One Perfect Rose (12 page)

Day Sixty-two

Stephen didn't recognize impending disaster until the eleventh hour. The troupe was on the way to stage the private performance that Rosalind had mentioned. Most of the players were in the carriages and lead wagon, while Stephen followed, driving the wagon that contained the costumes and sets.

The horses were nothing like his own highbred teams, which meant he could pay attention to his passenger. Rosalind had tossed her bonnet into the wagon and rode bareheaded, her face and hair full of sunlight. The warmth of her autumn-colored tresses made him realize that the first nip of autumn was also in the air. Time was passing by.

Preferring to forget that, he asked idly, “By the way, where are we going?”

“Bourne Castle, the seat of the Duke of Candover. I'm surprised that you haven't heard Papa mention it. He's immensely proud of the fact that for the last four years we've performed there at the duke's personal request.”

Bourne Castle? Christ have mercy! Stephen's hands tensed involuntarily, and the horses whinnied in complaint. Automatically he loosened the reins, hoping Rosalind hadn't noticed his shock.

Rafe Whitbourne, the Duke of Candover, was one of Michael's closest friends, and he and Stephen had known each other for years. Certainly they were well enough acquainted that Candover would recognize his fellow duke instantly. Stephen felt a powerful urge to hand the reins to Rosalind and bolt.

For weeks he had been traveling with the Fitzgeralds in a magical world that was completely separate from his normal life. Now those worlds were about to collide. He might be able to escape detection if he were working behind the scenes, but tonight he was to play the Duke of Athens again. He and Rosalind would be the first people to step onto the damned stage. There was no way he could avoid identification.

Keeping his voice rigorously even, he asked, “Is the performance just for the duke's household?”

“Oh, no. It's quite a grand occasion,” she said serenely. Aloysius was traveling on their wagon, and he chose this moment to push his head between them. She stroked the dog's shaggy head. “The duke and duchess invite all the gentry for miles around. Before the performance they feed everyone dinner, and even send the same dishes to us humble players. Excellent food and an appreciative audience. It's the high point of our annual tour.”

Wonderful. Stephen would know half the people there. He was probably godfather to some of their children. Dourly he asked, “How did this event begin?”

“The duke and some of his grand friends came to see us perform in Whitcombe. I suspect they came to scoff, but they stayed to admire. It was
The Tempest
that night.” She smiled reminiscently. “Afterward Candover came backstage—he's
very
handsome—flirted elegantly with every lady in the troupe, including old Nan, and asked if we were available for a private performance in his outdoor theater.”

“Naturally, the answer was yes,” Stephen said hollowly. It wasn't too late to run, but he couldn't, not when the company was already shorthanded. Leaving Thomas without a Theseus would be unconscionable.

“Hold on,” he warned as he maneuvered the wagon around a massive rut, wondering why the thought of discovery was so upsetting. After all, he was the Duke of Ashburton and could do pretty well what he pleased. People might laugh at his eccentric behavior, or they might scoff, but it certainly wouldn't be to his face.

Was he ashamed of performing onstage? Not at all. He was proud of his modest skill, and he greatly enjoyed being part of an ensemble.

Then why was he concerned?

The problem, he realized, lay in that collision of worlds. The last weeks had been a special time—a secret pleasure that would help sustain him in the difficult months ahead. Having his adventure become common knowledge among his peers would tarnish what had been rare and wonderful.

Worse, the vulgar would assume that he was sleeping with one or more of the actresses. He could not bear for Rosalind and her family to be demeaned by ignorant gossips. But how the devil could he avoid being recognized?

A possibility occurred to him. “I've been thinking that I'd like to play Theseus with a wig and beard, so I'd look less modern. That can be arranged, can't it?”

“Yes, but why would you want to wear a beard?” she said with surprise. “They itch—I've worn them myself when playing a man. And they cover so much of the face that it's hard to project emotion.”

He gave her a slanting glance. “The first time I played this part, you said yourself that all I had to do was convey authority, and love for my intended bride.”

