk of her gown floated around her as she walked, or perhaps she truly was floating. Rivers couldn’t say for certain; she was so achingly desirable that he couldn’t say much of anything, and beside him Spot thumped his tail on the floor with approval of his own.

Her dark hair was swept up and away from her face, with glossy curls falling at her nape. She wore no powder nor other paint, for she didn’t need them. Her cheeks glowed with a natural vivacity, and her large, dark eyes with their thick lashes and arching brows were filled with the kind of intelligence and beguiling amusement that could make a man forget everything else.

At least that was the effect she had on Rivers as he automatically rose to his feet to hold his hand out to her. She didn’t take it at first, but curtseyed instead, exactly as Mrs. Willow should have done to the son of the Duke of Breconridge, and exactly the degree of curtsey that was proper for a third son. Then, finally, she took his hand, letting him guide her back to a standing position with a smile that seemed to have forgotten their earlier disagreements.

Happiness surged in his chest as his fingers gently pressed hers, only to be tamped down once again as she slipped her hand free. She might have thought that one touch was enough to show she’d forgiven him, or she might have been behaving as Mrs. Willow would, politely accepting his support as she rose and no more. Damnation, he could not tell. How much was acting, he wondered, and how much was the truth?

She turned toward McGraw, and at once the man seized her hand, not bothering to wait for Rivers to present her.

“Mrs. Willow, your servant,” he said, bowing and kissing the air over the back of her hand. “I am enchanted to make your acquaintance at last. I have heard so much about you.”

“This is Mr. McGraw of the Russell Street Theatre, madam,” Rivers said brusquely, introducing them even though it was now unnecessary. “Mr. McGraw, Mrs. Cassandra Willow.”

“I am honored, Mr. McGraw,” Lucia murmured. Her accent was impeccable in those few words, and even Rivers would have sworn she’d been raised in Portman Square. “You are most kind to come so far from London on my account.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Willow,” McGraw said. He was freely ogling Lucia’s breasts, and it took every last scrap of Rivers’s willpower not to strike the man senseless. “The honor and the pleasure are entirely mine.”

“Indeed,” said Rivers curtly. “Pray do not forget our earlier discussion, McGraw.”

At once the manager released Lucia’s hand, and he smiled blandly at Rivers. “I recall it, my lord. My memory for such things is surpassingly good.”

“I trust it shall continue that way,” Rivers grumbled. McGraw had no right to stare at Lucia like that, and yet Rivers himself had no real right to regard her as his to defend, either.

He should be concentrating on her audition, looking for any little ways he could assist her and letting her show herself off to the best advantage. He’d anticipated this moment as one more important step in her education and the culmination of his teaching, as well as the wager. He’d expected it would be a triumph they’d share. He’d expected to enjoy it, too, and celebrate like any proud tutor would with a prize student.

Yet instead he was behaving like a bad-tempered, defensive, selfish boor, out of sorts and possessive and generally miserable. He’d always prided himself on doing and saying the right thing, but today, where Lucia was concerned, he couldn’t seem to do anything right.

Frustrated and disgusted with himself, he looked down, and felt her hand lightly on his arm. Swiftly he glanced at her, her dark eyes bright with the familiar anticipation and eagerness that was hers alone.

“Shall we begin, my lord?” she asked softly, the flicker of uncertainty in her voice unmistakable, and enough to melt his own misgivings. “That is, if it pleases you.”

“It does,” he said, and it did. If he loved her, he could do nothing less. He forced himself to smile, the warmth of her gaze making everything better. “Begin whenever you please, Mrs. Willow.”

Lucia smiled in return, her heart racing. For a few awful moments, she’d felt sure Rivers had intended to stop her audition before it had begun. After they’d parted earlier this morning, she’d worried that he might lose interest in this part of the wager and not bother to welcome McGraw when he arrived.

