Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Sebastian stepped onto the village green and tugged his slouch hat lower over his forehead, hoping his identity wouldn’t be obvious to all. He had no desire to foreground himself and make people uncomfortable while they were enjoying their night.
So far, no one had cut him a second glance.
Of course, why would they?
Though the evening had gone gray with approaching night, the green was bright with the atmosphere of a festival.
A magician here. An acrobat there. A terrier dressed as Queen Elizabeth dancing for treats on its hind legs, grabbing giggles from children and their parents alike.
A stallholder thrusting a sugar plum into his face. “Three fer a ha’penny.”
Sebastian dug into a pocket and found a linty shilling.
The stallholder’s eyes went wide. “That’ll do.”
And Sebastian was left holding a bag full of sugar plums.
Sugar plum incident notwithstanding, it felt good to move through the crowd like a ghost. No one deferred to him here—a freedom enjoyed the more for its rarity.
He popped a sweet into his mouth and kept walking.
Most villages didn’t allow theater companies use of their village green.
Usually, they had to ask a local gentleman for use of his land.
Sebastian supposed that was why he hadn’t been aware of their presence in the area.
The village had granted them the necessary permission.
He experienced a strange stab in his chest. No one would’ve thought to invite the local duke who only graced them with his presence two or three times a year to throw a country house party.
And he didn’t blame them.
He wouldn’t invite the local duke either. Dukes were a reliably dour, unimaginative lot.
He snorted.
A small puckish lad scampered across the stage—the terrier Queen Elizabeth prancing behind him—and began lighting the lanterns, one by one, which would not only illuminate the night’s entertainments, but also the company’s sign in bright crimson and gold—Ye Olde Albion Players.
Sebastian took a standing place at the farthest edge of the audience.
He’d always appreciated the egalitarian nature of theater.
Everyone who watched was entitled to an opinion, and everyone’s opinion was equally valid, because it came from a place of the truth that resided solely within them. The same applied to all the arts.
Once the performers took to the stage, Sebastian felt himself entering the spell of the pantomime—a mixture of popular scenes from various plays—the sorts of scenes that pulled a laugh…
or drew a tear—broken up by a song here, an acrobat there, a few magic tricks to hold the attention.
Clever. In a festival atmosphere, spans of attention tended to run short.
Ye Olde Albion Players understood their audience wouldn’t be in the mood for a three-hour production of Macbeth.
Instead, the full gamut of emotion would be run across their stage tonight.
He knew a lady who would be thoroughly delighted to be here. The same lady who had flashed across his mind last evening. A lady he’d resolved not to think about.
Ever.
She despised him.
Half an hour into the performance—Sebastian’s arms crossed over his chest, shoulder propped against an elm—an actress entered stage left.
Not as a main player, but as a member of the chorus.
His brow crinkled, as unconsciously he pushed off the elm and straightened, sudden tension entering his body.
Tall…willowy…short blonde curls tucked behind her ears…clear azure eyes that flashed mischief at the crowd…
She reminded him of a lady. Nay, not a lady. A specific lady.
Lady Delilah Windermere.
He blinked and squinted and allowed recognition to steal in.
She was Lady Delilah Windermere.
He stood, motionless, his eyes refusing to tear themselves away from her as she strutted, strode, danced, and flounced from one end of the stage to the other, the crowd around him reacting to her antics.
It could’ve simply been her unusual height for a woman or her undeniable beauty, but Delilah held more within her and radiated it outward tenfold—a charisma that made it impossible to move one’s eyes from her.
Further, Delilah was possessed of the most wonderfully expressive face.
A face that conveyed openness. The sort of face that drew in the audience and made it believe and held it in its grip until the very end of a performance and into the breathless moment just beyond, before everyone broke out into a frenzy of applause. She was, quite simply, transfixing.
And she was the daughter of an earl—a lady who absolutely didn’t cavort with low company such as Ye Olde Albion Players for the public’s consumption.
He snorted.
Right.
Lady Delilah and all the Windermeres did as they pleased.
And as she didn’t appear to be in any imminent danger, he settled back against the elm and allowed the performance to proceed without interruption.
