Dare to Love (16 page)

He looked hurt. “Whatever for?”

“I simply refuse to believe any of this. Last night—last night was like a hazy dream. I scarcely remember what took place. I must have been insane to let you bring me here.”

“You put up a splendid fight,” he reminded me.

It was foolish to try to argue with him, and I was in no mood to do so, in any case. I had a lot of thinking to do, serious thinking, and I needed a clear head. Coffee was what I needed. I told him so, and he grinned, looking very pleased with himself.

“There's a pot waiting. A place all set for you at the table. Buttered toast and jam, too. Had Cleeve set everything up for you. You see, I can be thoughtful and considerate. Don't believe in starving my women, not as long as they behave themselves.”

I followed him into the next room. A place had indeed been set, and there was coffee in a slightly tarnished silver pot, a rack of buttered toast, a small silver dish of strawberry jam, and a single long-stemmed red rose in a slender crystal vase.

“Nice?” he inquired.

“Nice,” I agreed.

“I'm a cruel taskmaster,” he informed me, “and I've a wretched temper, but you'll discover that I can be a very likable chap, given half a chance. Sit down and drink your coffee.”

I sat. I poured coffee into my cup. The aroma was rich and fragrant and lovely. Duke stepped over to the mirror, tugged at the bottom of his rich topaz waistcoat, and straightened the lapels of his brown-and-white-checked jacket. Finally satisfied with his appearance, he turned and began to pull on a pair of dark brown gloves.

“What was that dreadful noise I heard?” I asked. “I thought the whole ceiling was going to come crashing down.”

“I dropped a couple of cartons of books. Damned heavy, almost broke my back carrying them up the stairs. Everything you own is upstairs in your room, waiting to be put away. I decided to leave the putting away to you.”

“How thoughtful.”

“When you finish your coffee, go up and have a look at your new home. I've got to pop round to the theater on very important business, but I'll be back in an hour or so. Oh, Cleeve's lurking around somewhere. Don't be alarmed if you run into him.”

He left then. I could hear his footsteps as he hurried downstairs like some exuberant schoolboy. When I finished my coffee, I poured a second cup and ate two pieces of toast. The pain in my head began to recede. I felt very sober now, frightfully so. Sunlight spilled through the opened windows. I could smell the river. My coral-pink velvet gloves were thrown across the back of a chair where I had left them last night. Last night seemed to have happened a very long time ago. Here I sat in a strange room, wearing my most elegant gown—one coral ruffle dangling, dark grass stains soiling part of the skirt—calmly drinking coffee. In fact, I was calmer, it seemed, than I had ever been in my life.

Anthony Duke had burst into my life and taken it over, just like that. Madame Olga would never forgive me, never take me back, so he had wrecked my future in ballet, but I wasn't even angry. I accepted it. What he had said was true. I had been buoying myself up with false hopes. I wasn't a good dancer. I would never be. Desire and determination were of no avail if that certain brilliance was missing, and it was, would always be. I didn't have it. Today, as the breeze from the river ruffled the curtains and sunlight spread over the carpet, I could face the truth. For a year I had been deceiving myself, working frantically, refusing to allow that tiny seed of doubt to take root.

I would never get on in ballet, no matter how long I studied with Madame Olga. I had no money, as Anthony Duke had pointed out, and there were very few respectable jobs open to a woman of my age, with my background. Giving dancing lessons sounded all very well, but there was an abundance of failed ballerinas in London and teaching positions were avidly sought. The chances of my obtaining one would be slim indeed, particularly as I could no longer use Madame Olga as a reference. I could become a governess, perhaps, but my youth and my physical appearance would be definite drawbacks, and I had no desire to moulder away in some dim attic nursery.

Facing this reality, without false hopes, without illusions, I realized there was nothing I could do but go along with Anthony Duke. He wanted to make me a star, he said. The man might be an out-and-out scoundrel, but he was no fool. He knew the theater, knew the public, knew what they wanted, and he believed I had a special quality that would appeal to them. Surely, he wouldn't have started all this unless there was a hefty profit in it for Anthony Duke. He thought he could make money, a lot of it. He certainly wasn't after my body. A man as attractive as he had to do no more than snap his fingers to get almost any woman he wanted. He had made no effort to seduce me last night—had candidly informed me that I wasn't his type. His interest in me was professional, and if he believed he could make something of me, then I must believe it, too.

