Chapter 12
“I loathe this version of Lear !” the dowager duchess exclaimed, sitting in their box as she stared down at the stage and fidgeted. Her grandmama did not usually fidget, but when faced with this terrible version of King Lear , it was all her grandmother could do to keep in her chair.
Her grandmother had pontificated on the matter many a time. Actually, Portia had lost count of how many times over the years that her grandmother had voiced her dislike of it.
And before that, she knew that she had voiced it to her aunts and uncles when they were young!
It was an ever-repeating theme.
“Grandmama, why do you come if you hate it so much?” she inquired, perched on her own seat, her ivory skirts arranged about her.
Her grandmother huffed out an indignant breath and tugged at her long gloves. “You know I must come and support my sister. She has been cast as Goneril. So, needs must. Still, it is appalling what they did to the original text.”
“Yes, Mama,” Portia’s mother said indulgently. But then she added with her own serious critique, “I couldn’t agree with you more. Sometimes in New York, I’m tempted to try the original ending, but people are so sentimental.”
“Can you imagine insisting upon a happy ending?” the dowager duchess said, shuddering.
The Duke of Ferrars cleared his throat, looking suddenly appalled as he stood handsomely in his black evening kit. “I beg your pardon? Lear , a happy ending?” His frown deepened. “ Lear does not have a happy ending.”
The dowager duchess brought her hand to her lace-covered bosom. “Be still my beating heart, my boy. You are a purist.”
“I don’t know if I’m a purist,” the Duke of Ferrars said, standing at the back of the box, clearly unwilling to sit down. “But I am unfamiliar with an alternative ending to the play. There is a different one than in the Folio?”
Portia laughed, looked up at the man who was going to be her husband in but in a few hours’ time, and said, “You are very fortunate then that you have not witnessed the new silly ending yet, though you are about to, and you have just won the approval of Grandmama and Mama for the rest of your life.”
“Well done me then,” the duke said with a tentative smile. “Still, I don’t follow.”
“Explain to your future husband,” her grandmother instructed, whipping out her fan and waving it, causing her curls to bounce as the theater filled to the brim with people showing off for each other in their fine clothes.
Portia was very familiar with it and prepared her usual response. “You see, a man named Tate rewrote the ending of the play King Lear ,” she explained. “And Samuel Johnson himself said he could not bear how Cordelia died at the end of the play. So, in the happy version, she doesn’t die.”
The duke blinked. “Cordelia dies?” he asked.
She gasped. “Wait. You made it sound as if you had read the play and know it is a tragedy. How can you—”
And then he began to laugh.
“You told a joke!” she crowed, elated. “Mama, he has told a joke!”
Lady Juliet applauded. “Well done, Your Grace. You are growing with us, aren’t you? Soon we shall have you laughing all the time.”
The duke arched brow. “I don’t know if I would go that far, but it was nice, at least, to attempt to make all of you laugh.”
“I’m glad you think so, my boy,” said her grandmama. “What a pleasure it is to see you coming out of your shell.”
He gave a small bow at that, acknowledging the dowager duchess’s pleasure, but she had a funny feeling that it would be years before her soon-to-be husband actually came out of his shell. Still, it felt worth the attempt and the wait.
“Come and sit by me,” she said, patting the cushioned, high-back chair beside her.
A muscle tightened in his jaw and he folded his gloved hands behind his back. “I don’t feel like sitting. I find this all a bit…”
“Overwhelming?” she said softly.
“Indeed.”
“Let us slip out into the hall,” she ventured, gathering her skirts so that she could stand easily. “If you like?”
He gave her a grateful look.
Wordlessly, they headed out into the dark corridor where it was much cooler and not quite so full of the sounds of the audience arriving, taking their seats, and gossiping about each other.
He looked a bit like a caged animal, standing there in the flickering lamplight, his muscles taut and his face a mask as if he was willing himself to appear at ease.
He didn’t look at ease.
“You don’t have to stay,” she offered.
