"Please forgive me." There was a smile upon his lips that told her that he understood she was flustered. And told her as well that he enjoyed having caused her discomposure.
She said crossly, "I cannot do the balcony scene without a proper balcony. We shall practice the opening scene again. I will not be so distracted then."
Obediently, everyone gathered for their parts. She instructed them where to stand, how to move, when to exit. For a moment she thought of him only as a performer, hers to command.
But she had forgotten how he looked at her — even though she was out of the scene, offstage — when Lord Crabsley, playing a somewhat dyspeptic Benvolio, tells the lovestruck Romeo that his fair Rosaline is not as incomparable as he imagines her to be. Looked directly at her and recited his lines of faithfulness to the fair Rosaline, even though Romeo was destined to desert his passion for Rosaline and fall fatally in love with Juliet in the next scene.
This time, she turned her head and whispered directions to the stableboy, who had been borrowed to keep the players supplied with food and drink and run to fetch the players as needed so that none would become bored with the endless hours of practice. He ran off, and she watched his wiry little body until he disappeared around a hedge and she was forced to look back at the players.
Too soon it was time to bring Juliet onstage. And too soon it was time to allow Shakespeare's young lovers to meet. To become the young woman meeting the young man who would change her life forevermore. She would have halted practice yet again, but she feared he would take it as a personal triumph. Blast the man for not simply refusing the part, as he should have done.
"Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!"
The line, as he recited it, made her grit her teeth. Though he portrayed a hot-blooded youth, she heard the cynical overtones of the true Mr. Hopkins in his recitation of the words. He was mocking her.
Despite her sense of cowardice, she was set to halt rehearsal again. Perhaps even for the day. And then, suddenly, he was a young man in love again, whispering words of love such as no woman ever heard before. His eyes were soft; his lips were soft. Soft enough to kiss. And the words didn't even matter, because he spoke with his eyes. She shook herself back to awareness as he finished his speech.
It was time for her line. "Good pilgrim ... " She knew her Juliet was stiff; she was more careful than she had ever been. Her smile wider, more false. Her gaze more moon-eyed than that of a cow. She tried to step outside of herself and see her as she wished the audience to see her. But she could not seem to do so. Not with his eyes upon her as she spoke her lines and moved upon the stage.
Why did he have to be such a passionate performer?
Where did the cold, controlled Mr. Hopkins disappear to when he took the stage to play the young and hot blooded Romeo? Juliet found herself responding to him — and that, she knew, would be wrong. It was one thing to make Pendrake jealous enough to do the right thing. But to have her affections for him divided — it was simply not done.
He said softly to her as they danced in what the studious dance master had assured them was a historically accurate medieval Italian dance, "Can you not pretend to be pleased by your Romeo?"
"Are you criticizing my performance, Mr. Hopkins'?" She stumbled over a step, which gave her next words less effect. "I remind you, I have participated in dozens of plays and no one has ever faulted my performance before."
Smoothly, he compensated for her misstep. "Perhaps all you know are the false young women of your society, Miss Fenster. But Juliet is not false. She is young. She is passionate. She understands love in a way you never will."
"I have seen great actresses upon the stage play the role just as I am, sir," she lied. It was his fault she could not play the role properly. There would be a true scandal if she were to respond to him as the bard's Juliet had responded to her own Romeo. "How dare you criticize my passion."
"I have seen fish hanging in the market with more passion than you, my fair Juliet." His whisper was inaudible to all but her. But as he spoke, he lifted her hand as if to kiss it, and his breath touched her skin in a warm caress.
* * * * *
How was she to survive this? She had not meant to arrange things so intolerably. She had meant to make him a friend. To find out where Pendrake's heart truly was. A simple endeavor, no harm done.
And now, after three days of rehearsal, fickle, just as he accused her, she found she no longer cared a whit about Pendrake's heart. All she could see when she closed her eyes were Mr. Hopkins lips and the passion in his eyes when he played Romeo Montague on her makeshift stage.
