Chapter 4
The moment Julia entered the greenroom, she found a half-dozen expectant gazes pinned on her. The assembled actors, the principals of Taming of the Shrew, were unabashedly curious about what had occurred during her evening with Lord Savage.
Only Logan Scott seemed too preoccupied with rehearsal notes to notice her entrance. “You're late, Mrs. Wentworth,” he finally said without looking up.
“Forgive me, I overslept,” Julia murmured as she made her way to an empty chair.
It was the truth. After she had returned to her small house on Somerset Street, she had stayed awake for a long time, drinking wine and staring pensively at nothing.
Even after going to bed, she had found sleep elusive.
It seemed that when she finally dozed off, it was already time to awaken and face the day with bleary, dark-circled eyes.
She hadn't been able to stop thinking about Savage.
Last night had been the culmination of all the fear and curiosity that had plagued her for years.
Now all her imaginings about her unknown husband were gone.
He was real to her, and more dangerous than she had ever dreamed.
Savage was a magnificent man, intelligent, powerful, driven, the kind who could dominate a woman's life so completely that she would lose herself in his shadow.
He was very much like her father in that regard.
Julia didn't want to be the wife of a strong man—she had worked too, hard to become Jessica Wentworth.
It would have been easier to disregard Savage if not for the disarming hint of vulnerability she had seen…
the gentle way he had touched her, the startling admission that he wanted to marry for love someday.
Was there more to be discovered beneath his guarded exterior?
She could never take the chance of finding out.
It filled her with a strange despair, thinking of what had transpired between them.
She had made it clear that she would not see him again, and she knew in her heart that it was for the best. But why did it feel as if she had lost something infinitely precious?
“Here you are,” came Arlyss's murmur, and the petite actress passed her a cup of hot tea.
Julia accepted it gratefully and sipped the sweet, bracing liquid.
“He didn't let you sleep a wink, did he?” Arlyss asked in delight. “I've never seen you so exhausted. Was he very good, Jessica?”
Julia gave her a weary scowl. “I wasn't with him—not in that way.”
“Of course not,” said Mr. Kerwin, a portly actor in his sixties who considered himself a sophisticated man of the world.
He excelled at playing anxious fathers, harassed husbands, drunkards, and buffoons, always with a lopsided charm that endeared him to the audience.
“Never admit a thing, my dear—your private life should remain just that.” He punctuated the comment with a friendly wink.
Logan's voice, dripping with sarcasm, intruded on the budding conversation. “Mrs. Wentworth, would you care to join us? I have a page of notes concerning your mistakes of last night's performance. I'm certain you'll want to hear them.”
Julia nodded and sipped more tea, wondering why Logan seemed so tense this morning. He should be pleased—the performance had been well-received by the audience and critics, and she had done her part for the Capital by attending the promised dinner with Lord Savage. What more did he want?
Before Logan could proceed with his reading of the morning's notes, the greenroom door opened and the hesitant face of one of the company's property-men appeared.
“Begging pardon,” he said apologetically to the room at large, and his gaze flew to Julia.
“A parcel was just delivered for you, Mrs. Wentworth. The boy who delivered it said it should be brought to you right away.”
Intrigued, Julia gestured for the small, plainly wrapped box in his hand, and he brought it to her.
Mindful of Logan's gathering scowl, the property man vanished quickly.
Julia was sorely tempted to open the package, but she set it aside to be unwrapped later, knowing it would annoy Logan to have further interruptions of the meeting.
The assembled company stared intently at the mysterious box, completely ignoring Logan's impatient rustling of his notes.
“Well?” Logan finally said to Julia, his mouth twisting sardonically. “You may as well open the damned thing. It's apparent that no one will pay attention to the work at hand until you do.”
Arlyss leaned over Julia's shoulder, her eyes bright with interest, her brown curls fairly dancing with energy. “It's from him, isn't it?”
Cautiously Julia unwrapped the box and discovered a folded note inside. Everyone leaned closer, as if they all expected she would read it aloud. Defensively she held the note close to her midriff and scanned it silently.
