Love on a Midsummer Night (Shakespeare in Love #2) (9 page)

“Welcome to Pembroke House, Your Grace. Please come with me, and we will get you settled in.”

“Thank you.”

Arabella was surprised to find that though the exterior looked ancient save for the beautiful glass windows placed in its façade, Pembroke House was quite modern on the inside. The interior walls were all well-plastered and painted lovely shades of white and cream. Crown molding ran along the ceiling in every room, and though the house was filled with antiques, they were all from the last century and in pristine condition.

The sun was setting across the park, and Arabella stopped on the staircase to take in the view of the oaks with their new green leaves. The warmth of the day rose from the open window, and she took in a deep breath as she gazed down the bluff to where her father’s house lay only two miles distant. She could see nothing of her childhood home, but she knew it was close. She would go there tomorrow and find the money she had come for. The sooner she was out of Pembroke’s house, the better.

Mrs. Marks led her at once into a comfortable
bedroom clearly meant for a lady, beautifully appointed with maple furniture and a soft cream rug. All was light and airy, the satin bedclothes embroidered in tones of ice blue and cream. Something about that shade of blue made Arabella feel at home, and she felt a strange illusion of safety close around her, as if she had been encircled by strong arms.

Arabella bathed in the tub of warm water Mrs. Marks sent up. Pembroke’s household staff seemed determined to make her feel welcome. She wondered how many of Pembroke’s mistresses this house had seen, how many country parties of debauchery, how many light skirts had come and gone like the tide. She smothered her jealousy and pressed these thoughts from her mind as she donned the one decent evening gown she had brought with her into exile. It was a completely inappropriate gown for a widow to wear, but her entire life was now far outside the pale of decency and propriety. Pembroke’s words in the carriage still rang in her ears.

She really did look terrible in black.

The gown she wore now was a deep sea green, the only fashionable dress she had brought with her in her flight from her husband’s house. Mrs. Marks had pressed it, and now Arabella stood before a full length of pier glass, smiling at her reflection. It was a vast improvement.

The scalloped edge of the bodice of her gown was demure, but it was low enough that she had been forced to remove the ring from the ribbon she wore and place it on a chain of gold. The gold chain had once been her mother’s, and now it showed above the modest neckline. The scooped neck of the gown was cut wide so that her shoulders were displayed, and its cap sleeves left most of her arms bare.

She had not thought to bring gloves for the evening, but Mrs. Marks had taken that matter in hand as she had every other, so that now Arabella was clothed in elegance from her curls to the tips of her slippers. Mrs. Marks had even sent a woman to dress her hair, so that her usually plain locks, hidden always beneath a cap, were now displayed in simple curls that framed her face, with a larger mass of curls drawn to the crown of her head.

Arabella felt a moment of guilt at the thought of dead husband, lying in his crypt. But then she shook herself free of that remnant of her past. Why should she not wear a beautiful gown? She had spent her life hiding, first from her father and then from her husband. She was done with hiding. She looked well for the first time in her life, and she was determined to enjoy it.

She made her way down to the drawing room where she found Pembroke alone, staring into the back garden where his mother’s roses had begun to bloom. The French doors were open, and Arabella breathed in the scent of roses mixed with wisteria on the evening wind. She came in as far as the door but then stopped and stared at him. He was so beautiful that he took her breath.

He too had changed for dinner and now wore a coat of midnight blue superfine with a black and silver waistcoat over skintight black trousers. Arabella noticed how hours on horseback had made the muscles of his thighs tighten into sculpted strength. She took in the sight of his broad shoulders, which almost filled the doorway he stood in.

When he turned to her, his dark blond hair fell into his eyes as it always did. Just as he had when he was a boy, he pushed that lock of hair away with one hand as he smiled at her. It was his smile that stopped her heart.

Pembroke opened his mouth to speak, but the sight of her seemed to silence him. He simply stood looking at her in the candlelight. Arabella stepped forward, and he came back into the room as if to meet her halfway. But before either could take another step or speak a word, Titania’s voice filled the room, breaking the fragile spell that had fallen.

