Chapter 1
Chapter One
Life without drama was terribly tedious, but, occasionally, a man needed a rest. Like right now, for instance. Remington Ives, owner of the Grand Folly Theatre would prefer a bit of silence after seeing a ghost. What he got instead was a headache.
Remmy rested his forehead against his office door as Violet Finch—the Maiden Muse, as the public had begun to call her—knocked for the third time in less than a minute. Each knock had been a series of abuses, rapid fire and loud enough to make Remmy flinch. She knew he was in here.
“I know you’re in there,” Miss Finch hissed. “Open up!”
He could continue playing dead. Or he could get on with it.
Open the door, let her in, fuck her good, then push her back into the corridor and dust his hands of her.
The actresses knew his liaisons never lasted long.
Either the length of the play’s tenure at the Folly or until he left London for the country.
Since he was leaving tomorrow, he wouldn’t have to worry about Miss Finch very long.
He looked down at his loose trousers. “Come on, old man. She’s a beauty. And terribly talented. And willing.” But his cock was not willing. Didn’t even twitch.
And he knew why—the ghost.
Tessa King had returned.
Miss Finch abused the door once more. “Mr. Ives! You must let me in. Someone will see!”
He sighed. Even if no one saw, everyone knew. But still, they must play their roles properly, and one of the most important parts of this particular play was secrecy. The appearance of it at least. After they left these walls, they were free to whisper all they liked. Encouraged even.
He cracked open the door.
Miss Finch bolted for that crack like rushing water through a stream. Damn she was slender. Was halfway through before he thought to push back.
Stuck half in and half out of the door, the edge of it, bisecting her face, she said through smooshed lips, “Did I not please you tonight, Mr. Ives?”
“It was a smashing performance. You are an exquisite Cinderella. Truly. But I’m tired, Miss Finch.”
“I’ll wake you up.” All but purred.
“I have to travel tomorrow.”
“I know.” The one eye he could see glittered. “This’ll be our only chance.” She tried for a saucy smile that only looked tortured. What with the door and all. Her blond ringlets, meticulously styled for that night’s pantomime, were pushed up the door frame behind her.
“I’m afraid you do not understand, though. I’m not looking for company.” He eased off the door, and she slouched when it no longer supported her weight.
“But… all your leading ladies, those that want to at least… and I want to. You… you know I am not truly a miss, yes?”
“Born Miss Smith, married Mrs. Waverly. Self-appointed Miss Finch on your husband’s death. Yes, I’m aware.”
“Only I look so small and innocent. It’s the hair I think. And the lips.”
They were shaped like little bows. A week ago, hell, a few hours ago, he would have been keen to untie that bow and taste the pleasures of her mouth.
Now…
“I do apologize, Miss Finch. My disinterest has nothing to do with you—”
“Oh, shove it.” She huffed, shaking her skirts. “You may own a theatre, but you are incapable of a believable performance. And I have no interest in forcing my way into a disinterested man’s bed. Not when so many others are willing. Good evening, sir.” She flounced away.
“I admire your self-respect,” he called after her.
She made a crude gesture without looking back at him, and he stepped into the hallway, locked the door to keep Miss Finch out, and strode off in the opposite direction.
That flash of red, that pale, freckled face, that ready smile—he’d had only a glimpse earlier, had thought it a dream, but it had to be… Tessa. Home from Italy. And in his theatre.
He found her just where he knew he would, in the dark wings beyond the stage, bent at the waist and peering at some detail on a backdrop. Comfortable in the shadows, he studied her at his leisure.
Six damn years. Six years she’d been lost to him through all but ink and ocean-wrinkled paper, each epistle coming longer after the last until she’d stopped writing altogether.
Yet there she was. Sharper, brighter, and more goddamn beautiful than he remembered.
He thought he’d forgotten her, thought he’d put her away in a little box marked Youthful Folly.
But his heart was thumping madly in his chest as it used to do, and his palms were sweating, and his fingertips ached to touch her, to confirm she was real.
If he’d put her in a box, she’d found a way out.
He curled and uncurled his hands. Control. Tessa here now was not part of the play. The unexpected arrival of a former sweetheart not in this narrative. There was only a rake, the women he used and discarded, and the mysterious belle who would write about it.
Hopefully.
He should return to his office as if he’d never seen her.
But he couldn’t help himself.
