Dare to Love (19 page)

“I've gone along with your bloody scheme, Mr. Duke. I've worked until I thought I'd drop. I've let you scream at me. I've let you bully me. I've let you treat me like—like an old shoe you could kick around, but I happen to be a human being! I happen to have a few feelings. It's all very well for you to go out every night, not coming in until the small hours of the morning, but when I decide to spend a few hours with—”

“Who is he?” he interrupted.

“That's—”

“I want to know who he
is
!”

I stared at him defiantly, refusing to answer. Anthony fumed, eyes blazing, his right hand balled into a tight fist, wanting to hit me. He finally emitted a loud curse and slammed his fist into the palm of his left hand. It made a very loud impact, and he winced and shook his left hand vigorously to relieve the smarting sensation. I couldn't help smiling, and he gave me another murderous look. Marching over to the piano, he took a deep breath. Though he had his back to me, I could see him fighting to control himself.

“I didn't know you'd be in so early,” I remarked casually.

He turned around to face me, his brows still lowered. “That's bloody obvious! How long has this been going on?”

“How long has what been going on?”

“How long have you been sneaking out to meet this—this man! You were supposed to be studying your Spanish.”

“I didn't feel like it today.”

“Don't press your luck, Mary Ellen. I'm in control of myself now, but you've no idea how close I came to hitting you. I'm calm now and prepared to be reasonable, but don't press your luck. You're not to see him again.”

“That's a decision I'll make for myself.”

“You're not to set foot outside this bloody building unless I'm at your side. That's an order! If you know what's good for you, you'll bloody well obey it. I don't know who this fellow is, but you can forget him right now. We've come too far, we've worked too hard. One tiny slip could wreck the whole plan.”

“You're really worried, aren't you?”

“You're bloody right I am! David's article appears next week. Elena Lopez appears in London the week after that. We've got to be very careful from now on, and we've got to work like hell.”

“I know the dances,” I pointed out. “My Spanish accent is as good as it'll ever be. I'm
tired
.”

“You're just on edge, luv,” he replied, relaxing a bit. “You'll feel much better once we've done the press interview and you've made your debut. You'll be splendid, just splendid.”

“Thanks!”

“You want to be squired about? Taken to restaurants? There'll be enough of that, once you've become Elena. Every man in London'll be eager to shower you with attention.”

“I can hardly wait,” I said dryly.

He grinned. He brushed the thick brown wave back from his forehead and came over to me and squeezed my arms affectionately. I felt a delicious tremor inside, and I felt angry, too, as angry as I would have been had he patted me on the head. I pulled away.

I could feel the tears rising, and I fought them back, turning away from him. I moved over to the window and stared at the buildings across the way. I refused to cry. What was wrong with me? A deep sadness stole over me, and I felt alone, so very much alone; there was a painful emptiness inside. Usually, I was strong, beautifully in control of myself, but of late my emotions seemed to be getting out of hand. I seemed to be living on nervous energy, and the tensions continued to build day by day. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, fighting the tears, willing them not to come.

“You all right?” he asked.

I nodded. I could hear his footsteps behind me, feel him approaching me. He stood directly behind me, and I thought my nerves would snap. I didn't dare turn. He put his arms around my waist and drew me against him.

“You sure?” he said.

“I'm all right, Anthony.”

“Look, I didn't mean to carry on like that. I never
mean
to. It's just this vile temper of mine. I'm very fond of you, actually. I'd never do anything to hurt you, and I'd kill any bloke who did.”

His arms tightened around my waist, forcing me to lean against him. I could feel the warmth of his body, every fiber of my being seemed to stretch taut with tension. I tried not to tremble.

“One of these days I'll show you my gratitude,” he said. “One of these days you'll be glad you joined forces with me. That's a promise. You're not going to regret any of this, Mary Ellen.”

He gave me a tight squeeze, and then he released me, abruptly. Moving back over to the piano, he picked up a pair of gloves. I watched him pull them on. He picked up his maroon top hat, stepped over to the mirror and placed it on his head, arranging the tilt just so. Reclaiming the long gray cloak he'd tossed over the sofa and swirling it in the air, he draped it over his shoulders. He hadn't been wearing a cloak when he went out earlier. I suddenly realized that he had changed to an entirely different outfit.