I felt strangely stimulated, almost excited. I should have been depressed, of course, should have been grim and despondent and angry, but I wasn't. This past year had been long and hard and, for the most part, bleak. I had done nothing but work and hope and dream. The months had been gray with loneliness and worry, a constant struggle to hold back the sadness that threatened to overwhelm me, and Anthony Duke had come charging in with breezy determination, splashing color all around. I had to admit to myself that I had enjoyed last night, the lovely meal, his ebullient manner, his cocky chatter. If I formed an affiliation with Anthony Duke I would be letting myself in for anger and irritation and all sorts of conflicts, but things would never be dull and gray.

“Finished, miss?”

I turned, startled. A tall, very thin man with graying hair and a sober expression stood in the doorway, holding an empty tray. He wore a butler's uniform that, though spotless, had seen better days, jacket and trousers both a bit shiny with age. His face was long, his mouth thin, his pale blue eyes patient and weary.

“Oh,” I said, “you must be Cleeve.”

He nodded. “I'll just clear the table.”

“I'm Miss Lawrence.”

“I know,” he said. “You read a lot.”

“You helped Mr. Duke move my things.”

He nodded again and moved over to the table.

“I—I suppose you're accustomed to that. Moving a lady's belongings upstairs, I mean.”

Cleeve shook his head, placing the tray on the table and reaching for the empty coffeepot. “Mr. Duke has entertained many young ladies,” he informed me, “but you're the first he's let move in.”

That's encouraging, I thought. Cleeve stacked the dishes on the tray, slowly, patiently. He had to be well over sixty, I reasoned, and I had the feeling he had been with Anthony Duke for a very long time. When I asked him, he nodded again.

“All his life,” he said. “I was with the family before Master Anthony was born. When his parents died and the big house was sold, I accompanied him to London. Can't say that I liked the idea, but someone had to look after him. He's always needed a great deal of looking after. Disorderly, Master Anthony is. Always has been.”

“You must think a lot of him.”

Cleeve looked at me with weary eyes. There was no need for him to reply. I could see that he would have gone to the stake for Duke without a moment's hesitation. I found that reassuring. A man who could inspire such devotion and loyalty couldn't be a thorough villain.

“I'll just take these things down,” Cleeve said. “My kitchen's in the basement.”

“You cook, too?”

“I do all the cooking,” he replied. “Someone has to. Master Anthony can't afford to pay a cook wages. Can't afford to pay me, truth to tell, but we manage.”

“He's very lucky to have you,” I said gently.

“Thank you, miss. I'll be going now.”

After Cleeve left, I stood there for several minutes, lost in thought, and then, picking up my gloves, I went out into the hall and climbed the final flight of stairs to the studio. The door was standing open, and I stepped inside, amazed at the size of the room. Brilliant sunlight streamed in through a skylight that slanted down from the ceiling, creating an airy, open effect.

The room was enormous, so enormous that it looked bare despite the furniture. A battered-looking piano stood in one corner, a brightly colored Spanish shawl with tangled fringe draped over it. There was a rickety table nearby piled high with papers and books and opera librettos, and standing against the wall, a motheaten sofa covered in threadbare burnt orange velvet. There were lamps and straightback chairs and a low table scattered with books of costume design, two swords and two fencing masks, and yet another pair of worn boxing gloves. The floor was a vast expanse of bare polished hardwood, agleam with sunlight. The studio, which was obviously used as a rehearsal hall, smelled of sweat and smoke and leather, exceedingly masculine.

I could imagine Duke rehearsing his specialty acts, snapping orders, making criticisms, boisterous and bullying. He had probably held many a rowdy party for his theatrical colleagues up here as well, parties with laughter and loud talk, lots of wine, impromptu boxing matches, and fencing forays. No doubt, he and his friends would behave like noisy schoolboys. There was still much of the schoolboy in his nature, I reflected, noting the boxing gloves.