And what had precipitated her change of heart? One brush of his lips — a brush that was yet a promise to be kept on the night of the performance. Somehow she became a mindless thing when he looked at her through the eyes of Romeo. She became, much to her chagrin, his to command.
Rehearsal continued on with no one the wiser, so far. She had to regain a measure of control over her own emotions. They had not yet practiced the balcony scene full through. She had avoided it, she admitted to herself. She was afraid.
Afraid that he would see how her feelings had changed, that he would laugh to see her heart in her eyes. She struggled to keep control of her performance, but she courted failure.
Just now she had barely been able to restrain herself from completing the kiss before the performance commanded it. Was that a gleam of comprehension in his eye? Would he kiss her in front of everyone? No. He did not. But there was extra heat as he recited his lines.
She must find a way to play her part and conceal the truth from him as well. She must make herself whisper the words of love and of longing with all the passion of a young Juliet. And she would. But not until the night of the performance.
Then she would play with such passion that she would set him afire. Would he be able to feel how much she wished she could touch him? How much she wished their little play could be done as it would be onstage, with lips touching lips rather than brushing the air a hairbreadth apart? She would deny it if he dared accuse her.
What if he did not accuse her? What if he simply faced her with the knowledge shining in his eyes? Would he laugh at her longings? Could he share them? No, she would not allow her thoughts to wander that path.
Sometimes she thought he did share her feelings when she looked into his eyes and heard Shakespeare's words in his resonant voice. At other times, she hoped not. Because his dislike of her was all that kept her from closing the gap between their lips and stealing a kiss. And what scandal if she slipped and allowed her lips to touch his?
Juliet had fought such feelings before. For some reason, she seemed to be unduly attracted to men. Sometimes it would be the way a man's eyes followed her. Or a dimple in a chin that produced butterflies in her stomach. Or even the shape of a man's hands, that brought a flush to her skin.
Aware of the consequences, she had never given in to the compulsions that boiled within her — at least not to more than a kiss or two. This time her attraction was suffocatingly strong. Even when he glared at her buttons, she wanted only to run her fingers along his jaw and up under the hair at the back of his neck. It would be soft; she was so sure of it, she could almost imagine that she had touched him there.
She did not like this at all. To gaze into his eyes, to utter words of love should not feel so real, so true. There was only one solution: she must continue to behave in so vile a manner that he would not know how she truly felt toward him. There was no other way for her to maintain her dignity. Her composure. How could he make her wish to throw both dignity and composure to the wind with a few words, a long glance? What fatal flaw had she been born with that made her vulnerable to a man like R.J. Hopkins?
She realized that all stood quiet, watching her. The scene had come to an end while she was deep in her own thoughts.
"Let's take a break." She pointed to the picnic being brought out by the duke's servants. "I think we all deserve a good meal." Everyone cheered. Everyone but R.J. Hopkins.
As she watched the many couples courting under the watchful eyes of their mamas, she wondered what was wrong with her. Why did she always find herself attracted to the wrong type of man, one who could never truly satisfy the needs of her heart?
No answer came to her on that often-asked question. But at least she had one answer on another matter — ironically from the play itself. She and Pendrake were not destined to be together. If they had been, no man on earth could have turned her head, especially not the dry bones Mr. Hopkins.
R.J. approached her cautiously. The rigid way she held herself as she gazed with unfocused eyes over the picnickers suggested that her thoughts were not all pleasant. He did not want her to snap at him as she had been wont to do more and more as the days of work on the play had progressed.
"Rehearsals are going well, Miss Fenster," he said, hoping to ease the frustration that he could sense boiling within her.
"Despite my lack of abilities, you mean, Mr. Hopkins'?" She did not turn to look at him.
"I think we would be wise to rehearse the balcony scenes after the picnic." He dreaded the idea of having to look into her eyes and speak those words of love. But he dreaded more having to do so for the first time on the night of the performance. The way rehearsals had been going, he was afraid that he would.
"No." She did not turn toward him to meet his eyes as she spoke. "I believe the day's work is done for us."