What she hadn’t expected, however, was that he’d suddenly become so overprotective, even territorial; her thoughtful, genial golden lion had shown his teeth when McGraw appeared, and the transformation shocked her. In the tiring room she’d seen what happened when men became like this, blustering and posturing over a woman, and it never ended well. It made no sense to her for him to behave like this now, especially when so much was at stake, and his tight-lipped smile did not comfort her.

“You are certain, my lord?” she asked, striving to keep the anxiety from her voice as she pressed her hand lightly on his arm. She had planned to keep physically apart from Rivers in McGraw’s company, wanting things as formal as possible between them for the sake of the audition, but she couldn’t help herself now. She wanted to reassure him as best she could, and herself, too. “You are ready for the audition to proceed?”

He covered her hand with his own, and his smile thawed a fraction. “Whenever you are ready, Mrs. Willow, and the best of luck to you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Willow, let us begin,” McGraw said, impatiently clapping his hands together. “According to his lordship’s letter, you have prepared the tragic role of Ophelia, from Hamlet. I assume you know both the monologues and the dialogues for the part, yes?”

“Oh, yes,” Lucia said. She slipped her hand away from Rivers’s arm and turned toward the manager. She must focus on her audition now, and concentrate on everything McGraw said to her. “I have learned the entire play by heart, sir, and not just my own lines.”

“Very well.” McGraw pulled a battered, unbound copy of the play—the antithesis of Rivers’s elegantly bound edition—from inside his coat and smoothed the curled edges flat over his knee. “A small test of your memory. I’ll say one line, and you say the one that follows.”

“That’s hardly a useful test,” Rivers protested. “She’d never be called upon to speak lines that were not hers.”

“I can do it, my lord,” Lucia said quickly, determined to prove it not only to McGraw, but to Rivers as well. “You know I can. Try me, Mr. McGraw.”

McGraw nodded, flipping through the pages. “ ‘How can that be, when you have the voice of the king / himself for your succession in Denmark?’ ”

“ ‘Ay, sir, but, While the grass grows,—the proverb / is something musty,’ ” Lucia said without hesitation.

McGraw grunted. “Here’s another, then. ‘What act / That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?’ ”

Lucia smiled, recognizing the line in an instant, and knowing what followed, too. “ ‘Look here, upon this picture, and on this, / The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.’ Shall I continue, Mr. McGraw?”

“That shall do, Mrs. Willow.” McGraw nodded with approval. “I wish all my company could do as well, but most, particularly the actresses, are too idle to bother.”

Lucia dipped a small curtsey in acknowledgment, grateful that the first test had been so easy—or at least easy for her.

“Now let us see how you fare with your own lines,” McGraw continued. “Pray go stand a distance away, by that window, if you please, and speak Ophelia’s speech beginning ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!’ ”

She made a small curtsey to the two men, and walked slowly across the room to the window, as McGraw had requested, using the time to compose herself. She didn’t miss the irony of the speech the manager had chosen, for it was the same one that Rivers had first given her to learn in the carriage from London. That had been less than a month ago, and how much she’d learned since then.

It hadn’t been just the tricks of acting and accents and standing properly, but of the magic of poetry, of drama, of passion. Only Rivers could have taught her those, and only she could have learned them so well from him. Now when she took a final breath, raised her head, and turned toward the two seated men, the familiar words reverberated with that same poetry, drama, and passion, and, as Ophelia would have done, her entire small frame trembled with the meaning.

“O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!

The Courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword,

Th’ expectancy and rose of the fair state,

The glass of fashion and the mould of form,

Th’ observ’d of all observers, quite, quite down!

And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,

That suck’d the honey of his music vows,

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason

Like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh,

That unmatch’d form and feature of blown youth

Blasted with ecstasy. O, woe is me

T’have seen what I have seen, see what I see.”

