Lucia sat at her dressing table, leaning close to the looking glass as she carefully drew a fine line of the lampblack around her eyes. Her face and shoulders were already covered with pale paint, smelling faintly of the vinegar used to mix the white lead, and her cheeks were artificially flushed with red vermillion. It looked gaudy and false here before the glass, but beneath the stage’s candles, she’d become the fresh-faced maiden Juliet, ripe for love, that the audience had come to see.
In the two weeks since she’d made her debut as Ophelia, she’d learned to outline each eye with two strokes of the brush, above and below, with one more artful curve to lift her brows in permanent surprise. She held her breath to steady her hand, a little trick she’d learned from one of the other actresses. She sat back and blinked at her reflection, then smiled. Beneath the gold-edged cap, she was the very picture of Juliet, without a trace of Lucia, exactly as she was supposed to be.
But then, wasn’t that the way this entire fortnight had been? Everything in her life had changed. Her Ophelia had become the talk of London, and instead of being a mere curiosity, she now was praised for the sensitivity and sentiment of her portrayal.
In honor of her success, McGraw had given her a dressing room of her own, as much for receiving her admirers as for any real dressing. The playhouse was filled every night, and paeans to her talent were written in newspapers and magazines. She received amorous letters from men she’d never met, and she was recognized by strangers on the streets and in shops. She had become a bona fide celebrity, and one night even the king and queen and a great party of courtiers had come to watch her from the royal box, and had offered their compliments afterward.
But the backstage visitor who had astonished her the most had been the great Mr. Garrick himself from the Theatre Royal. He had praised her performance to the skies as he’d kissed her hand while McGraw hovered nearby, fearing that his rival would try to lure her to his own playhouse.
To counter Garrick’s attention, McGraw had staged a revival of another of Shakespeare’s plays, Romeo and Juliet, with Lucia as Juliet. They’d rehearsed the new production during the day and played Hamlet at night, until Lucia had fallen into her bed in her new lodgings each night so exhausted she’d no notion of how she’d rise to do it again the next day.
Yet she did. She learned this new part in a matter of days rather than the six weeks she’d had for Ophelia, and when they closed Hamlet one night and opened Romeo and Juliet the next, she’d been ready. Once again, the crowds came, and again she made them weep.
It came easily to her now, making them cry. Critics called this her special gift, but only she knew the real reason. She could wring the anguish from every word of Juliet’s tragedy as if it were her own, because in a way it was. Rivers had been her Hamlet, her Romeo, and on the stage, through Shakespeare’s words, she could set free all the pain and sorrow of her own broken heart.
Ending her attachment with Rivers had been the proper thing to do, the noble thing, but not a minute went by that she didn’t think of him with regret and loss. That last glimpse of his face and the pain she’d caused him were the worst memories to have, and no matter how often she reminded herself that he never could have found lasting happiness with her, she still couldn’t stop wishing it had been otherwise.
She hadn’t realized how empty her success would feel without him to share it. They truly had been partners in creating Mrs. Willow, and she never imagined how much she’d long for his suggestions and challenges, and even how he’d suddenly charge off to retrieve a book from his library to read her a particular passage that he felt she needed to hear. She missed how seriously he’d taken her, never once making fun of her questions or missteps. All during rehearsals, she’d yearned to discuss her new role with him, and she wondered constantly what he’d make of her performance.
It only got worse, not better. Each evening before the curtain, she stood in the wings and scanned the first tier boxes, searching for him. Considering how she’d broken off with him before he could do the same to her, she knew rationally that he wouldn’t be there, and he wasn’t. Yet still she searched for him, her heart refusing to give up hope.
And late at night, when she lay alone in her bed in the dark, she longed for him to be there with her. She ached for the warmth of his big body beside her, for the passion they’d shared, for the love he’d given her that had taken away the loneliness that was once again her constant companion.