“Good evening, Miss King,” he said, stepping out of the shadows and into the dim yellow cast by the dying stage lights.
She gasped and popped upright, eyes wide. Then eyes wider. “Remmy!”
She ran right into his arms, and damn it all to hell, he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, lifted her onto her tiptoes as she laughed into his cravat. No hesitation. No control.
Thank God, she ripped out of his embrace as thoughtlessly as she’d tripped into it. She circled him, making a show of studying him.
“Oh, you are so different,” she said. “You cannot be taller, but you seem it. Broader certainly.” She tugged the lock of hair at his temple.
“You’re wearing it longer. Is that an earring?
Terribly roguish, aren’t you, Mr. Ives. So very…
different.” She stepped away from him, and the backstage shadows hid her eyes.
She was different, too, with more curves than he remembered, more confidence.
She wore silk, a blue that, when she tilted her head and her face caught the light, tossed her hazel eyes into that confused state of color he’d always liked best. The gown was better stuff than he’d seen her in before—new and bright with a low-cut bodice that cunningly displayed her breasts.
She wore the gown effortlessly, as if the wool-and-cotton rector’s daughter were used to such luxuries now.
Before, she’d been a mouse who inspired protection. Now she was a temptress who inspired…
Nothing. She inspired nothing. Not in him, leastways.
“Lady Chattaway,” he said, “has been taking good care of you, I see.”
“Oh yes, wonderfully good care of me.”
“When did you return to London?”
“Yesterday. We’ve returned for your father’s birthday party. You’ll be there, I assume?”
“Oh yes. It’s not every day a man’s father turns sixty. I wouldn’t dare miss it.” He scratched the back of his neck, stepped closer. “But what are you doing here? At the Folly?”
“Enjoying the entertainment. I insisted we see a show as soon as possible and before we left for the country. I ventured backstage after the play to find you but found this instead.” She wandered toward the backdrop she’d been investigating earlier.
“It’s ripped and sewn and the painting over the repaired tear is muddled horribly.
It quite distracted me the entire performance. ”
“Did it now? You saw it all the way from the audience?”
She nodded, drawing her fingertips down the mended rip, the muddled paint. “I can fix it for you.”
He made a noncommittal noise. “I’ll return you to Lady Chattaway. Is she in the lobby?”
“She’s left. I told her not to wait for me.”
“And she agreed to that mad suggestion?” Remmy asked.
“Of course. I can hail a hackney.”
“No. You cannot. I’ll take you home.”
A pause, then. “Very well. That would be most welcome. It has been so long. I must not waste the opportunity to learn more about you from you.”
He hooked their arms together and led her to his office, moving with the kind of scowly purpose that always meant do not approach me, or I will bite your head off.
Hopefully Miss Finch would understand if she happened upon them.
They reached his office door un-accosted, and he unlocked it and shoved Tessa inside.
She spun in lazy circles, taking every detail in. “I am so proud of you, Remmy.”
Pride, yes, exactly what he’d always wanted her to feel for him. Partly. When he’d first bought the Folly, he’d imagined her seeing him as a man, finally. Imagined her kissing him, giving in to him in every way.
She stopped spinning and beamed up at him, and in the bright candlelight of his office, he could see her better.
Hazel eyes and orange curls, freckled nose and rosy skin.
The corner of one of her front teeth possessed the tiniest chip.
His fault for encouraging her to climb the stairs via the banister when they were ten.
He should feel guilt for putting that imperfection in her mouth, but it was the only part of her that was goddamn his, and it was goddamn charming and—
He was not currently charmed.
“I adore it, Remmy.”
He could kiss her, yes? He could kiss her right now. That’s what he did with women, after all—kissed them. And he’d never wanted to kiss them as much as he wanted to kiss her, though he’d hoped the kissing would help him forget. It had helped him forget.
Forget red hair and hazel eyes and the tiniest chip in her front tooth.
She spun away from him, hopping onto his desk and fiddled with his belongings. Inkpot, pen, playbills, letter opener—she ruined them all. He’d not be able to see a single one of them now without thinking of her.
He stalked over to her, raised a brow.
She raised one back. “Yes?”
“You’re acting like you own the place. You do not.”
“I saw the back of the playbill, Remmy.”
“Spectators usually do.”
“Dream sweetly of blue skies, inked right there at the very bottom of the last page.”