The day's work done? Did she not comprehend how much more work was needed? "We have not yet — "
"Tomorrow, Mr. Hopkins." She turned then. He could see she had no intention of being reasonable. "We shall do it then."
"Those scenes are critical to the success of the play." Critical for Romeo and Juliet, who would spend most of their time onstage during those scenes.
"And so they are. But they will wait for tomorrow all the same."
"Miss Fenster — "
She held up her hand to stop him. He sensed that she wanted nothing more than to turn and run from him, but she said coldly, "Mr. Hopkins. This is my play. But this is also my sister and brother-in-law's gathering. Their guests must not be worked like dray horses."
"Here, here!" One of the young men who seemed to gather around her like bees on a flower came up to her carrying a drink and a plate just in time to hear her last words. He handed the plate and cup to Miss Fenster and said, "Life is meant to be savored, don't you think?"
She smiled at the boy as if he had brought her gold and jewels instead of a few slices of apple and cheese.
"We must be understanding, Lord Ellsworthy. After all, Mr. Hopkins is all American and does not believe in enjoying life."
They laughed at him. He might have been more infuriated, but he was still marveling over the amazing transformation she had undergone, from the tense woman lost in thought to the flirtatious girl who teased with Ellsworthy.
"May I escort you down to enjoy the picnic, Miss Fenster?" Ellsworthy brandished one of the wooden swords Rosaline had made for the play. "I assure you I can keep you safe on the journey."
She took his arm with a laugh.
R.J. said again, "The play, Miss Fenster?"
She gave him a playful smile, but there was no amusement in her eyes. "Tomorrow, Mr. Hopkins." He watched as Ellsworthy led her to a seat in the shade of the garden, where she was promptly surrounded by admirers. Not for one moment did he believe that the guests' comfort was behind her refusal.
What reason could she have to avoid rehearsing the balcony scenes? They had very little time before they must perform for their audience. Did she want him to make a fool of himself? Absurd, for that would only make her look ridiculous, since she would be on the stage with him.
He could think of no other reason for her to behave so irresponsibly. But there must be one. Could it be that she disliked him too much to say words of love to him? Certainly in the scenes they had rehearsed she had been wooden, almost perfunctory, in her performance.
He could not say the same for himself. He had thrown himself into the role with surprisingly good results. He had been complimented by the other players. At times, he was almost glad that he had accepted the role. Had his unsuspected ability as a lovestruck Romeo made her jealous?
Still, he had underestimated the torture that rehearsals would be. The role compelled him to make love to her as Romeo did to Juliet. That he had found surprisingly easy. It was not difficult to tell her she was incomparably beautiful and mean it.
Somehow, despite all their earlier encounters, he had managed to miss the smooth silk texture of her skin. The incredible shape of her ears. The curve of her jaw and the sweet dip in her collarbone at the base of her slender neck.
Now, forced to spend his time close enough to kiss her, he noticed far more than he should. If he had to endure too much more of this, he would be as mad as his father feared he might become left to his own emotions.
His gaze sought and found her down in the garden, laughing at some witty remark or other. Two of her admirers leaped to their feet as she laughed and engaged in a mock sword fight with their wooden weapons.
He sighed. Unfortunately, he had also been forced to watch her flirt with an army of young men wielding swords in such a dangerous way, he was relieved they were only harmless wood. At least that way no one would die on the night of the performance.
Soon it would all end. The play. The visit. Perhaps even Annabel's hopes for Susannah's titled marriage if his sister continued to put off Blessingham. The day after tomorrow they would leave the dust of this place behind them. R.J. would do so gladly.
But first the play must go on. From a corner protected from the last-minute rush of getting the stage ready for their performance, R.J. watched Juliet act the general.
She was good at it, he reflected in surprise. To look at her, at the casual way she seemed to respond to responsibility, one would not guess she could organize a drawer of cravats, never mind the performance of a play. Of course, she did have help. Her younger sisters made excellent men-at-arms.