My heels rang on the floor as I crossed the room and entered the bedroom that adjoined it. It was small and snug, its plaster walls painted a very light blue; one tiny window looking out over the river. A violet-blue counterpane covered the bed. The headboard was painted white, as were the bedside table, the dressing table, and the wardrobe. The wardrobe was much too large for the tiny room, and so was the overstuffed chair covered in rather garish purple velvet. A lamp stood on the bedside table, and a white vase on top of the small bookcase held a bunch of fresh violets that had been hastily crammed into it. He must have bought them this morning in hopes of pleasing me.

My clothes were piled on top of the bed in a tangled jumble, and all my other possessions sat in boxes around the floor. Two boxes of books had fallen over, books spilling out over the faded gray carpet with its barely visible violet floral patterns. This room was directly over his bedroom. A narrow door led into a tiny but quite modern bathroom complete with large zinc tub. Putting down my gloves, I wondered where to begin. I would have to smooth all the clothes out and hang them up in the wardrobe, place the books in the bookcase, and put the rest of the things away in the drawers of the dressing table, but first I would wash up and change into something sensible.

I removed the rumpled silk gown and performed my ablutions in the bathroom, sponging myself thoroughly. Then I donned a dusty-rose cotton frock patterned with tiny blue forget-me-nots. The dress was old and too tight at the waist. The snug bodice had been modest enough when I was sixteen years old and the dress brand-new, but Millie had mended the neckline and it was now a good two inches lower, revealing more than I ordinarily cared to reveal. This afternoon, however, I was pleased with the plunging effect.

Because Anthony Duke claimed that I wasn't his type, I had a purely feminine inclination to prove otherwise, if only to have the satisfaction of rebuffing him. Retrieving my cosmetics from one of the packed boxes, I sat down at the dressing table and applied a hint of soft blue shadow to my lids and heightened the natural pink of my lips with dark pink lip rouge. With my hair tumbling about my shoulders, I thought I had a certain wild splendor that suggested windswept moors and stormy emotions. Was that the special quality he had referred to? He said that I had the ability to make every able-bodied man want to commit delicious sin with me. Well, I might not be his type, but he was certainly an able-bodied man.

As I shook my dresses out and hung them up in the wardrobe, I wondered at the change that had come over me. Change? Perhaps that wasn't the right word. Anthony Duke made me feel like a woman, and I hadn't felt that way for a very long time. For the past year I had been serious and dedicated, entirely devoted to my dancing, leading a drab, nun-like existence outside the theater. I had coolly rebuffed all advances from the men who flocked around the theater, had denied all the emotions and instincts that Brence Stephens had unlocked and nourished with his manhood. I had shut that part of me off. Now, another man had appeared, and he made me feel vibrant and alive and attractive. Although I had no intention of going to bed with him, it was nice to experience the subtle glow he had awakened.

Hanging up the last dress, I began to fold the other clothes and put them away in the drawers. That done, I arranged all the books in the bookcase and stopped to rearrange the violets in their white vase. A cheap bouquet of violets was a cheap bouquet of violets, hardly overwhelming, but the fact that he had thought to buy them was rather touching. I stroked one of the soft petals, and then stopped, forcing myself to curb the warm feeling the flowers had summoned up. What was it Millie had said? That sort would break your heart, steal your money, and laugh his head off as he walked out of the door. Millie was right. I was going to have to be on guard constantly.

There were two more boxes of my things left to unpack. As I picked them up and set them on the bed, I heard footsteps crossing the studio floor, and a moment later Anthony Duke was standing in the doorway, observing me. He noticed the dress, and the neckline. He didn't say anything about it, but he noticed. His blue eyes glowed with appreciation, and his lids drooped slightly, giving him a sleepy, sensual look. A half smile curved on his lips. I knew what he was thinking, and I was pleased with myself for having scored a small triumph. Ignoring him, I began to remove things from the boxes.

He looked at me, wanting me, and then he sighed and shook his head and assumed his customary stance of cocky self-assurance. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned his shoulders back against the frame of the door, lounging there like some idle ruffian.