“Good evening, Your Grace. What a pretty picture you make as you flee London for your life. For the love of God, Pembroke, you might have brought faster horses. I’ve been in the village a full day already, waiting for your arrival.”

The open warmth that had filled Pembroke’s eyes the moment before vanished so quickly that Arabella wondered if she had imagined it. The sardonic smile he turned on Titania could have melted stone. “We had no broom at our disposal, madame.”

Arabella colored at his calling Titania a witch, but the courtesan only laughed, the boom of sound filling the room, warming Arabella where she stood. That laugh seemed to say that no matter what went on, all was right with the world. Arabella did not believe the promise of that laugh, but she wished that she could.

“Well, you’re in a sour mood and no mistake. Three days on the road will do that to a man, I suppose.” Titania’s eyes took him in with a gleam of speculation. As Arabella watched her, she wished that she had even half of her self-assurance.

“Well, let’s go in to dinner, and I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

Pembroke led Arabella in to dinner, but he barely looked at her as he seated her at table. A place had been set for Titania as well, and for a moment Arabella wondered if Pembroke had decided to kill two birds with one stone and have an assignation with his mistress while he helped Arabella escape Hawthorne.

The thought was like an icy sluice of water on her skin, but as she ate the chilled cucumber and dill soup a footman placed in front of her, one glance at Pembroke’s face disabused her of that notion. Arabella found that she had trouble listening to all that was said as relief swamped her. From his looks and his voice, Pembroke did not seem at all amorous, merely annoyed.

“Before you think I’ve become one of those jealous, clingy women who can’t stand to let you out of my sight, let me put your mind at ease. I still keep a theater in Drury Lane.”

“The Duke of Hawthorne pays your bills there, I understand,” Pembroke said without sparing a glance at Arabella.

Titania continued her tale. “Well, Prinny’s been keeping us in greasepaint and costumes lately, if you must know, but no matter. My theater is doing well.”

“My felicitations,” Pembroke said.

“Don’t be so sour. My theater company has decided to go on tour in the country for the summer, see the sights, take in fresh air…”

“Debauch country lads and lasses,” Pembroke said.

Titania dismissed that dig with a wave of her spoon. “For Midsummer’s Eve, we are scheduled to perform in Pembroke village.”

“Here?” Pembroke set his spoon down on the table. The footman came and cleared the soup away, bringing in the roast beef.

“Right on your doorstep. Isn’t that divine?”

“I wish you much success, Titania, but what has this to do with me?”

“You’re going to perform
A
Midsummer
Night’s Dream
,” Arabella breathed, the longing in her voice palpable to her own ears.

The conversation stopped dead as both Pembroke and Titania turned to stare at her. Arabella felt a blush rise from beneath the bodice of her gown all the way to the roots of her hair, but even her embarrassment at being the focus of their attention could not take away her pleasure.

“I have never seen a play,” she said.

Titania’s look softened. She reached across the table and squeezed Arabella’s hand. “We will make the performance especially good then. I will be the Fairy Queen, and I would like to persuade Pembroke to stand in as my Oberon.”

“You’ve gone mad,” he said.

“Indeed, I have not, my…” Arabella thought for a moment that Titania meant to use an endearment such as “my love” or “my dear,” but in the end the actress swallowed whatever she had been about to say. “My lord. It would be for only one night and you would be the hit of the village. They would speak of it as far as London for years to come.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“You will be divine as Oberon. And as I said, it is only for Midsummer’s Eve. One night’s playacting will cost you nothing but time.”

“I’m surprised you don’t expect me to pay for the privilege,” Pembroke said.

“Well,” Titania smiled, “if you’re offering…”

“I am not. Titania, as generous as your offer is, I must decline.”

Pembroke’s jaw was tight with anger. Arabella wanted more than anything to see that play. She wondered if this might put her in danger. All the
ton
would come to see one of their own performing with a band of players, and Hawthorne might come with them. He was a patron of Titania’s, after all.