He was obviously getting ready to go out again, and it was much too early for him to be going to the theater. He shook his shoulders to make the cloak hang properly, adjusting the heavy folds.

“I came home early to change,” he said. “I forgot that I had an appointment tonight. I won't be going to the theater. They can do without me for one night.”

I did not comment.

“I promised to go to a party with a … friend of mine. It's outside London, a long drive. We'll have to leave early. Probably won't be back until almost dawn.”

Why was he telling me this? He owed me no explanation. Was it because he felt guilty?

“When I found you weren't here, I got frightfully worried. Cleeve had no idea where you'd gone. I really
was
worried, Mary Ellen.”

“Oh?”

“Guess that's why I got so worked up.”

He stood in front of the mirror, admiring himself, the splendid male peacock fancying his plumage. Finally satisfied, he sighed and reached for the slender black cane he frequently affected.

“These little spats are good. They bring out your spirit. There's an awful lot of gypsy blood beneath that demure facade. We're going to have to work on that a bit. Elena's tempestuous, temperamental. You're going to need a few acting lessons.”

“Am I?”

“Not too many. You
do
have a temper, luv. I've a feeling that if you really got worked up you could be formidable indeed. Mary Ellen is all cool dignity and poise, but there's a lot of Elena in you, far more than you realize.”

He grinned. I wanted to slap him.

“Must hurry. I'm late already. You get some rest tonight. Forget about the Spanish. Cleeve'll bring you up a nice hot meal. I'll expect you to be fresh and feisty tomorrow.”

He sauntered across the room, the cloak swaying from his shoulders as he moved. At the door he turned, tipping his hat jauntily. I watched him go, picturing the “friend” he was going to meet—a cool, aloof blonde, wearing ice-blue velvet. Seizing the tall Chinese vase sitting on the table nearby, I examined it with great interest. I heard a door slam far below and heard a carriage pulling up in front of the building. I looked at the vase. It was lovely, pure white etched with exquisite orange and gold flowers. The carriage drove away. I hurled the vase against the opposite wall. It crashed with a great explosion, sending a hundred jagged pieces clattering to the floor.

XVI

I gazed into the mirror, and Elena Lopez gazed back at me. My brows and lashes had been darkened with mascara, my eyelids coated with soft violet shadow. Rouge emphasized my high cheekbones, and my lips were a darker red. The makeup had been applied subtly, with great care, and the effect was most satisfying. My eyes seemed darker, a deep violet-blue, and I looked far more sophisticated, even exotic. My ebony hair was pulled back sleekly, long plump curls dangling between my shoulderblades. The makeup and hairstyle had been decided upon only after considerable experimentation.

Anthony had wanted me to wear a beauty mark, but I had refused. We had argued. He had finally given in. After a few acting lessons, I felt I knew Elena Lopez through and through, her voice, her gestures, her reactions, even her thought processes. Some of her rebelliousness had worn off on Mary Ellen. I wasn't nearly as malleable and easy to manage as I had been before. Though certainly I was not as tempestuous and temperamental as Elena Lopez, I could be exceedingly stubborn, as Anthony Duke had discovered.

I toned down the rouge a bit and then, finally satisfied, rose from the dressing table. Trying to appear calm and composed on the surface, actually I was a mass of nerves. In precisely one hour Elena Lopez would be checking into her hotel. It would be her first public appearance, and David had already warned us that several of his colleagues from the newspapers would be waiting for us in the lobby, hoping to scoop each other before the official press reception. It was going to be an ordeal, and I was very apprehensive. At the moment, I desperately wished I had never agreed to be part of the hoax.