No one else around her understood. Of course her new friends knew that she’d parted with Lord Fitzroy—that was unavoidable, given that she’d done it in the tiring room—but they believed her to be like Magdalena, effortlessly shedding a gentleman when he no longer proved useful. They teased her about who her next lover would be, and when bouquets of flowers arrived for her from men she neither knew nor wished to, her new friends read aloud the cards with bad poetry, and made bawdy suggestions about the authors. Even Mr. McGraw had praised her for leaving Rivers, telling her that he would only have complicated her career and brought her trouble in the end.
In return, Lucia merely smiled, and let them think what they wanted. She alone knew the bitter truth, and the aching loneliness that went with it.
She touched the flowered brooch Rivers had given her, pinned for safekeeping to her stays, beneath her costume and over her heart. She always wore it now, a talisman and a reminder. It was all she had left of him.
“Scene three, ladies, scene three,” announced the stage boy from the hall. “Make ready for your entrance.”
Lucia gave a final pat to her cap and turned away from the looking glass. In the dressing room across the narrow hall from hers sat another actress, Martha, who would play Lucia’s mother in the next scene.
“We should go, Martha,” Lucia said, already up and closing her door behind her. “You know how angry Mr. McGraw was last night when Ned was late coming back from the privy and the whole scene had to wait.”
“Oh, McGraw can wait, the old cow,” Martha said, engrossed in the scandal sheet she’d spread across the table before her. “This will interest you, Lucia. It’s about that lordling what made the wager with you. He is to wed, or leastways he’s as good as betrothed.”
Lucia caught her breath. “You cannot mean Lord Rivers.”
“I can, and I do,” Martha said, pointing to the page. “Here it is, clear as day, even with the proper names left out. Read it for yourself.”
Reluctantly Lucia took the paper from Martha, and forced herself to read the item.
Lord R****s F*****y, son of the Duke of B*********e is said to have formed an attachment to the beauteous daughter of the Marquess of S*******e. The two are seen often in one another’s Company, & since LOVE & HAPPINESS will not be denied, a nuptial Announcement by the Lady’s father is regarded as Imminent.
“ ’Tis fortunate you left the rogue when you did,” Martha said as she rose, straightening her wig. “You’re spared all the teeth-gnashing of him mending his ways for his new bride. Men being men, he’d likely been planning to marry her all the time he was with you, the lying rascal. Come along now, or McGraw will come yipping after us himself.”
Yet Lucia lingered, unable to look away from the small item of gossip. Even this was enough to make her heart ache with loss, and long for all she’d never have. For two weeks now, he’d stayed away from her, accepting her rejection as final. Here was the last proof that he’d rejected her in return.
Because of course it was Rivers. Of course he was going to marry the daughter of a marquess, who was of course beauteous.
And of course love and happiness would not be denied. Wasn’t that exactly what she’d wished for him? Love and happiness, with another woman who was his equal, and would be welcomed warmly into his family as his wife, not his mistress.
Of course.
Rivers, however, was not happy, nor was he in love, at least not with Lady Anne Stanhope. He was standing at one of the long windows of his father’s house with his back turned to the rest of his family, who were gaily blathering on about some nonsense or other while they waited for their guests to arrive.
He was in no humor for either gaiety or blather, and if he was honest, he wasn’t overly interested in his family at this point, either. Nor did it help his mood knowing that he was being a fool, pining over a woman who had discarded him as easily as an old pair of gloves.
Yet he could not help it. Lucia di Rossi had done that to him, and he’d make no apologies for how thoroughly her rejection had wounded him. He felt like a dog with a broken leg, hopping gamely along on three legs but still in pain.
He hadn’t even been able to manage that much for the first days after she’d told him she no longer wished to be with him. He missed her more than he’d believed possible. Countless times a day he’d been sure he heard her voice in the hall, or turned his head, certain he’d find her there at his side. With only Spot for company, he had stayed in his house and he hadn’t left it, hoping that she’d return to her senses and come back to him.