“And you can convey authority even with a sack over your head,” she said with a laugh. “Very well, indulge yourself with some false whiskers.”

He relaxed a little. With a disguise and some alteration of his voice, he should be able to escape unscathed. It wasn't as if anyone would expect the Duke of Ashburton to be part of a traveling theater troupe.

The lead vehicles were turning between a pair of towering gateposts. After Stephen followed, Rosalind said, “Look. Isn't it wildly romantic?”

Towered and turreted and crowning a hill, Bourne Castle was indeed dramatic, though Stephen thought Ashburton Abbey more beautiful. As they started up the long drive, he pulled his hat down on his face and slouched lower in his seat. Luckily several weeks of living out of a pair of saddlebags had removed most of his aristocratic polish.

Their route took them past the sprawling stables. Behind were parked a dozen magnificent carriages, many with noble crests on the doors. Rosalind gestured toward the vehicles. “Splendid, aren't they?” She gave Stephen a teasing glance. “Though I suspect that for you, there is nothing special about such a sight.”

She was right; he had not thought twice about the collection of expensive equipages. “Do you ever wish that you had that kind of wealth?” he asked seriously. “Gowns and jewels and carriages at your command?”

She looked surprised. “Not particularly. I already have all of life's necessities, a few luxuries, good health, and wonderful family and friends. I don't need more baubles.” Her thoughtful gaze went to the castle. “Oh, I wouldn't mind having a nice house, but wealth doesn't make for happiness, and I suspect such riches carry many burdens.”

Her words struck to his heart. Comfort, health, warm companionship. When all was said and done, what else was there? Riches, titles, and power were just another form of bauble. Quietly he said, “You're a wise woman, Rosalind.”

As he steered his wagon to the left, they passed a second row of carriages parked behind the first. His gaze went over them. The one on the end had a crest that looked familiar. Where…?

Oh, God. He almost groaned aloud. It was the Herrington crest—and his older sister, Claudia, was Countess of Herrington. She and her husband were probably staying in the area with friends, and naturally such distinguished visitors would be invited to the evening's entertainment.

If he made a list of those he wanted to hide from, Claudia's name would be at the top. They had always gotten on well, but she had very firm ideas about the natural order of things. If she discovered that her noble brother was larking about on a stage, she'd give him holy hell. Once more he considered flight.

But the troupe needed him. From what Rosalind said, tonight's performance was very important to her family, especially her father. Leaving them in the lurch would be a wretched return for their generosity.

It was going to be a long, tense evening. As Stephen pulled to a stop beside the other troupe wagons, he uttered a brief prayer to Hermes, the Greek god of tricksters.

He would welcome help from anywhere he could get it.

 

Jessica carefully pressed down the left edge of the false beard, then stepped back. “What do you think, Rose?”

Rosalind studied their victim, then nodded. “He'll do very well.”

Stephen said dryly, “Will I be permitted to see my own face?”

Rosalind gave him a wicked smile. “With that thicket in place, you won't see your own face even with a mirror.”

Jessica's dark brows drew together. “I think he looks quite impressive. Like one of the medieval kings. An Edward, perhaps.”

Unwilling to wait while the sisters decided exactly which king he resembled most, Stephen took a hand mirror from the makeup chest and surveyed their handiwork. Then he gave a sigh of relief. They'd given him a long, dark wig that fell to his shoulders in masculine waves, with a luxuriant matching beard. No one would think the hairy accessories were really his, but his appearance was effectively disguised, and that was what mattered. “I think I look more like an Old Testament prophet. One who's been in the desert a bit too long.”

Rosalind laughed as she lifted the Duke of Athens's royal diadem—an iron circlet with cheap gilding—and placed it on Stephen's flowing locks. “I have to admit that your idea was a good one. You positively reek with royal authority.”

“That's not authority, that's the lavender sachets used to keep moths out of the hairpieces,” Jessica said irrepressibly, sliding away with a laugh before her sister could swat her with a blond braid from the costume chest.

