She dared not look at him. It was all she could do to accept the congratulations from the audience — including Pendrake and Elizabeth, who suddenly looked so right together that Juliet was tempted to let the tears that pressed behind her eyes fall. After all, she could claim they were tears of joy. No one would ever know her heart was breaking.
Was there never to be a man who would love her? Who would be devoted to her and her alone? Was R.J. Hopkins right? Was she too fickle, too full of easily spilled and lost passion, to ever deserve the devotion of another heart?
And what did it matter, anyhow? The only heart she seemed to wish anymore, the only regard, was that of Mr. Hopkins. And there was no possibility that she would ever win that.
She could just imagine what he would say if she were to confess her feelings. No doubt he would remind her that she had felt just the same way about Pendrake not weeks earlier. And he would be utterly right.
Except ... except this did not feel the same. This ache, this depth of longing, was more than she had ever known. But would it last, or would she find that she was indeed truly as fickle as he accused her of being?
She must explain about the kiss before he took it into his head to believe the worst. She took him aside and said softly, "I do apologize."
"Apologize?" A remnant of warmth, left in his gaze from his performance, set her heart beating fast again as he regarded her with puzzlement. "For what?"
"I ... " She felt her cheeks heat with a fierce blush.
Afraid that she would stammer, she said slowly, "I lost my balance, and my kiss, which was meant to be pretense, was real. I hope you will forgive me the trespass, as it was not meant."
"No?" Again there was that flash of warmth, but this time it was quickly suppressed. His smile was wry. "For a moment I had imagined that you thought me truly Romeo and wanted to taste the wine from my lips."
She did. She did so — But she would die before she would let him know that. "I did not."
He looked at her kindly. It was worse than if he had chided her as usual. "I am certain you did not, Miss Fenster. Do not worry. I took no note of the kiss. And no offense at a clumsy mistake."
She bridled at the thought that he had considered her kiss clumsy. "I was not — "
"No, you were not. Your lips were very ... sweet."
Sweet? Not passionate. Of course not. So why did she feel as if she had been patted on the head? And why did she so badly wish that he would take her up and kiss her properly, with a passion matching the one that raged inside her?
Juliet passed numbly through the gauntlet of guests wishing to congratulate her, hoping that her smile was not too obviously forced. With a hurried whisper to Miranda, she excused herself from the crowd and rushed for the privacy and silence of her room, where no one would remark upon it if her expression should happen to show her unhappiness.
She should be relieved, she reminded herself ferociously. She had not wanted him to recognize her feelings. And he had not. He had willingly believed she had kissed him by mistake. A clumsy mistake, at that.
A clumsy mistake. How had he come up with that barb? But what choice had he had when she was looking up at him with that same shining look her face had held during the play? The look that begged for him to embrace her. To kiss her. He had expected her performance to improve. But he had found himself forgetting the audience. Forgetting Annabel and his father. Seeing only Juliet. Wanting only Juliet.
He could only do them both a favor by reminding her that they had been playacting. Thank God it had worked, sending her away to the company of young men eager to cluster around and compliment her passionate Juliet.
Let her kiss one of them. Let one of their hearts — let all their hearts, damn them — be burned by the fire in her until nothing remained but cinders.
Passionate indeed. He was burning inside as if he had already been damned for his thoughts, though his actions were above reproach. He had not kissed her despite the opportunities, despite the desire. No. She had kissed him as he lay dead on the stage.
She had kissed him.
A kiss so unexpected. A kiss so sweet. A kiss that had taken his breath away. If she had pressed her lips against his for even one or two moments longer, he might have forgotten the eyes of the audience upon them and risen from the dead to return her kiss in full.
His mind was full of images of her as she had played opposite him: Juliet curtsying deeply, looking up into his eyes as if she had truly found her Romeo; Juliet smiling in invitation as they danced; Juliet in passionate wonder upon the balcony. . . . He did not want to think about such visions.
"If your business interests do not prosper, you could go upon the stage, Mr. Hopkins."
He turned to see who had addressed him so rudely and was unsettled to see the mother of one of the young women who had been vying for his attention in the hopes of becoming his bride. Lady Dandridge, was it? He couldn't say for certain, so he merely nodded and smiled coolly. "You are too kind, my lady."
"Not at all." To his shock, she took his arm and pressed against him so that her bosom nearly escaped the confines of her bodice as it was forced upward. "I mean it most sincerely. Why, I found myself wanting to rush up there and rescue you before you could drink that fatal poison."
"As you see, it has done me no lasting harm." He pulled away from her.
She reached up with a coy glance that did not suit her years or her dignity. Her fingers brushed his lips. "Are you so certain? Perhaps you need someone to rub your lips free of any lingering poison."
"I am quite certain I do not." He gave her his best frozen stare, and at last she drew back from him, her bosom returning to its rightful place. He was puzzled as to why she had thought he would tolerate such familiarity in the first place.
She sighed in disappointment. "Very well, sir. I cannot help but think you must be a very fine actor if you could portray the passion of Romeo when you yourself are cold as an iced mackerel."
"That, my lady, was playacting," he assured her. He fervently hoped that no one else in the room had made the same mistaken assumptions she had. He was not a passionate man.
She smiled and fluttered her lashes at him. "If you ever feel the need to playact again, please remember me, sir. I can assure you I would greatly enjoy the performance."
He watched her go, careful not to let his mouth gape open in astonishment. He would have thought that the woman had simply lost her mind if not for the dozen or so propositions mingled with the sincere congratulations he received on his ill-considered performance as he passed through the crowd.
Only fortune — and society's quick censure — kept the young women still looking for a husband from making equally obvious plays for him. They contented themselves with dropping scented handkerchiefs at his feet and gazing up at him adoringly when he returned them with utterly correct civility and not a whit more encouragement.