Instead she had sent a man with a cart to collect her belongings, the same little trunk that she’d once carried herself, and the new clothes that had been made for her in Newbury. To make matters even more humiliating, she had also returned the bag of coins that had been Everett’s wager. With it had been a note explaining that the money should be considered repayment for the clothes, and that he should now regard her debt to him paid in full.
Rivers had cursed and sworn that he’d consider no such thing, and had insisted the man take the money back to her. He had no use for it, not when the one thing he truly wanted was Lucia herself.
Yet even after this, he had kept his distance, the way she’d requested. He hadn’t gone to the playhouse to watch her perform. He hadn’t loitered outside after the play was done, hoping to see her leave. He hadn’t made inquiries as to her new lodgings, or asked if she had taken up with another man. He read her reviews, because he would have read the papers anyway, and he felt ridiculously proud of her for them. Even though she had banished him from her life, he was not able to do the same with her.
After that first week alone, he had forced himself to go out, and to pretend that there was nothing amiss. He went to his club, where he was congratulated for winning the wager. He dined with his friends, and his refusal to discuss Lucia was only taken as a sign of worldly manhood. He visited his family, and tolerated their attempts to make a match with Lady Anne. He was polite to the lady, who would have been entirely agreeable under other circumstances, but he did nothing to encourage her. He couldn’t. His heart and his love still belonged to Lucia, whether she wished it or not.
All of which had led him here, to this window, staring out at the green oval of Portman Square in the falling dusk. The lanterns were being lighted now, little pockets of brightness against the night. He had thought he’d been invited here for a family dinner, his father and Celia, Harry and Gus, Geoffrey and Serena, but Harry had let it slip that the Stanhopes had been invited as well. He did not want to dine with the Stanhopes, or to have to suffer through a long meal with Lady Anne gazing adoringly at him with her blank blue eyes.
To his relief, they were late, and he surreptitiously checked his watch. Perhaps he could plead some other engagement and escape before they arrived. Perhaps he could shift from this window to the door and slip away unnoticed, and make apologies tomorrow. Perhaps—
“Lost in your own thoughts, Rivers?” said Father as he came to stand beside him, and put an end to all hopes of escape. He motioned to a nearby footman to bring them wine. “I don’t blame you, when all the ladies can speak of is infants and children. There was a time when the trials of the nursery were left there, but now it seems that every tantrum and rash is considered fit conversation for the drawing room as well.”
Rivers took the wineglass and raised it toward his father before he drank.
“You’re only unhappy because they speak of their daughters,” he said. He knew he was tossing a spark into dry tinder with his father, but perversely he couldn’t stop himself from spreading his own general misery. “If one of those tantrums belonged to a son, you’d be directly in the middle of the conversation, praising that tantrum as a rare sign of spirit.”
But to his surprise, Father didn’t rage, the way Rivers had expected. Instead he merely chuckled, as if Rivers hadn’t goaded him, but told an amusing jest.
“True, true,” Father said, looking back at Serena and Gus. “With luck I’ll have that grandson soon enough.”
“Gus looks well,” Rivers said. “She must be near her time.”
“It could be this week, or another three,” Father said, narrowing his eyes a fraction as if he were able to see Gus’s unborn child. “Ladies—and babes—can be unpredictable that way. But that is no affair of yours, is it? Your head is filled with the lovely Lady Anne.”
He clapped Rivers on the back so hard that the wine splattered from his glass.
“No, Father.” Rivers set his glass down on a nearby table and shook the spilled wine from his fingers. “If I am honest, the lady is not in my thoughts now, nor ever has been.”
“Then she should be,” Father declared. “You’re not the only young buck that has an eye on her. Has she told you that she has five brothers? Five brothers, Rivers, and her the only girl in the family! That’s the kind of lady who’ll give you sons. But if you don’t declare yourself soon, she’ll slip away.”
“Then let her slip,” Rivers said wearily. “I’ve told you before, Father, I’ve no interest in marrying at present, and especially no interest in Lady Anne Stanhope.”
