Chapter 3 #2
Arlyss airily waved the comment away. “All men have flaws. Besides, he was right—five thousand pounds is nothing to turn up your nose at.” She chewed thoughtfully on a slice of dry cake, and followed it with more tea.
“I've heard that there is a woman living at Mr. Scott's house this very moment—his latest paramour.
She'll last no longer than six months…they never do. There must be some reason Mr. Scott is so opposed to the idea of marriage! Something must have happened in his past…something dark and painful…”
Julia snorted at her friend's dreamy expression. “Really, Arlyss, you have too many romantic illusions. I would think that a life in the theater should have cured you of that.”
“No, it only makes it worse! When you spin romantic illusions for other people all the time, you can't help but be caught up in them.”
“I don't.”
“You're made of iron,” Arlyss said. “I don't know whether to envy or pity you.” She leaned forward, her green eyes sparkling with interest. “Tell me…what are you going to wear when you dine with his lordship?”
“Something plain and unbecoming.”
“No, no, no…wear something to make his eyes drop out! Something to make his mouth turn dry and his head spin and his heart pound—”
“As if he had some horrible disease,” Julia said with a laugh.
“You must wear your black and pink gown,” Arlyss urged. “I won't allow you to choose anything else.”
“I'll consider it.” Julia looked up as a member of the house staff appeared at the greenroom door to inform them that Mr. Scott desired their presence onstage.
After days of exacting rehearsal, the Friday performance of Taming of the Shrew went superbly.
As Logan had directed, Julia threw all her energy into the boisterous production.
In previous adaptations the story had been watered down to something resembling a drawing room comedy, with much of the ribald humor removed.
Logan Scott had restored all of that, and added a robust physicality that both startled and pleased the audience.
It was a lusty, vigorous play that made some critics howl with displeasure and others with delight.
With Logan playing the dashing Petruchio to Julia's devilish Katherine, the audience roared with laughter at their volcanic battles, and sat spellbound during some of the quieter, tender moments.
Unfortunately, at the end of the production, Julia was battered and sore.
The play called for many physical antics, including one bit in which Katherine tried to attack Petruchio, and he swung her off her feet like a rag doll.
In spite of Logan's efforts to be careful with her, Julia was not surprised to find a few faint bruises on her arms and torso.
Ignoring all entreaties for her attention, Julia locked her dressing room door, washed the sweat and paint from her face, and used two pitchers of water in a thorough sponge bath.
After dabbing perfume on her throat and inner elbows and between her breasts, she turned her attention to the gown she had brought with her.
As Arlyss had insisted, she had decided on her favorite evening gown.
It was fashioned of jet-black Italian silk, the surface glossy and finely corded.
One deep pink silk rose adorned each short, gathered sleeve.
The gown's only other adornments were the vertical slashes of pink at the hem, opening and closing rhythmically in billowy swaths as she walked.
After dressing carefully, Julia left the back fastenings undone and regarded herself in the mirror.
A faint smile came to her face. No matter how she felt inside, it was reassuring to know that she looked her best. The black silk provided a dramatic contrast to her pale skin and ash-blond hair, while the touches of rose-pink echoed the color in her cheeks.
“Mrs. Wentworth,” came her maid's voice through the door. “May I come in an' see to your things?”
Julia unlocked the door to let the plump, dark-haired girl inside. Betsy was an efficient servant, taking care of her costumes, keeping the dressing room orderly, and assisting her with a multitude of small tasks. “Will you fasten my gown, please?”
“Yes, Mrs. Wentworth. I've brought some more flowers.”
“You may keep them if you like,” Julia said nonchalantly. The dressing room was already filled with floral arrangements and their cloying perfume.
“Oh, but these are so beautiful! Just have a look,” Betsy coaxed, bringing forth the massive arrangement.
Julia exclaimed in pleasure as she saw the profusion of lush roses ranging from palest pink to crimson-red, interspersed with exotic orchids and tall spikes of vivid purple and white delphinium. “Who sent them?” she asked.
Betsy read the card. “‘Savage,’ it says.”
So it was from Lord Savage. Julia reached out and pulled one of the pink roses from the arrangement.
She toyed with the petals, and brought the flower with her to the dressing table.