She finished the last line, and forcibly returned to being Mrs. Willow. The speech ended the scene for Ophelia; there was nothing more she could or should say, and so she waited for McGraw’s reaction. She didn’t dare look at Rivers, fearing the emotions of the role could spill over into her own.

“Impressive,” McGraw said blandly. “Another. ‘How now, Ophelia!’ ”

It was the prompt for Ophelia’s most challenging scene, and her last in the play. Lucia had guessed McGraw would request it, which was why she’d chosen to wear this gown scattered with wildflowers, as much a costume as she’d have.

In the scene, Ophelia had lost her wits from grief and had become mad, which as Lucia had quickly learned, was not nearly so easy to do as it would seem. Raving like a lunatic Bedlamite wouldn’t do. She had to be poignantly mad, as Rivers had explained, with the kind of madness that makes audiences weep, not wriggle with discomfort.

The hardest part for Lucia were the lines that Ophelia was supposed to sing. The same affliction that made it impossible to dance likewise made her hopeless at following a tune, but she and Rivers had devised a kind of singsong way of speaking the lines that he assured her was far more affecting than if she’d sung them perfectly. Now all she could do was pray that Rivers had been right, and that she wouldn’t make a fool of herself.

She spread her hands open, tipped her head to one side, and began the first song.

“How should I your true love know

From another one?

By his cockle hat and staff,

And his sandle shoon.”

To her relief, McGraw didn’t laugh, but read the next lines that belonged to Queen Gertrude, and then, further along, to King Claudius, too. As the scene continued, she forgot her first nervousness, forgot McGraw, and forgot the importance of this audition. Instead she became the pitiful Ophelia, grieving her much-loved father and scorned by the prince who had seduced and abandoned her. The further she went along, the more the old-fashioned words seemed to describe her own situation with Rivers.

“Alack, and fie for shame!

Young men will do’t, if they come to’t;

By cock, they are to blame.”

Quoth she, “Before you tumbled me,

You promised me to wed.”

“So would I ha’done, by younder sun,

An thou hadst not come to my bed.”

Of course she was no noblewoman and Rivers would never have promised to marry her, but she now keenly understood the loss and betrayal that Ophelia must have felt. By the time she spoke the last lines of her scene and made her exit in a melancholy daze as the part required, she felt both drained and overwhelmed. With a shudder of emotion, she closed her eyes for a long moment to recover, and then turned back toward the two men who were her audience.

Without thinking she sought Rivers’s reaction first. She hoped for a nod or a smile of approval, the judgment she’d come to expect. The smile was there, but in his eyes she saw her own emotions reflected: pain, loss, confusion, and love.

Love.

“Mrs. Willow, you were marvelous,” McGraw was saying, the sharp crack of his applause enough to make Lucia finally look away from Rivers. “If you can repeat that on my stage, I shall have crowds weeping in the stalls.”

His praise was far more than she’d dared hope for, and she pressed her hands to her cheeks with amazement.

“Thank—thank you, Mr. McGraw,” she stammered, crossing the room to join the men. “That is, I am most grateful for this opportunity.”

“Nonsense,” the manager said, tucking his playbook back into one pocket of his coat, and pulling a well-thumbed almanac from another. “It’s I who must be grateful to his lordship for recommending you to me. I’ll admit that I was skeptical, my lord, but this lady has made fools of all my doubts.”

“I did not exaggerate,” Rivers said, his gaze not leaving Lucia. “Mrs. Willow’s gifts are worthy of the highest of praise.”

“That they are,” McGraw said absently, flipping through the pages of his almanac. “I do not ordinarily approve a full staging of a play for a single-night benefit, but under the circumstances, I will have the costumes and scenes from our last Hamlet brought from storage. Mr. Lambert will be your Danish prince; he could speak the role in his sleep. Will Thursday next be an agreeable date to you, my lord?”

Lucia gasped. Next Thursday seemed so soon.

“Thursday next,” Rivers repeated, the earlier edge that had been in his voice gone, and replaced by his usual well-bred reserve. “That’s six days from today.”

