Spellbound (4 page)

“My love, this is my clerk,
Mr. Harold Muffton. Muff, this is my fiancée, Lady Rachael
Eliot.”

Raven’s heart rate
increased at the casual endearment, something that had never
occurred before.

“D-dunston’s lost
d-daughter?” asked Mr. Muffton in surprise, showing his superior
knowledge of Debrett’s Peerage. “I was n-not aware you had been
f-found.” His tone was suspicious.

“I think I allow you too
much license if you feel comfortable enough to make that
impertinent observation to a guest of mine,” the duke said
casually. His look was anything but casual, however, and the clerk
flushed slightly.

He bowed to Raven. “I beg
your p-pardon if I s-seemed…d-disbelieving just n-now,” he
stuttered apologetically. “I am v-very interested in that
p-particular family and I had no p-prior knowledge of
your…e-existence.”

“It’s quite all right, Mr.
Muffton,” she responded quickly. “I am still a little disbelieving
myself.”

“Give us a moment, will
you, Muff,” requested the duke. “I’d like to show Rae around
without someone peering over our shoulders.” The way Tristan called
her Rae caused a tremulous skitter in her breast.

She reflected that the duke
was a trifle callous in regard to the clerk but the little man
seemed to see nothing unusual in his treatment. He bowed and
departed the room, closing the double doors silently after
him.

“Now, tell me what you
really think,” demanded Tristan. His pale green eyes were alight
with excitement. She could hardly believe the
transformation.

“Like I said, it is very
beautiful.”

He dismissed her opinion
with a wave of his elegant hand. “Beautiful does not do it justice,
Rae, and you know it.”

“You are right, of course,
your grace,” she said seriously, a laugh in her voice and dark
eyes. “It is magnificent, stunning, breathtaking, gorgeous,
brilliant, picturesque, artistic—” She paused, her eyes twinkling.
“Pulchritudinous?”

He laughed. “Very good. I’m
impressed,” he said when he could.

“Intense, rich, deep,
poetic, symphonic, harmonious, prismatic,” she said
facetiously.

He laughed
harder.

“Unequal to anything
created by God or man,” she added for good measure.

“Stop, please,” he begged,
his voice shaking with laughter. “I deserved that since I only
asked to satisfy my own vanity.”

Raven sobered suddenly.
“Whyever would you need to do that?” she asked in wonder, studying
his handsome face.

He stopped laughing, a
closed expression taking over. “Let me show you my prize
collection.”

Raven wanted very badly to
pursue the topic but she wisely refrained from badgering him about
it. So she smiled and followed him to the wrought iron stairs that
stood to the right side of the doors they’d entered. A matching set
stood on the left side, leading to the balcony on that side of the
room.

Tristan walked along the
balcony to the farthest end of the room. Once there, he reached for
a book, pulling it away from the shelf upon which it sat. A catch
released and Raven heard the whir of a clockwork mechanism. Part of
the shelving moved away to reveal a secret room.

The duke smiled, the look
of boyish excitement returning to his face. “Come on,” he urged,
practically dragging her into the room.

Now, Raven was an actress,
and very much a product of her environment. She had read
extensively in her quest to be the best in her field and had a
great store of knowledge about villains, Gothic happenings, and
secret rooms. She held back slightly, a vision of her dead body
being found decades later jumping into her mind’s eye.

Tristan stopped, glaring
down at her. “Whatever is the matter?” he asked curtly.

A look of uncertainty
hovered in his eyes and it was this that made her see what a goose
she was being. She smiled. “I am sorry. I was overcome with a case
of nerves,” she told him.

One pale brow quirked.
“Indeed? Does this happen often?”

“Not often.”

“Considering your calling,
that is good,” he remarked with a small grin.

“A little fright on stage
is good,” Raven told him, entering the small chamber. She looked
around with interest.

“How so?” he asked, sitting
down on the edge of the table that dominated the floor. He set to
work lighting a branch of candles since the one window let in very
little light.

Raven stared at that window
and wondered where it was at from the outside. She determined she
would go out one day just to find out.

“If one is nervous, one
will not fall victim to over-confidence,” she said in reply to his
query. She moved over to the window, drawing back the drapes
slightly. It was little more than an arrow slit like the ones found
in medieval castles. It looked down on the lake that Meg had
mentioned just that morning.

“Do you ice-skate here?”
she asked suddenly, turning to look at the duke.

She surprised a look of
fear in his pale eyes. Her eyes widened slightly at his expression
but it quickly disappeared and she was convinced it had been a
trick of the light.

“Not very often. Some of
the servants will go on their free days.” He shrugged. “Freya’s
been known to go sometimes.”

Raven studied his feigned
air of indifference and made a mental note to ponder this latest
mysterious aspect of his personality later. Glancing around, she
noted all the books in this room were very old and appeared to be
old playbooks.

She gave him a questioning
look. “Do I detect a fan of the stage in you, my lord?”

“You do, Rae, you do,” he
admitted. “Much as I am ashamed to admit it, I have long wanted to
tread the boards.”

“Indeed? I can perhaps make
that dream come true, you know.”

A thoughtful expression
came into his eyes. “I am tempted, my dear, I really am.” He
released a resigned sigh. “It would not answer, however. I have far
too many responsibilities here to just abandon them to my brother.
He is too involved with his own pleasures to take up the reins of
the duchy.”

Raven noticed the hint of
anger underlying his careless words and wondered at it. She ignored
it for the moment, becoming a trifle annoyed by all the mysteries
this enigmatic man represented.

“You seem to have every
play Shakespeare ever wrote,” she remarked, effectively changing
the subject. “Which is your favorite?”