He drew in a long breath, which sent his shoulders up to his ears. It did not make him seem more relaxed. “No, no. I want to stay,” he rushed. “I don’t have to speak to anyone, so it’s not so very terrible,” he said. “I can bear it…for your family.”
“There will be more of them soon,” she warned.
“Well, of course,” he said. “I would have trouble believing that it was just the four of us.”
And as if on cue, her cousins began appearing at the other end of the corridor.
“How many boxes do you own in this theater?” Rufus blurted.
It was an excellent question. What with all her aunts and uncles and their children, and the adopted Briarwoods too? It was quite easy to fill a theater!
“Grandmama has considered just buying the theater outright, since we have taken over a good portion of the left side. Most of the boxes belong to the Briarwoods, and we do fill them almost nightly. And if we don’t sit in them, we allow some of our friends to.”
“You really are all theater people.”
“It’s true,” she said.
He frowned. “You’re not going to suddenly become an actress.”
“Oh no,” she assured. “I have never longed to be on the stage. But you never know. One of our children might suddenly wish to. It does seem to be in the blood. After all, my mother, Grandmama, her mother, her sister…”
The duke winced.
She gave him a wry smile. “Are you thinking of retracting your proposal?”
“No,” he said. “I’m willing to take the risk.”
“That’s very brave of you.”
“Not as brave as your cousins who are fighting at war.”
She smiled at his clear admiration for her cousins. She admired them too. With all her heart. She always had and she always would.
Maximus, Octavian, Nestor, and Calchas all charged down the hall and, one by one, they pounded Rufus on the back.
“Bearing up, are we?” Maximus asked.
“Surviving the matriarchs?” asked Octavian.
“Life would be terrible without them,” pointed out Nestor.
“We’ll make a theater man out of you yet,” said Calchas.
“Not if you’re going to be bringing me to plays like this,” the duke groaned. “A happy ending?” he drawled.
“What? Don’t you like a happy ending?” Nestor asked.
“Not in Lear .” Rufus shuddered. “Your grandmother and I are on the same side in this.”
“Everybody is always on Grandmama’s side in our family,” said Nestor, “at least when they’re with her. But sometimes, you know, a happy ending is rather nice. It’s a long play and you get to the end of it and everybody’s dead. That’s a bit depressing.”
“Isn’t life somewhat depressing?” Rufus asked, frowning.
“It is,” agreed Maximus. “But sometimes you just want to go to the theater to have a good night.”
“That doesn’t sound very artistic,” the duke drawled.
“Not all of us are artistic,” Octavian said woefully.
“I can tell,” Rufus stated without irony.
“You’re all hopeless, actually,” Portia put in, loving each of them.
“Look, we’ve been putting on productions of Shakespeare since we were all in leading strings.” Maximus cocked his head to the side and teased without a hint of rancor, “What right have you to lecture? We have not seen you at the theater in years.”
“I am duly chastened,” the duke replied with a bow.
“Of course you are!” exclaimed Nestor.
“You’re a damned good sort,” enthused Octavian.
“You just might survive being with us,” Maximus said, grinning.
And then the cousins poured into the boxes.
“You handled that very well,” Portia said.
He blinked as if a whirlwind had passed over him. “Did I?”
“You will have to come to the theater almost nightly now.”
He pulled her against the curtain. “I will happily do so if I am with you.” And then he kissed her softly.
She kissed him back, giving in to the sensual delight, eager for their marriage when they need not wait another minute for more.
But the sound of footsteps gave her pause and she pulled back.
He groaned and blew out a breath. “Do you know where my sister is?”
“Margery is off with my aunts,” she said, willing her thoughts to behave. “She’s being shown off. She needs to be away from you more.”
“It is my job to protect her,” he stated. “She is my sister.”
She stroked the lapel of his coat, gazing up into his eyes. “And I admire you very much for wishing to protect her,” she said.
His unbridled energy surprised her. But it was tension. Tension at being surrounded by people in the theater. He wasn’t ready to go back to the box, and she rather wondered how he was going to survive sitting through almost three hours, coiled as he was.