“It is, my lord,” McGraw said, frowning down at the almanac. “Thursday evening for the benefit, with rehearsals on Tuesday and Wednesday. In your letter you had mentioned that you wished the performance to take place before the end of the month.”

Of course Rivers had wanted the benefit then, for the sake of the wager. However could she have forgotten the purpose behind all of this? But in six days, he’d no longer have a reason to be with her. Everything would be done, finished, exactly as they’d both agreed from the beginning.

“Thank you, Mr. McGraw,” Rivers said evenly. “If the date is acceptable to Mrs. Willow, then we shall agree upon Thursday.”

“It is acceptable,” Lucia said, for what else could she say?

“Excellent.” McGraw made a final note in the almanac, then tucked it away. “I shall send word of the details to you when I return to London, which I fear I must do directly. My lord, I remain your servant. Mrs. Willow, it has been my pleasure.”

He bowed his way from the room, and the footman closed the door gently after him, leaving Lucia and Rivers alone with the sound of the rain and the awkwardness of the silence yawning between them.

She hadn’t seen this room before. It was chilly, even in June, and forbiddingly filled with the dead, preserved trophies of long-ago hunts and long-ago Fitzroys, too. Unlike the rest of the Lodge, there didn’t seem to be so much as a trace of Rivers in this room—except, of course, he himself, standing there before her. He was impeccably dressed in subdued clothes fit for the country, the model of an English nobleman, and yet she was far more conscious of what simmered beneath all that expensive elegance. He stood coiled and tense, his shoulders bunched beneath the tailoring and his jaw tight.

Now it wasn’t the furious possessiveness that he’d shown toward McGraw that had him on edge, but the same wariness she herself was feeling. Uncertainty did that. She didn’t know if he was considering sending her back to London today, or tumbling her here on the carpet. Neither would surprise her.

Yet still she stood before him, letting him break the silence first.

At last he cleared his throat. “You were magnificent, Lucia,” he said. “No, you are magnificent.”

Her smile blossomed with relief. At least for now he seemed willing to move beyond their uneasy parting earlier this morning. “Truly?”

“You were, without question or doubt,” he said. “Now all your talent and hard work will most certainly be rewarded.”

“Truly?” she said again, wincing inwardly at her repetition. She’d imagined this moment as being filled with wild elation and joy, and yet because of the awkwardness hovering between them, it didn’t feel that way at all. “That is, I hope Mr. McGraw will continue to be pleased with me after the benefit.”

“He will,” Rivers predicted. “You have captured him, and you’d have to be very bad indeed for him to turn against you now. I would not be surprised if he offered you a more lasting place in the company.”

“That is my dream, isn’t it?” Her smile faded and turned bittersweet. That had been her dream—to become a primary actress on the London stage, applauded by all, celebrated and independent—but much of the luster of it had dulled because going to London in a handful of days meant the end of her idyll here at the Lodge with Rivers. She knew from the beginning that this day would come, knew she shouldn’t mourn over it, yet here she was, granted the one thing she’d claimed she desired most and unable to take any joy in her achievement.

“Lucia, what is wrong?” Rivers said when she didn’t continue. “Tell me.”

“There’s nothing wrong,” she answered automatically. “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie,” he said, then sighed, raking his fingers back through his hair. “Please. When I listened to you just now I felt as if you were not reciting lines, but speaking directly to me. Your sorrow, your grief, your loss—have I done that to you?”

She shook her head, startled. How could he have guessed what she’d been thinking? What had she done to betray her thoughts so easily?

“It was the play,” she said quickly. Her aristocratic accent slipped away with her uneasiness, and she paused to recover it. “My lines. That was Ophelia speaking to you, not me.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he insisted, “because I saw the same look in your eyes this morning before you spoke a word, and earlier, when you left me on the roof.”