She pressed her palm onto the tablecloth as the footmen served strawberry ices. Arabella, like her dining companions, left her ice untouched. Perhaps she might see a rehearsal or two, collect her father’s money, and flee for parts unknown. She might go to the sea, for she had never seen the ocean. And then, when the
ton
had left Pembroke village far behind, she might return and live there in peace as she had planned.

Titania did not give up on her own plans but hounded her lover like a dog on the heels of a fox. “Pembroke, how long do you think it will take for your gambling and drinking cronies to wonder why you’ve gone into the country? Hawthorne will hear their speculations, and it might occur to him to come looking for your duchess here.”

“Perhaps.”

“Her Grace clearly wishes to avoid him. Why she wishes to do so is not my affair. But if you were to perform one night for the joy of it, your time in the country would be explained away. Hawthorne is a patron of the theater, but he hates all plays. He would never come to Derbyshire simply to watch you make a fool of yourself.”

Arabella flinched at Titania’s choice of words, but Pembroke’s face lightened a little. The tension in Arabella’s shoulders eased. “You begin to make sense, Titania.”

“I always make sense, Pembroke. You just don’t always attend to what I am saying.”

“So your troupe will come here and perform one night of Shakespeare with an amateur. Will that not cost you good money?”

“It will,” she said. “But between us, there need be no talk of price.”

It was Pembroke’s turn to look embarrassed. Her fear of Hawthorne and her speculation about the
ton
of London was burned away. There was a heavy tension in the air that seemed to press on Arabella’s lungs. She felt like an intruder. She was tempted to rise and leave them to each other, but her jealousy held her in her chair.

Titania’s voice was as soft as Arabella had ever heard it. This woman slept with Pembroke for money, but it was clear that she loved him, too. Somehow, that made it worse.

“Rehearse with us now and then, when your affairs allow. Let my company camouflage your real reason for being here.”

Pembroke sat in silence, his eyes on Titania’s. Arabella did not think she could bear one more moment of that silence. Pain had come to twine with jealousy, and she had to fight them both to breathe. She could not bear the silence another moment, so she broke it.

“I would dearly love to see the play,” Arabella said.

Her voice was quiet, but it severed the connection between Pembroke and his mistress. He turned to her as if he had just remembered that she was in the room. He smiled, and she felt the new, unaccustomed heat of desire begin in her toes, rising to cover the rest of her body like a river of fire.

“Will you help me learn my lines?” he asked.

Arabella forced a smile. His eyes had taken on a gleam of mischief, and for once she would meet him in the same spirit. She ignored the pain lodged in her throat, the jealousy that made it difficult to swallow.

Arabella reached for her spoon and took up a bite of the melting ice. The sweetness of the strawberry burst on her tongue, and for a moment she thought the pleasure of it would overwhelm her. It served its purpose though, to take her eyes and mind away from him. When she spoke, her voice sounded almost light, almost carefree.

“Of course I will help you if you need it. You will make a wonderful Oberon.”

Titania’s voice boomed. “Excellent! Then we will have a play. Good thing, too, since my troupe arrives in the village first thing tomorrow.”

***

Titania did not stay past dinner. Pembroke offered to walk her to the front door. He stood close to her in the entrance hall, and Arabella found herself listening from the drawing room to all they said.

“Will you not stay?” Pembroke asked.

Titania waved one hand, but she spoke quietly. “No, indeed. One woman in the house is enough.”

He did not answer that, so she went on. “I am perfectly comfortable at the inn.”

A silence fell, and Arabella stepped to the door and peered out. Pembroke was kissing Titania, his lips lingering over hers as if to drink her in. Arabella made a concerted effort to turn back, to look away, but she could not seem to take her eyes off Pembroke and his mistress. It was Titania who drew back and who sauntered calmly to the front door, leaving her lover behind.

“Good night, Pembroke. See to your guest.”

The door closed behind her, and Codington bowed himself out of the entrance hall as if he had seen and heard nothing. Arabella wondered how good servants learned that cool air of detachment and if Codington might be so kind as to teach it to her.