David's article had appeared a week ago. It was a lurid piece of fiction that had caused a sensation, revealing, as it did, that Elena Lopez was the illegitimate daughter of the notorious Lord Byron and a Spanish beauty whom he had adored briefly and abandoned heartlessly upon discovering she was with child. Elena was fourteen when her mother died. She began to dance in cantinas, sponsored by an immensely wealthy Spanish nobleman who kept her plentifully supplied with jewelry and used a horsewhip on potential rivals. Abandoning the nobleman, Elena had journeyed to Russia, where she became the mistress of Alexander, son of Czar Nicholas and the future sovereign of all Russia. She had riden wildly over the steppes surrounded by her own entourage of fiery Cossacks, had been the cause of a duel to the death between two important Russian diplomats, had given rowdy all-night parties for Alexander and his friends. A young Russian poet had shot himself when she refused to bestow her favors on him. He had been a poet of the people, and his suicide had almost caused a full-scale revolution. When her carriage was stoned by angry serfs, Alexander had been struck on the forehead by a rock. Finally, Czar Nicholas, himself, paid her a large amount of money in order to rescue his son from her clutches and get Elena out of Russia for good.

On her return from Russia, the article continued, Elena had begun her affair with the Spanish crown prince, the affair that resulted in her being banished from Spain. Queen Isabella's jewels were mentioned once more, described in detail, the story of Elena hiding them in a pair of shoes repeated. During her recent stay in Paris, Elena had fallen under the hypnotic spell of the concert pianist and composer Franz Liszt, as famous for his love affairs as for his music. Theirs had been a flamboyant affair, marked by fierce battles and physical violence. Liszt had locked her out of their hotel room. Elena had climbed through a window and, seizing a knife, had ripped all his clothes to shreds. He had attempted to strangle her. Liszt had finally fled to Germany to escape the raven-haired beauty who drove him to distraction. Elena, still seething over his cowardice, claimed that he was by no means the superb lover he was reputed to be. The meekest of her Cossacks could best the great Franz Liszt when it came to passion.

I thought about the article as I dressed. I found it utterly preposterous, but the public seemed to find it fascinating. Both David and Anthony were elated with the results. All London was talking about Elena Lopez—waiting to see her in the flesh. The opera was sold out for weeks and weeks, and people who cared nothing for music were still clamoring for tickets. The fact that Elena was supposed to be Lord Byron's daughter would explain my blue eyes and English features, Anthony assured me, and as for the Russian material, who would bother to disprove it? I was exceedingly dubious about the Franz Liszt episode. Liszt was very much alive, very much in the public eye, but Anthony laughed at my worries. Liszt was infamous for his affairs, he informed me. If by chance Liszt happened to see the article, he would probably be amused. He certainly wasn't going to deny having an affair with the celebrated Elena Lopez. Real or not, an affair with her could only add to his reputation.

I seriously doubted that the pianist would appreciate Elena's remarks about his prowess in the bedroom. The whole tone of the article disturbed me. Elena Lopez was a reckless adventuress, totally unscrupulous, and Mary Ellen Lawrence was her opposite in almost every respect. It was true that I had captured her spirit, her flair, but that was just acting, and I still had reservations about my ability to carry it off successfully. Anthony didn't, or so he claimed. He insisted that I would be superlative, but I suspected he had secret reservations of his own. He had grown increasingly tense and edgy of late, his breezy manner replaced by a grim determination that made me all the more apprehensive.

As I smoothed my velvet skirt down over my petticoats and adjusted the bodice, I thought about the quarrels we had had over my wardrobe. Anthony had seen Elena as flashy, flamboyant in her dress, and I had seen her as exquisite and elegant, though bolder than fashion dictated. I had won, but not until after some fierce arguments. A prim little woman with dusty complexion and apologetic brown eyes had arrived at the studio one day to take my measurements. I had assumed she was measuring me for my costumes and nothing more was said. But this afternoon I had opened my wardrobe to find it totally empty. My dressing table drawers were empty of garments, too. Except for what I had on, every stitch of clothing had been whisked away. Anthony had arrived with several boxes containing the outfit I would wear tonight—shoes, undergarments, gown, gloves, hat. Blithely, he informed me that my things had been packed by Cleeve and taken to a home for the needy. I was appalled, naturally, until he explained that Elena Lopez's wardrobe would be delivered to the hotel in brand-new trunks covered with gray leather.