“I am concerned about the rehearsals,” she said, avoiding the truth. “Working with the other actors and actresses on a true stage as their equal. What if they resent me? What if they believe I’ve no place among them?”

“The only complaint they shall have of you is that the audience will see only your glory, and be blind to their pitiful efforts.” He was trying too hard, his manner forced. “You’ll see, Lucia. After next week, the world shall be your oyster, to open as you please.”

She shook her head, not so much denying the compliment as being unable to trust it. She wished he wouldn’t speak of next week. Of course she was excited about the rehearsals and the benefit, but at the same time she didn’t want to think of how swiftly her time with Rivers was coming to an end. The more he spoke of London, the more she couldn’t help but think he was eager to leave the Lodge, and be done with her as well.

It was painful for her even to look at him now, and she shifted her gaze away from him, up to the glass-eyed buck’s head looming overhead.

He sighed again, his frustration clearly growing. “Don’t retreat from me, Lucia. What have I done to upset you? What have I said? What can I do to make things right?”

Hastily she looked down at her clasped hands, hiding the eyes that had betrayed her.

“You’ve done so much for me already,” she said. “My training, this audition, the benefit next week. I owe you everything, and have no right to expect more.”

“There’s nothing owed,” he said firmly. “Nothing. It’s all been given to you freely, with no obligations. I’d give you so much more if only you’d let me.”

Silently she shook her head, too aware of how every last thread and stitch on her body had been his gift. She’d already resolved that, if Mr. McGraw did offer her a place, that she’d put every farthing toward paying Rivers back. She had to do it. She could never have what she truly wished from him, which was to be with him always. She’d known that from the beginning, and there was no point in arguing over things that could not be changed. She knew, too, what he was offering her now: more clothes, jewels, perhaps even a house and a carriage, the gifts men like him lavished on women like her in exchange for warming their beds.

She wanted none of it.

“No more, Rivers,” she said, unable to keep the sadness from her voice. “You’ve been more than generous to me this last month, but I can’t accept anything else.”

“You’ve only to say what you want, Lucia,” he said slowly, as if that alone could change her mind, “and it will be yours.”

“I told you, Rivers,” she said. “No more things.”

He frowned, clearly not understanding. “My love isn’t a thing.”

She hadn’t expected that, and it made her catch her breath. It was so easy for him to make statements like that, devastatingly lovely statements, as if they truly had a future to share. How could he know how they tore at her heart?

He took a step toward her, his hand outstretched as if she were a wild animal to be coaxed. “I promise you, Lucia, once we’re in London—”

“I beg you, Rivers, do not speak of London!” she cried unhappily. “Whatever became of us living minute by minute and day by day, instead of making endless, empty plans for the future?”

He let his hand drop. “I have not forgotten,” he said. “What fate and the stars decree, yes?”

She nodded, short, quick jerks of her chin. “It’s what makes us who we are, not what we might become, with no guarantees of certainty.”

“Very well,” he said slowly. “If that is what you desire, then I’ll do my best to oblige.”

He called for the footman. “Grant, have the carriage readied, and have Mrs. Willow’s maidservant bring her a cloak against the weather.”

“Where am I going?” No matter how brave she tried to be, her voice rose with trepidation, and she hurried toward him with her hands pressed together. “Rivers? Are you sending me away?”

He raised his brows with disbelief. “Why in blazes should I do that?”

“Because—because you have tired of me,” she said, faltering before the truth. “Because you wish me returned to London. Because—”

“Hush,” he said softly, taking her by the arm and drawing her close. “I wish no such thing. I’m taking you with me, not sending you away.”

She settled close to his chest, comforted by the rightness of it. They had been apart for less than three hours, and yet it had felt like an eternity. “We’re not going to London?”

“Not at all,” he said, curling his arm around her waist. “You want my trust. I’ll give it to you now, in this minute. We’re going to my father’s house. I’m taking you to Breconridge Hall.”