Tristan’s green eyes rested
on her face, his expression carefully blank. “Romeo and Juliet,” he
replied without hesitation.

Raven wondered how he
managed to make her feel flustered and unsure of herself with a
mere look, and an innocent one at that.

But was his reply so very
innocent? Anyone who was anyone knew of her epic performance as
Juliet. It was said in every newspaper that no one could portray
new love and tragic separation better than she could. And every
time the Theatre Royal decided to show the bard’s best-known
tragedy, there was never an empty seat in the house.

The Duke of Windhaven,
although practically a recluse, would have knowledge of this.
Especially as he was such a fan of the stage. He would have kept
careful account of her activities, as well as those of her fellow
actors and those famous before her time. She wondered if he was
playing with her by saying Romeo and Juliet was his favorite. Her
eyes narrowed a fraction.

Fascinated by the play of
emotion on her normally expressionless face, Tristan saw the
instant she thought he lied. For what purpose, he could only
imagine.

“Rae, I can tell you don’t
believe me,” he said softly. “But I assure you, even before I saw
your performance, Romeo and Juliet was ever the best in my
mind.”

Her face relaxed into its
normal easygoing lines. She turned about, offering him a good view
of her back, and scanned the shelves that lined the walls. Having
found something that interested her, she strode forward and gently
removed a newer playbook that was nevertheless worn through
use.

“The Marriage of Figaro,”
she read. “I love this play. And this is an original
playbook?”

Tristan rose to his feet
and stood next to and a little behind her, looking over her
shoulder. “Open it,” he commanded gently. She obeyed silently,
opening to a random page. He pointed to one page, indicating notes
written along the edge. “Beaumarchais’s hand. This is from the very
first time it was performed in Paris. See, it’s in
French.”

Raven smiled and returned
it to the shelf. She selected another book from another section and
stared down at it. A shiver raced down her spine. It was a very,
very old copy of Macbeth, a play that had always given her an
uneasy feeling. She had actually played Lady Macbeth once and
secretly hated it. That feeling must have come through in her
performance since the play only lasted for a week with her in it.
After that, her understudy, a promising girl of ruthless character
and rather harsh features, played the role and successfully made
her mark in the world of theater.

The book was replaced and
she selected another. This time it was a fairly recent edition of
Othello. She smiled up at the duke, who stood watching her
impassively. “I have always wanted to play Desdemona but I never
did have the opportunity. I guess it’s too late now.”

“We could perform it here,
for the family, if you want,” he suggested.

“Is that wise?” she
replied. “What if someone realizes I am more of an actress than a
lady?”

“You, my dear, are more of
a lady than you think,” he said blandly. Then he shrugged
carelessly. “If you’d rather not, it doesn’t matter to me. I merely
put it out there as a suggestion. It is winter after all and a
little entertainment would not come amiss, I think.”

She could see his reasoning
on this. “I’ll think about it, Tristan.”

“You know, I rather like it
when you call me that,” he commented suddenly. He stared at her
face until she lowered her eyes, blushing like a
schoolgirl.

She could think of no reply
to this that wouldn’t sound completely ridiculous and so she
remained silent. He seemed to take pity on her, however.

“Come, I have something
else to show you.” He walked over to a shelf lined with research
books about well-known playwrights. Moving aside a huge tome, he
released yet another spring catch. This time, the back of the shelf
where the large book had sat slid up. Tristan stuck his hand into
the dark recess beyond and pulled something out. Silently, he
handed his prize to Raven.

She stared it in disbelief.
“Another copy of Othello?” She met his intense gaze. “Is this from
the first folio?” Her voice sounded breathless, excited, completely
unlike herself.

“Actually, no.”

“Oh. I know someone who has
seen a copy of the first quarto edition. He said the stage
directions were more detailed in that copy. This has the appearance
of the folio edition.”

Tristan frowned. Her
mention of another man annoyed him. “That is a second quarto
edition. It was printed from the folio.”

“That explains the
likenesses,” she murmured thoughtfully, missing his look and tone
of annoyance. She handed it back to him, being careful to handle it
delicately. He returned it to the secret compartment without a
word.

“Your home is full of
secrets, isn’t it?” she said conversationally.

“You have no idea,” he
remarked dryly.

Raven walked away, allowing
him to reset the catch in the wall. Striding around the small room,
she gazed at the shelves, looking for something to distract her.
Seeing something of interest, she reached up for it but it was on
the top shelf, just beyond her reach—which was quite a distance as
she was well over five and a half feet tall.

“Allow me,” Tristan said
from behind her. He stretched his hand toward the playbook she
wanted, retrieved it and placed it in her hand.

“Thank you,” she said. She
opened the book. The title seemed to jump out at her. Romeo and
Juliet. How had she known?

Her hand trembled slightly
as she leafed through the worn book. She dare not look up at her
silent companion for fear her look would reveal how shaken she
was.

She was about to become
even more shaken. Tristan plucked the book from her hands, saying
casually, “You have this suitably memorized, I think.” He opened it
to a random page, reading the lines in the glow provided by the
candles on the table. Then, setting it aside, he took her hand in a
gentle clasp that threatened to undo her carefully cultivated
composure.

“‘
If I profane with my
unworthiest hand,’” he quoted in a tone that made her breath catch
in her throat, “This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My
lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough
touch with a tender kiss.’” He suited action to words, bringing her
hand to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers.

“‘
Good pilgrim, you do
wrong your hand too much,’”—the words seemed to tumble breathlessly
from her mouth of their own accord—“‘Which mannerly devotion shows
in this; / For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, /
And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.’”