As Betsy fastened the back of her gown, Julia expertly twisted and pinned her hair into a loose, thick coil at the top of her head, leaving a few curls to dangle on her temple and neck.
After a moment's hesitation, Julia broke off the blossom, wrapped the end in a bit of paper, and anchored it in the coil with a large pin.
“That looks lovely,” Betsy said, breaking off another blossom and pinning it to Julia's small black silk reticule. “He must be a special man for you to take such pains, Mrs. Wentworth.”
Julia pulled on a pair of sleek black gloves that covered her elbows. “One could say I've been waiting for him all my life.”
“How grand…” Betsy began. She stopped, her round face wrinkling in a frown as she saw the shadowy fingermarks on Julia's upper arms, and another on the tip of her bare shoulder. “Dear me, those won't do at all.”
Julia regarded the bruises ruefully. “I'm afraid they can't be helped. After the bouts Mr. Scott and I had on stage, I'm only surprised there aren't more.”
Reaching for a cake of flesh-colored facepaint, Betsy moistened her fingertips with water, rubbed them across the surface, and then dabbed the color sparingly over the bruises. Julia held still, surveying the maid's handiwork with a pleased smile. “They're hardly noticeable now. Thank you, Betsy.”
“Will there be anything else before I put your costumes away?”
“Yes…would you find out if there is a carriage waiting for me outside?”
Betsy returned soon with the news that there was indeed a vehicle behind the theater, a fine black carriage trimmed with silver, a pair of outriders beside it, and two footmen dressed in dark red livery.
Julia felt her heart quicken with painful force. She put her hand on her chest, as if she could calm the violent thumping, and breathed deeply.
“Mrs. Wentworth? All of a sudden you look rather ill.”
Julia didn't reply. What could have possessed her, agreeing to spend a few hours alone with Lord Savage?
What could they possibly say to each other—what mad impulse had driven her to this?
Summoning her courage, she relaxed her shoulders, which seemed to have climbed up to her ears.
Betsy helped to settle a hooded black silk pelisse over her head and shoulders, and fasten the garnet clasp at the throat.
Murmuring good night to the maid, Julia left her dressing room and made her way through the labyrinth of theater facilities.
As she passed the back entrance, a small crowd of theatergoers pressed forward to meet her, a few daring to touch her cloak or her gloved arms. A towering footman helped to usher her through the crowd to the waiting carriage.
Deftly he pulled out an extra step for her easy ascent into the luxurious vehicle, and closed the door behind her.
It was all accomplished so swiftly that Julia barely had time to blink before she was settled in a soft velvet-and-leather-covered seat.
She stared at Lord Savage, who sat opposite her, one side of his handsome face lit to knife-blade sharpness by a carriage lantern, the rest left in shadow.
He smiled with the dangerous charm of Lucifer himself.
Hastily Julia lowered her gaze to her lap.
Her hands lay perfectly folded and still, when she wanted to knot her fingers together in agitation.
Lord Savage belonged to a world from which she had been running for years.
It was her right—some might even say her duty—to assume the title and position her parents had procured for her.
She had resisted it with all her might, out of willfulness and resentment, and most of all fear at the discovery of what kind of man she had been given to.
She didn't want to stop fearing Savage, didn't want to weaken her defenses in any way.
But her own curiosity had led her to this…
as well as the troubling pull of attraction between them.
“You were extraordinary tonight,” Savage said.
Julia blinked in surprise. “You watched the play, then? I didn't see you in the audience.”
“It was a demanding performance for you.”
“Yes, it's quite exhausting.” Briefly she wondered what he had thought of the ribald interplay between herself and Logan Scott—if he had been amused along with the rest of the audience, or if he had disapproved.
Something must have shown in her face, because he leaned forward and pinned her with his disconcerting silvery gaze.
“What is it?” he asked.
Deciding she had nothing to lose, Julia told him what she had been thinking.
Savage replied slowly, considering his words with care. “It's not my right to disapprove of what you do on stage. Acting is your chosen profession.”
“And you had no personal feelings?” she asked idly. “During the part when Mr. Scott kissed me, or chased me across the stage and—”
“I didn't like it.” The words seemed to escape him before he could prevent it. His mouth twisted with self-derision. “You and Scott were rather too convincing in your roles.”