Even gentlemen with whom he had been perfectly friendly treated him differently as he moved through the room restlessly. Some gave him glares befitting rivals in the battle of love, while others gave him the admiration reserved for rakes of the highest order. He found himself plied with brandy and compliments that would have turned the head of a less sensible man.
Once, he glimpsed Annabel's frowning countenance. Once, Susannah's affectionate one. But there was one person he did not see. Juliet had disappeared from sight.
He told himself it did not matter if she had most likely been whisked away by a young man overcome by her passionate performance tonight. She could certainly handle any advances an eager swain might make.
She might even welcome such admiration, he decided uncharitably. After all, she had kissed him in public, had she not?
He could not bring himself to worry about whether Freddie was safe from her clutches now. Not the slightest sense of relief eased through him when he caught sight of his friend and his fiancee happily in conversation in a quiet corner of the crowded room. There was, however, no sign of Juliet.
At last, afraid that the extravagant compliments, mixed with the brandy, which made his head spin, would cause him to shout his displeasure aloud, he escaped the crowd. Perhaps a walk in the fresh air of the gardens would clear away the dizziness. Bring a touch of sanity back into his life.
He had been walking for only a few minutes when he heard what at first could have been mistaken for an angel come down to earth to soothe the troubled ears of those still trapped in their mortal coils. After a moment of listening in muddled wonder and staring at the stars in the night sky, he recognized Juliet's voice.
His pace took on a more purposeful speed as he searched the garden for her, wondering, with a rush of jealousy, which of her young admirers had captured her interest enough to be gifted with such a hauntingly beautiful song.
But he could not catch sight of her until he raised his eyes again, to the stone walls of the east wing, and saw that she stood high upon a second-floor balcony. After a moment's observation, he realized she was singing to no one but the moon.
Propriety called for him to turn his gaze away once he saw that she had retired to her room and thought herself private. But he did not. Nor did he turn away.
R.J. savored the sight, feeling as if fate had meant it for his eyes only. He peered up at the balcony, mesmerized by Juliet standing there in her nightdress. There was a pensive look in her eyes as she gazed upward and sang her clear, sad song. Her voice was low; the song was for no one but herself and the moon.
He did not recognize the tune and could not make out the words. Still, he could sense the sadness, and it stirred something unnamed yet restless within him.
What made the flirtatious, shallow Miss Fenster sad this night? She had her triumph. The feel of her lips were still imprinted upon his. Did she carry the imprint of his mouth upon hers, upon her soul?
No, of course she did not. She claimed it had been an accident. But he had seen in her eyes that was not the truth. Perhaps she had for one moment allowed herself to forget that he was not Freddie? Such a thought made his head ache.
He called up to her, striking a pose that he thought would have done the real Romeo proud, if there had been a boy so foolish ever in the span of time.
"But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun."
Her song stopped abruptly. She peered down at him, a frown marring the smooth skin of her forehead, which he could imagine would be silken under his fingertips. Her eyes searched the darkness, reminding him that he stood in the shadow of a yew hedge. What would she say if he were to reveal himself? Would she know that he had been spying on her?
He stepped into the moonlight.
Her searching gaze caught him as soon as the moonlight struck him. "Mr. Hopkins?"
Her voice was flat with disappointment, and he held the fleeting hope that his appearance was not the cause. "Indeed. Were you expecting another?"
"I was expecting no one." As if she realized her dishabille, she drew her arms across her chest protectively. "Least of all you."
He had his answer. He was not welcome. He should leave, he knew, but he could not make himself walk away. He asked, though he cared nothing for the answer, "Why are you not celebrating your triumph?"
"My head thrums with pain, to be honest." For a moment her shoulders dropped with genuine weariness. But then she shrugged and added lightly, "I will never undertake such an enterprise again. I am only grateful that the play is finished."
He wished he shared such a sentiment. Instead, he felt empty. Hollow. Almost mournful. She was so far away, yet he wanted to touch her. "Your performance was magnificent."
She paused before answering, until just as he was certain she would end the improper conversation, she asked, "Not passionless, then?"
He laughed aloud. "No. Master Shakespeare would have allowed no one else to play the part if he had seen your performance."
She smiled but said in return, "Should I be flattered that you have changed your opinion? Or should I be wary that you speak falsely?"
He remembered then that he spoke to an accomplished flirt. A woman who knew how to pry a compliment out of a stone. Some of the joy of the moment faded. "Once you came from the stage, your admirers must have reassured you that I speak nothing but the truth."
She hesitated before she answered, moving so that the moonlight no longer shone full on her face. "A compliment from you is worth hundreds from any of them."
"But you no doubt received thousands tonight." He might have known she would seek out some sign that he was now one of her smitten beaux. "I saw the eager flock surrounding you."
He had expected her to laugh, but she did not. "You did not seem to lack for admirers, either." Surely that was not a touch of jealousy he heard in her voice. Impossible.
He thought of the married women who had approached him licking their lips as if he were a plump eclair to be coveted and devoured. "Why do you think I sought the peace of the garden?" All he wanted was to escape their unwanted attention.
"Then you understand why I am here, too." The confession surprised him. He rarely saw her when she was not surrounded by admirers. Did she not crave the attention she received? Or did it wear on her more than she allowed to show?
He had tired of it after no more than a few minutes of lascivious looks and guarded invitations. Could she feel the same about the young men who surrounded her? Nonsense.
Juliet Fenster had made a practice of displaying her nectar to attract the buzzing bees that followed her. She had not discriminated between gentlemen of sixteen or sixty. With the solitary exception of himself, he recalled. Until tonight's performance she had done little to win his admiration.
He shrugged. "But you knew from our rehearsals that I would play the part well. I had no such inkling that you would be as magnificent as you were."