As they strode down the corridor, helping him to walk off whatever nervousness was there, she said, “We can do this several times,” she said, “if you like. The play won’t begin for several minutes.”
“Several minutes?” he echoed and then he grimaced. “Do I need to talk to more people?”
“Possibly just my family.”
“I truly don’t mind your family so much.” His hands curled into fists as he strained against his feelings. “As long as we can avoid everyone else.”
“Well, then let me take you down to the back of the theater, where we can be away from everyone.”
“What?” he breathed, agog.
“Yes. Wait just a moment.”
Quite taken with her idea, she rushed back into the box and whispered into her grandmama’s ear.
Her grandmother leaned back, approval shining on her features. “What an excellent idea, my girl. Do take him. It is an excellent solution to his predicament.”
With that, she slipped back out to the hall and took the Duke of Ferrars by the hand and smiled at him. “I’m going to take you somewhere you’ve never been.”
And then she quietly led him down through the back stairs, behind the curtains, through a door, and to the rear of the theater where set pieces were ready to be moved swiftly in and out.
“What is all this?” he breathed, his gaze sweeping around, full of the wonder of a boy.
She squeezed his hand, overjoyed at his pleasure. “This is the magic of the theater.”
The rough voices of Londoners filled the shadowed space as they readied everything backstage.
Actors were warming up their voices, getting ready to go on in their various elaborate costumes. Portia spotted her great-aunt Estella standing several feet away in a gorgeous Elizabethan costume, not far from the wings.
“Estella!” she whispered.
Her aunt, attuned to the slightest of details, turned, her paste jewels on her rich golden costume gleaming in the low light. Her makeup was exaggerated and made her appear fearsome yet beautiful.
“Is this the Duke of Ferrars?” her great-aunt asked, sauntering forward, her eyes dancing.
“It is indeed,” Portia said, feeling a wave of pride in her soon-to-be husband. Then she realized exactly why she’d brought the duke here and it wasn’t for quiet. “I felt that I should bring him to you. For your assessment.”
“I thought you said I wasn’t going to have to speak to more people,” he said softly.
“This is family,” she declared.
The duke’s eyes bulged. “Of course. Forgive me. I have heard about you.”
Estella’s lips turned in an amused smile. “One does love to be talked about. And you are lucky that you’ve probably met almost all of the family now. I’m likely the last piece.”
“And does that mean you are the most important one?” he said, his rich voice a low hum in the shadows.
“Oh, I do like the way you think, Your Grace,” Estella returned. “I’m certainly the reason why Lady Juliet married an American.”
The duke cocked his head to the side. “You are dangerous then,” he said.
“Only if you consider choosing happiness dangerous.”
The duke’s eyes narrowed at that. “I can tell you are a remarkable person.”
“If you can tell that, then you are an intelligent person,” she replied. “How are you enjoying the theater so far?”
“It is a new experience.”
“How unfortunate for you that you were never allowed to come.” Estella lifted her full sleeves, done in the medieval style, and swept them around as if she sensed a ghost or ill humor about her. “You know, I knew your father.”
“I’m sorry,” he replied.
She laughed at that. “What a good sense of humor you do have. Everyone who knew your father should get an apology. Are you like him?”
“I’m glad to know my sense of humor is growing,” he said. “And, no, I am not like him.”
Estella narrowed her eyes and lifted a pale finger to her rouged lips. “We shall have to wait and see. Sometimes our fathers and our mothers come out in us when we least expect it, when we think we are safe. You shall have to be very careful, lest your father finds a way to come out in you.”
He scowled at that. “The man’s dead and buried. He’s not going to cause any trouble anymore.”
“Glad to hear it,” Estella said before blowing out a breath and shooing them. “Now, run along, children, and go find a good, secluded spot to watch the play. The ending is so bad. I do hope you enjoy each other instead.”
“Estella!” she exclaimed.