Arabella turned away from Pembroke and his entrance hall and went back into the drawing room. A few candles were lit, but clearly the staff expected them to go to bed early. It had been a long day, and she was sick at heart, but she knew that if she retired after watching Pembroke kiss his mistress, she would not sleep.

Brandy and two glasses had been set out on the sideboard. Arabella crossed the room and poured herself three fingers, as she had seen Pembroke do.

The scent of the brandy was harsh in her nostrils as she sniffed at it. She had never cared for the smell and cared for the taste even less. Still, she tipped the glass back and downed it.

“Arabella!”

Pembroke crossed the room in three strides, taking the now empty glass away from her. The heat of the brandy burned like fire in her throat and created a roiling mass of heat in her stomach, lingering with the remains of her dinner.

Arabella took a deep breath, determined not to be sick. She moved the French doors, pushing them open so that she could feel the cool night air on her face. She had not choked on the brandy, though she had wanted to. As she drank, she had not been able to draw enough breath to choke. As she felt an alcoholic languor coming to claim her, she laughed, taking in the scent of roses from the garden beyond.

Now that she had her breath back, Arabella also found her voice. “Will you drink with me, my lord?”

“No, Arabella, I will not.”

She turned to face him, the breeze from the garden at her back, moving the silk skirts of her gown against her legs.

“I do not recall giving you leave to use my given name.”

“I am your only friend in the world. I will call you anything I wish.”

“Not harlot,” she said. “Not mistress.”

There was a long silence that seemed to twine itself around them, stuffing itself down their throats. Arabella wished for another glass of brandy. The drink had freed her tongue and had made her limbs heavy, but it had not touched her heart. Her heart was still broken. Perhaps that was why Pembroke had stayed drunk for so many years. Drink did not alleviate pain but simply made it bearable.

“You saw me kiss her,” Pembroke said.

“Yes. Not that it matters to me.”

“Of course it matters. It was rude of me and callous. I apologize, Arabella.”

“You owe me nothing.”

She closed her eyes as if to blot out the words they had spoken as well as the sight of him. As she listened, he crossed the room until he was standing directly in front of her. The warmth of his body surrounded her. When she opened her eyes, he stood less than a foot away.

“I’ll go to my father’s and find his money,” she said. “I’ll be gone soon after, and you need never see me again.”

“But what if I want to see you again?”

“That would not be a good idea,” she said, her voice harsh in her own ears, like the voice of someone else.

“Do you hate me then?” he asked.

“I hate myself.”

“We have that in common.”

She laughed, and she heard her own pain in it. “You hate me, too?”

“No,” he answered. “Self-loathing has been my only companion for years.”

“And Anthony Carrington,” she quipped.

He did not rise to the bait but nodded. “Yes. Except for Anthony. And now for you.”

“You have your mistresses to keep you company.”

“One woman is much the same as the next.”

Arabella wanted to make some clever retort, but her wit failed her.

“All women are alike, but for you,” Pembroke said.

“I’m the one you never had.”

“The one I loved once.”

The finality of the word
once
was what undid her. She began to slip down against the French door, as if her knees could no longer hold her up. She had the good sense to slide into a Queen Anne chair that stood to one side of the garden doors. The soft cushion seemed to buoy her up, even as the hard back of the chair dug into her spine, reminding her that she had a backbone and that it was her choice whether she would use it.

With the death of her husband, her world had changed. With the Duke of Hawthorne chasing her out of London, she had been swept into another world. She had grown up under the harsh reign of her father and had languished in silence for ten years beneath the boot of her husband. But neither man had ever threatened her life. The duke had threatened her very existence, and nothing would ever be the same.

As she sat in Pembroke’s drawing room, Arabella began to wonder if the path she was on was not a disaster. Here in this place, beyond any future she had ever imagined, she saw for the first time how much she hated her life. That quiet life of desperation, taking whatever scraps were offered, was gone forever. If she chose, she could build a new one.

The brandy had given her another gift, the ability to face her life as her own responsibility. She could no longer look to her father, her husband, or even to Pembroke to give it shape. She would shape it herself.