Stephen stood and straightened his purple robes. Rosalind had been right about the beard; it itched. “It must be almost time to begin.”

Costumed as Oberon, Thomas Fitzgerald rushed by. He was in his element, bustling around and giving sometimes contradictory orders. Luckily Rosalind had done her usual fine job of organizing, so sets, actors, and costumes were in good order. Even the weather had cooperated.

The greenroom and dressing rooms were actually underneath the amphitheater. Stephen went to a small window and peered out. Shaped like three-quarters of a circle, the theater was set into the hillside, with the stage at the bottom and concentric circles of seating rising at a steep angle so that everyone in the audience would have a clear view. Huge old trees loomed behind the stage, literally within touching distance of the actors. That was one reason why
A Midsummer Night's Dream
had been chosen—the trees could be used as part of the set.

Earlier Stephen had helped the stage crew string ropes from the trees. When the company had done a quick walk-through of the play to adjust their movements to the stage, all of the actors playing fairies had swung merrily about. Stephen had cringed when Rosalind sailed down to the stage on a rope, but she'd had a wonderful time. Even Maria, in her role of Titania, had joined in the fun.

Now dusk was falling, converting the stage and the towering trees into the mysterious forest of Shakespeare's imagination. A nightingale caroled plaintively in the woods as the human guests gathered for the performance. Beautifully gowned women and elegant men drifted through the twilight, laughing and talking as they chose seats. Stephen looked for his sister but couldn't see her from his limited view. With luck, she had a headache and had decided to skip the play.

He didn't expect to be so lucky.

Then he smelled roses, and an instant later Rosalind joined him at the window. She was lovely in the regal robes of the Queen of Amazons, her hair swept up and secured beneath a golden diadem. Her stage makeup emphasized the fullness of her lips, and her darkened lashes were seductively long. She looked ripe and luscious and utterly desirable.

He wanted to draw her into an embrace, but reason prevailed. He settled for sliding his left arm under her mantle and around her warm, supple waist, knowing that her garment would conceal the gesture from the others in the greenroom.

Their bodies came together from the curve of her hip to the softness of one breast. His blood began pulsing through his veins in quick, hard beats. He opened his left hand and caressed her midriff, moving his palm in slow, sensual circles as he murmured, “Are you ready for our coming nuptials, my Hippolyta?”

She looked up, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire as she said huskily, “Yes, my dearest duke. I'm ready.” Ever so slightly she rubbed against him.

Heat blazed through him. For an instant he let his imagination run riot. They were an immortal king and queen, lovers safely caught in the words of a play where they and their passion would never die. He would woo her with wine and roses, and they would mate in the enchanted forest, forever young and strong.

Then his stomach gave a familiar twinge of pain, pulling him back to reality. Damnation, he was like a moth flying too close to the flame of Rosalind's bewitching loveliness. Why was he torturing them both this way?

Because the pain of unrequited desire was far sweeter than the cold comfort of logic. Nonetheless, he dropped his arm and moved a step away. “Have you done
As You Like It
here? This amphitheater would be perfect for the Forest of Arden.”

She went completely still at the abrupt shift from sensuality to mundane reality. After a moment she said, “Just last year. I played my namesake, Rosalind.”

He would have liked to see that. Her tall, splendid figure was ideal for a breeches part. There were a thousand ways he would like to see her—most of all between satin sheets clothed only in her glorious tawny hair.

He almost leaned forward to kiss the elegant ear partially revealed by her upswept hair. Instead he looked outside again and saw the Duke and Duchess of Candover crossing the stage and headed directly toward him.

His heart seemed to jump straight up in the air. Reminding himself that they couldn't possibly know of his presence, he said in a slightly constricted voice, “Are these our employers coming toward the greenroom? They look ducal.”

“The duke and duchess always come in person to welcome the company and see if we're ready to begin,” Rosalind explained. “Isn't she beautiful? They've been married several years, and they still act as if they're on their honeymoon.”