“Don’t say such rubbish,” Father said, his voice rising and his face growing flushed. “I know you were infatuated with that little actress last month, but surely you must be recovered from her by now. If you lifted your nose from your books for once, you would see what a fine opportunity the lady—”
“Brecon, please.” Suddenly Gus was standing there, too, her freckled face smiling as pleasantly as if Father were not on the verge of apoplexy. “If you do not object, I should like to borrow Rivers for a few moments.”
She tucked her hand possessively into the crook of Rivers’s arm, making it clear that she would not be denied.
“Ah, yes, by all means, Augusta,” Father said, visibly controlling his temper for her sake. “Take the rogue away with you if you wish. But mind he does not vex you, for your own sake as well as the child’s. Do you understand, Rivers? Do not torment Augusta, or you’ll answer to me.”
“Rivers will behave with me, I am sure of it,” she said, leading him away and from the drawing room.
She was so large and close to her time that she seemed nearly as wide as she was tall, with endless peach-colored silk ruffles fluttering like waves from her person. Rivers hoped he hadn’t distressed her, the way Father had accused him of doing. He’d never forgive himself if she went into labor early because of him, and neither would Harry.
“Please, be seated, Gus,” he said gallantly, trying to steer her toward one of the chairs in the hall. “No need to tire yourself.”
“Don’t be like your father, Rivers,” she said breathlessly. “I shall not break, and neither will my little one.”
Purposefully she continued another ten steps to a nearby settee. She dropped into it with obvious relief, cradling her hands over her belly as her ruffled skirts spread and settled around her.
“Oh, my goodness,” she said with a sigh. “This imp gives me no peace in my womb, kicking me night and day. I’m sure Brecon would say that’s a sure sign of a boy, which is why I’ve not told him.”
Rivers wasn’t any more comfortable with talk of unborn kicking babies than Father, and when Gus rubbed her belly to calm the “kicking imp,” he looked down with embarrassment. But that was no better: beneath the hem of her gown he saw that Gus wore not shoes, but backless slippers, and that her feet were so swollen that even those were snug. Horrified, he hastily looked to his own hands, resting on his own knees.
“Father has become entirely irrational on the question of his heir,” he said. “I do not know how you bear it, Gus.”
“I do because he means well,” she said, “and because I have no choice, because he is your father. I also trust that in time he will indeed be blessed with the grandson he so desires. You’re the scholar, not I, but I’m certain there must be some sort of reassuring mathematical law regarding the progeny of three healthy brothers.”
Rivers looked up sharply. “Three brothers?” he repeated suspiciously. “Are you party to the Lady Anne scheme as well?”
She tipped back her head and laughed merrily, the candlelight from the nearby girandole casting a coppery glow on her hair. There was no denying that Gus could be pretty, very pretty, even as pregnant as she was now, and Rivers understood entirely why Harry had married her. Lucia had liked her, too, and before he could stop himself, he was imagining Lucia with Gus and Serena, the three of them laughing happily together with a roomful of tumbling children around them. He was surprised by how appealing a scene it was to him, even if it was impossible.
“No, goose, I have no schemes for you and Lady Anne,” Gus said. “She seems a sweet enough lady, but she is not right for you. I cannot begin to picture her clambering up to your rooftop haunt at the Lodge.”
“Neither can I,” he agreed softly, and he couldn’t. He suspected Lady Anne would be one of those overly dainty ladies who shrieked at heights and clutched at her skirts and cap from fear a breeze would carry her away. She definitely wouldn’t see the beauty in a new moon, or beg to use his telescope, or curl close against his chest while he pointed out the stars. “Then I owe you my gratitude for rescuing me from Father and his matchmaking.”
“No, you don’t,” Gus said. “Because I must warn you: I am also matchmaking.”
He groaned. “Not you, too, Gus. Who have you found for me now? A cousin from the country? An old friend from school?”
“You know her already, Rivers,” she said, smiling. “It’s Mrs. Willow.”
He shook his head, stunned that she’d dare say that.