“What?” her aunt asked as she batted her charcoaled lashes with faux innocence. “I’m not one of the silly pieces from the ton who thinks the two of you don’t wish to have a kiss and a cuddle before the wedding.”
The duke’s brows drew together. “I take your point,” he said, “but surely…”
“But surely what?” Estella replied. “Enjoy your life, Your Grace. You never know when it shall end.”
“Is that a warning?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Estella said gently. Kindly. “It’s a fact.”
And then the crowd outside began to hush.
It was so quiet that one could have heard a fan open.
Estella turned from them and, in a single moment, she seemed to transform from Estella—the woman of the theater who had grown up in the worst possible conditions and clawed her way up to be the most successful actress in England—to Goneril, dangerous daughter of King Lear, powerful beyond all recourse, ready to do her darkest.
And she strode forward into the light.
As the play slipped towards its altered ending, Portia could not ignore the feel of the duke’s hand so near hers. It was electric in the dark backstage. They lingered in the shadows, near where the ropes for the curtains and set pieces were positioned.
Her body sang with longing for his. Perhaps it was all the wanton, powerful women in her family history. But she wanted his kiss again. She wanted to be daring. With his heady strength and mercurial personality, she was drawn to his touch, drawn to the power that he evoked within her.
As if he felt it too, Rufus brushed her hand with his, then slowly wound his fingers through hers.
For a moment, she could not breathe.
“I want to kiss you,” he whispered.
“What about the play?” she teased.
“Your whole family thinks the ending is terrible,” he whispered. “Surely, our time can be better spent.”
Rufus turned to her and stroked a lock of hair back from her face before he teased her lower lip with his thumb.
“Not here,” she murmured. At any moment, a stagehand or actor could wander by.
“Where?”
She glanced about, and then she knew the exact place.
Silently, she guided him through the back of the theater and to the prop room.
No one would come here. All the props that were required for this play had long ago been taken out and set at the side stage.
Carefully, she inched the door open, guided him in, then lit the single lantern on the table.
The wick flickered to life, illuminating a room of magic. Or at least, the kind of magic that man made to fool the human eye.
The shelves were covered with crowns, painted gold and studded with paste jewels. There were objects of every imagining, goblets, books, chairs, mirrors, and there at the back, a golden throne.
A low growl rippled from his throat as he took her in his arms. As if the reserved duke had gone and the witty, volatile man she so cared about emerged, he unleashed his passion upon her.
There were no more niceties. No reticence. No shyness. His mouth seized hers with the intent to consume. She met his passion with equal measure.
How she loved the feel of their tongues tangling, of their mouths giving and taking in hot kiss after hot kiss.
He maneuvered her to the golden throne and lowered her to it.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
“Worshipping at your feet, as you deserve.”
He knelt down before her and took the hem of her skirts in his hands, then dragged it upward. He lowered his mouth to her thighs and pressed soft kisses along her skin.
The shock of it was delicious as he parted her thighs, and just as he was about to lower his mouth to her apex, he met her gaze and said, “If I could make you my queen, I would.”
“I don’t want to be a queen,” she whispered. “I simply want to be yours.”
A low growl of pleasure escaped his throat, and then he lowered his mouth to her most sensitive spot.
She arched against him, grabbing the armrests of the gold-painted throne. With each wild kiss, each touch of his tongue, she lost herself to him.
He did not stop as she spiraled upward. Her breath came in fast takes and she strained, feeling as if she would break apart, and then he slid a finger deep inside her.
Portia’s entire world transformed to bliss. Transformed to love. Transformed to giving herself totally and fully to the Duke of Ferrars.
He lowered her skirts then, his gaze hooded with his own desire.
“Let me help you up,” he whispered.
She could scarce catch her breath, and her body was liquid with satisfaction. “But what about—”
He shook his head. “When we are wed. Not before.”
It struck her then that somehow, even like this, he had controlled himself. That something deep inside him kept him imprisoned and unable to give himself over to their passion. But once they were married, she knew he would. And she could not wait to see it.