This wasn’t at all like Eton.
His interference wasn’t necessary tonight.
An hour later, the players took their final bows, and the crowd began to thin, and Sebastian knew he should turn on his heel and leave exactly the way he’d come.
What he shouldn’t do was seek out Lady Delilah Windermere. Yet…
His feet had other ideas as they led him along the dark periphery of the crowd and toward the company’s caravans circled behind the stage.
Scatterings of conversations passed him by as he strode through the makeshift camp, glancing about and even poking his head through a few caravan curtains.
“And good riddance to that Jed. He barely knew the business end of a hammer from the other,” came a gravelly voice here.
“Listen, Mary, if you don’t want a pin poke in the bottom, you’ll hold still,” came another there.
It was the third caravan he peeked into that was the charm.
There, seated alone at a dressing table, sat Delilah rubbing at her face with a cloth, removing black stage make-up from her eyebrows, pink from her cheeks, red from her lips, revealing the delicate, fine-boned face beneath, one swipe at a time.
Exquisite. It was an undisputed fact that Lady Delilah Windermere stood to be a diamond of the first water—if only she would be.
But a description of Lady Delilah’s looks only scratched the surface of her. It so happened that her beauty wasn’t the most important—or interesting—thing about her.
It was what lay beneath that delicate, exquisite surface.
Determination…talent…intelligence…passion…desire…
Sebastian only realized he’d been watching her for a few seconds too long when a voice rang out, “Now, what sort of Tom do we have peeping into our caravan?”
Sebastian only now noticed the space held two other occupants—actresses by the saucy look of them in various states of dishabille, one removing her boots, the other already down to chemise and stays. The smiles they flashed his way suggested they didn’t mind him here in the least.
It was the third set of lips he remained focused upon—lips turned down in a decided frown when her gaze shifted and her eyes met his in the mirror. Delilah’s hand froze mid-swipe. The moment stretched as a symphony of emotions marched across her expressive face—confusion…disbelief…annoyance…anger.
“Bloody hell,” she exclaimed, twisting around on the stool and meeting his gaze directly. “It’s you.”
Sebastian didn’t flinch at the way she flung that you at him.
“Again.”
“Well acquainted with one another, are we?”
Delilah’s gaze flew to the other two actresses. She’d clearly forgotten their presence. “Flora, Dorie, would you mind allowing us a few moments of privacy?” she asked politely, but firmly.
Flora and Dorie’s gaze raked over Sebastian again. “No need to get all hoity-toity about it,” said one.
“Oh, come now, Dorie. Can’t hardly blame the chit for wanting a few moments of privacy with this bloke,” said Flora with a waggle of her eyebrows.
Laughter trailed in their wake as they cleared out, brushing their bodies against Sebastian’s as they did so. Silence prevailed inside the caravan while he and Delilah continued to stare at one another.
Eton.
That was the history that hung between them now that they found themselves alone.
He didn’t blame her for heaping scorn and anger upon his head.
From her perspective, he deserved it. So be it.
For here was the thing: even if he could, he wouldn’t go back three years and change his actions that night.
He’d kept her safe.
Even if she didn’t know it.
And here was the other thing: he didn’t want her to know. For that knowledge might influence her to change the way she navigated the world.
And he didn’t want her to be ruled by fear.
He wanted a world where Lady Delilah Windermere could be wild and free.
“Are you determined to ruin every last good thing that I do for myself?” she asked with simmering fury.
“I’ll answer that question after you’ve answered one for me,” he said equably.
Her eyes the blue of the Arctic Sea went narrow and wary. “What is it?”
“What are you doing here?”
Her mouth snapped shut.
It was a rare thing to silence a Windermere, but he could take no joy from it, for he wanted the answer.
An actress in a traveling theater company… What in the blazes was Lady Delilah Windermere playing at?
Ravensworth…
Here.
Delilah’s brow furrowed until it hurt, and she gave her head a shake, as if he were a figment of the imagination that could be easily dispelled.
But, no, there he stood, all six feet, two or three inches of solid duke crouched in the low, narrow doorway of the caravan that she shared with Flora and Dorie, implacable.