“No, Gus,” he said. “You must trust me when I say that is not possible.”
“And I say it is,” she insisted. “I have never seen two people more in love than you and Lucia. That is her proper name, isn’t it? Lucia di Rossi?”
He frowned. “How did you learn that?”
“I have my ways,” she said smugly. “Besides, it wasn’t that difficult. But do not distract me. Watching you two together at Breconridge Hall was like—oh, like poetry. You belong together, Rivers. Serena and I both saw it, and it was beautiful to watch. Love like that should not be denied.”
“Poetry isn’t true to life, Gus,” he said, and stood, too agitated to remain still. “There are so many things you don’t know about Lucia, or about me, either.”
“Then tell them to me,” she said promptly. “Make me understand why you cannot be with the one woman who is meant to be yours.”
He shook his head, not knowing where to begin. “She dismissed me, Gus,” he said. “The night of the benefit. She told me she’d be happier without me, and sent me away like some dunning tradesman.”
Gus fluttered her hand dismissively through the air. “I do not believe it,” she said, “because it cannot be true. Did you tell her you loved her? Did you speak of your future together?”
“She didn’t let me,” he said mournfully. “I was going to tell her all about our future together. That night I even had in my pocket the key to a house I’d put in her name.”
Gus gasped. “Oh, Rivers, you didn’t! You were going to ask her to become your mistress?”
“Yes,” he said, glancing around uneasily to make sure no one overheard, for mistresses were another topic that was not encouraged in his father’s house. “After the time we’d spent together at the Lodge, I didn’t want to give her up.”
“But to keep her as your mistress,” Gus said again, appalled. “Rivers, that is so shameful and unworthy of you that it’s beyond bearing. If you’d offered her a house, she’d think it meant she wasn’t good enough to live in your home with you. How can you be so thickheaded? A woman like Lucia would never settle for being kept. If she had even a hint of what you’d planned, then I’m not surprised she asked you to leave. You’re fortunate she didn’t break a bottle over your head and shove you down the stairs as well.”
“But what else was I to do, Gus?” he asked plaintively. “I didn’t want to lose her.”
She looked up at him pityingly. “Rivers, in many ways you are the most clever and learned gentleman I have ever met, but in love you are nothing but a thick-witted dunderhead. If you don’t want to lose Lucia, you don’t make her your mistress. You ask her to marry you.”
He stared at her, too stunned to speak. To Gus it must seem so damnably obvious, and yet he had never let himself dare to consider it. To have Lucia with him always, to never be apart from her, to love her forever—it was everything he wanted.
Except she didn’t want the same things.
“If I asked Lucia for her hand, she would not accept,” he said, the certainty of it turning each word to lead. “She told me that the stage was the only thing that would make her happy, and that is why I let her go.”
Now Gus was shaking her head. “She may have told you that, but it isn’t true. Why couldn’t she act and marry you? Why couldn’t she do both? There’s no law at present against married women on the stage, is there?”
He frowned, thinking of how eagerly she’d thrown herself in amongst the other actresses and actors, leaving him behind. Would she do the same if she were his wife?
“You are thinking too much, Rivers,” Gus said with exasperation. “I can see it in your face. Did Harry tell you that I made him take me to see Lucia in Romeo and Juliet?”
“He did not,” Rivers said, and somehow this felt oddly like some kind of fraternal betrayal. “Was she—Lucia—as fine in the role as everyone says?”
“Better,” Gus said. “I cannot believe you haven’t gone yourself. No, I can believe it, for if you had, you would know she still loves you.”
He thought of what made Lucia so special as an actress. Oh, he had corrected her accent and her grammar, and helped burnish the rougher edges, but her talent was her own. She had always wanted to make people cry, but to do so she had had to draw that emotion from deep within herself and share it with her audience. She’d been fearless that way. She dared to think of what she could give rather than what she could take.