Madam—
I am told this once belonged to the gifted actress Mrs. Jordan. It deserves to be worn by someone with the grace and beauty to display it properly. Please accept this token with the understanding that no obligation comes with it, save that you enjoy it.
Your servant,
Damon, Lord Savage
Cautiously Julia lifted a small blue velvet pouch from the box, and dropped its contents into her hand. Arlyss gave an audible gasp, while Mr. Kerwin made a rumbling noise of approval in his throat. Unable to resist, the group of actors gathered around to view the offering.
In the center of Julia's palm was the most exquisite brooch she had ever seen, a tiny bouquet of roses with glittering ruby petals and emerald leaves.
She could well believe that Mrs. Dora Jordan, the consort of the king's brother so many years ago, would have owned such a magnificent piece.
Although Julia had been offered jewelry and gifts from many would-be suitors—and she had refused all of it—no one had ever given her something so elegant.
Dumbfounded, she stared at the small treasure in her palm.
“I…I'll have to return it,” she said with difficulty, and there was an immediate chorus of disapproval.
“Why should you?”
“Keep it, lass, there's your future to consider—”
“With his fortune, the marquess could buy you a thousand more and never miss a shilling!”
“Don't be hasty,” Arlyss urged. “Before you do anything, think about it for a day or two.”
“All right, that's enough,” Logan said, tugging impatiently at a lock of his burnished russet hair. “There are far better things to occupy us than Mrs. Wentworth's conquest.”
Obediently the players returned to their seats.
Julia closed her fingers over the jeweled pin, her mind racing.
Of course she must return it—she had never accepted a gift from a man before.
In spite of his words to the contrary, she knew that Lord Savage would expect a favor in return.
He was not the kind of man to give something for nothing.
But a strange thought came to mind. He was her husband; why shouldn't she take it from him?
Their long-ago marriage had deprived her of so many things.
Surely she deserved this small compensation.
The brooch was so beautiful, so enticing, and it suited her perfectly.
Mrs. Wentworth's conquest, she thought, flushing in dismay and delight.
She shouldn't be pleased that Lord Savage had taken an interest in her.
She should be alarmed. What an astonishing twist of fate, to be courted by her own husband!
This flirtation with disaster must end before it went any further.
Sliding the brooch back into the velvet pouch, Julia forced herself to pay attention to Logan's notes.
She was quiet and subdued while the others asked questions and made their own suggestions concerning the play.
When the meeting was concluded, she went toward her dressing room, wanting a few minutes of privacy to think.
“Mrs. Wentworth,” Logan murmured as Julia passed, and she stopped with an inquiring glance.
“Yes, Mr. Scott?”
Logan wore a matter-of-fact expression, but there was a pinched look between his ruddy brows that betrayed some inner turmoil. “It appears the dinner with Lord Savage wasn't a great hardship after all.”
“No,” she said evenly. “It was quite pleasant.”
“Will you see him again?” Suddenly a self-mocking smile hovered on his lips, as if he felt like a fool for asking.
“No, Mr. Scott.” Julia wondered why his expression seemed to smooth out. Perhaps he was concerned that a relationship with Lord Savage might interfere with her career? Or was there possibly some personal motive in his question?
“Then it's all over,” he said.
Her hand tightened on the brooch encased in velvet. “Most certainly, Mr. Scott.”
Pauline, Lady Ashton lounged on the embroidered ivory silk counterpane of her bed, her voluptuous body covered in a slightly transparent pink dressing gown.
She murmured a languid greeting to Damon as he entered the bedroom of her elegant London townhouse.
They had been apart for the weekend, while she had visited her sister's family in Hertfordshire.
Immediately upon her return, Pauline had sent a brief note, perfumed and sealed with gold wax, to Damon's town address.
From the demanding tone of the message, Damon guessed that Pauline had already heard of his latest activities.
God knew how she kept such a close eye on him—it appeared as if she had employed a network of spies to watch him.