He thought again of that last farewell, and now he realized what she’d really been saying. She hadn’t said she’d be happier without him; she’d said he’d be happier without her. She hadn’t pushed him away. She’d tried to give him his freedom, and he’d been too caught up in his own pride and sorrow to see the difference. He had in fact been—what was it Gus had called him?—a thick-witted dunderhead.
“You are being entirely too quiet, Rivers,” Gus said warily, “which means you are thinking too much. If you become like your father next and begin to protest that Lucia is foreign, or a theatrical person, or some other foolish obstacle as to why you cannot marry, then—”
“Lucia will sleep beneath the stars with me,” he said, his mind made up. “Why should I care who her parents were?”
Gus smiled, her face full of joy.
“If that is true, then you must go to her now,” she said eagerly. “Go watch her as Juliet, now, tonight, and you’ll see how much she loves you still. You may have already missed the first act, but that’s mostly sword-fighting and brawling anyway. Go, Rivers. I’ll make excuses for you to the others.”
He grinned, and bent to kiss her cheek. “Thank you, Gus, for everything. No wonder my brother loves you so much.”
“Go, go!” she said, shooing him away. “It won’t matter one bit unless you return with Lucia on your arm.”
Lucia hurried off the stage, her thoughts on her final scene. She’d already taken the potion that had made Juliet appear lifeless, and she’d only the final scene, where she’d awaken to find Romeo dead and kill herself. She was glad the play was nearly done, too. Some nights were more exhausting than others, and tonight she’d given so much to her performance that she was completely drained, with little left.
“Mrs. Willow, a moment,” said Mr. McGraw, catching her by her arm. His face was wreathed with concern, and he held her as if he feared she’d collapse. “What is wrong? Are you unwell?”
Wearily Lucia shook her head and shrugged. “Nothing is wrong,” she said. “Some performances are more taxing than others. You know that as well as I.”
“I do, but tonight seems different.” He studied her face, skeptical. “It is a virtue to put much of yourself into your role, but you can go too far, and let the passion destroy you. I won’t have you ill.”
“You needn’t fear for me,” she said. “I’m well enough.”
But she wasn’t. She wouldn’t explain it to Mr. McGraw, but the shock she’d felt seeing the news-sheet with the mention of Rivers and his impending betrothal had fueled her performance. Her Juliet tonight had been more desperately in love than any other, and felt the agony of being parted from Romeo more deeply. She had thrown herself into the play as if she were jumping overboard from a ship into the deepest sea, and she’d let the lines and her emotions dash and carry her like stormy waves. It was no wonder that she felt so battered and spent, or that it showed on her face.
“You are certain?” McGraw asked, not persuaded and watching her closely. “The way you are now, I’m going to make doubly certain that Romeo’s dagger holds a false blade, or you truly will stab yourself.”
She smiled, thinking of the harmless, rickety trick knife with the spring-loaded blade. “Not for the sake of a play, I won’t.”
He smiled, too, with relief. “Then go change for your death scene,” he said. “But mind that I’ll be watching you.”
She left, and quickly shifted into her last costume: Juliet’s white linen burial-clothes. The other actors saw and understood her mood, and kept their distance, nor did they speak to her, leery of breaking her concentration and the spell of her performance. By the time she’d returned to the stage and climbed onto the painted wooden box that served as her marble tomb, she was once again firmly in the grip of her character.
She lay there as the scene played out around her, her eyes closed and her hands folded over her breasts. She heard the scrape of the mock swords, the deaths of Paris and Romeo, the bustling horror of Friar Laurence, and yet all she thought of was Rivers.
She’d tried to be so noble, giving him his freedom for true happiness, but she hadn’t realized how painful it would be to watch him find that happiness with another woman. Now she realized that she’d never love another man the way she had—no, she still—loved Rivers, but all the regret in the world couldn’t change what she’d done.
It was, quite simply, too late.
By the time Juliet awoke and saw the horror of her dead Romeo, Lucia’s grief was raw and eloquent, her few lines achingly poignant. Frantically she kissed Mr. Lambert, her portly Romeo, found the false dagger and raised it high. She barely heard the gasps and alarm of the audience as she stabbed herself with heartrending anguish, and fell across Mr. Lambert’s body.
That was the end of Juliet. All she’d need do now was lie still and pretend to be dead, the hardest part of the play. She was thankful that her hair had trailed over her face like a veil as she’d fallen, for tears were still sliding down her cheeks, her emotions so mixed that she could not stop them.
As soon as the curtain fell, Mr. Lambert immediately sat upright.
“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously. “Faith, I’ve never seen such a Juliet as that!”
She nodded, recovering with great, shuddering gulps of air and dashing away her tears with the heel of her hand.
“I—I am,” she said. “It’s done now, isn’t it? It’s done.”
She meant not only the play, but what she’d had with Rivers, too. All of it was done.
“Indeed it is,” Mr. Lambert said, helping her to stand. “Come, the audience is wild for you. Are you recovered sufficiently for your bows?”
She nodded, and forced herself to smile. No matter how she felt, the audience was expecting Mrs. Willow. They didn’t know about Rivers and his soon-to-be wife, nor did they care, and now she must try to do the same. The cheers and applause were deafening, the loudest she could recall, and as she curtseyed yet again, she realized for the first time she hadn’t looked to the first tier boxes for Rivers before the play.
Maybe it truly was done after all…
The tiring room was even more crowded than usual, with far too many people crushing into the small space. She was greeted with more applause as admirers pushed forward to congratulate her. She tried to smile, but tonight she had no patience with their slavering praise. Tonight it meant nothing to her. All she wished was to be left alone.
She was only half-aware of a scuffle near the door, of one more man pushing his way into the room.
“Lucia!” Rivers called. “Lucia, here!”
Shocked, she turned toward his voice, unsure whether she’d imagined it or not. “Rivers? Why are you here?”
“Lucia,” he said, holding his arms out to clear his path.
The crowd recognized him and melted back to give him room. He was rumpled and mussed, his golden hair falling across his face and his clothing without its usual neatness, yet he was still impossibly handsome, impossibly perfect to her. She forgot the lady he was supposed to be marrying, the cruel things she’d overheard his father say, how she’d tried to be noble and failed. None of that mattered now. This time he’d brought no flowers, but he didn’t need them. His smile was more than enough for her as he held out his hand to her.
“Lucia,” he said again, and the din around him faded as the others listened and craned their necks. “You were—you are—magnificent.”
She smiled, and realized she was crying again. That was what he always said to her, and she answered the way she always did, too.
“Truly, Rivers?” she asked, her voice squeaking upward. “Truly?”
“Yes, truly,” he said. “And yes, you made them all cry, just as you’re crying now.”
“I cannot help it,” she said, her smile wobbling. “It’s seeing you here.”
“Ahh,” he said, that familiar, slightly-grumpy noise that he used to fill time while he thought of what to say next. Oh, how much she’d missed him, every part of him! “So you made your audience cry, and now I’ve done the same to you.”
“Yes,” she said, every bit as foolish as he. “That is, I am very glad that you came here tonight.”
“I’d a reason for doing so,” he said, and to her shock, he sank down on his knee before her. “An excellent reason. You see, I’ve found it’s quite impossible for me to live without you. I love you that much. Mrs. Willow. Miss di Rossi. My own Lucia. Will you marry me?”
Now she was the one at a loss for words. She gasped, stunned, her heart beating so fast that it drummed out everything else. She had never imagined this, never expected this, and most certainly never wanted this—this disaster.
Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their collective breath, waiting for her reply. Rivers’s smile widened, certain she was simply too overwhelmed to reply—which, of course, she was, though not for the reason he believed.
Oh, how much she loved him when he gazed up at her like this!
“Please say yes, Lucia.” He took her hand and kissed it, not letting it go. “Please be my wife.”
She gulped, her eyes brimming with fresh emotion. There was only one possible answer to give now, only one, and she gave it.
“No, Rivers,” she said. “No.”