Playing The Duke's Mistress. Eliza Redgold
‘I can promise you might actually eat some lobster this time.’
A laugh burst from her lips. The supper two nights before had held some comic elements, she realised now. ‘Lobster is more to Mabel’s taste than mine. But it’s late and I must go home.’
If he was disappointed by her refusal, he made no sign of it. With his hand raised he moved towards the street. ‘Allow me to call you a hansom.’
How she longed for a hansom cab to carry her home safely, but the money could never be spared. Every shilling she spent on herself was money she would be unable to save for Columbine’s care.
Quickly she shook her head. ‘I prefer to walk.’
His eyes narrowed. He lowered his raised hand.
‘Then perhaps you will allow me to accompany you to your lodging,’ he said smoothly.
‘What?’
‘Do you think dukes don’t walk? The streets of London are open to everyone.’
‘But...but my home is a good distance away. The walk does me good after performing,’ she added as an explanation. ‘Fresh air, you see.’
‘There’s fresh air in London? Then I’m sure it will also do me good.’
Was that slight curve of the duke’s lips another half-smile? In the dim gaslight Calista couldn’t be sure.
The burly doorman returned to his post. ‘All right there, Miss Fairmont?’
‘Yes, thank you, Fred.’
The man settled back against the doorframe, his arms folded.
The duke raised an eyebrow.
‘There are sometimes gentlemen who won’t take no for an answer when they ask an actress to dinner,’ Calista told him quietly.
‘Indeed?’ He frowned. ‘I will accept your refusal, but I hope you won’t give me one. You will come to no harm in my company. You’ve already encountered my more undesirable characteristics. I may bark, but I don’t bite. Not often at least.’
Calista bit her lip. Her instinct was to trust the duke. How could that be, after his behaviour the other night? Yet she couldn’t deny it would be good to have company on the way home, especially in the current circumstances.
She couldn’t risk it.
She inclined her head. ‘Thank you for the offer. But I prefer to walk alone.’
Ignoring his amazed expression and the renewed band of terror that tightened around her chest, she raised her chin and walked away.
* * *
Darius drummed his fingers on the table as he waited for his whisky to arrive. It had only just passed six o’clock in the evening, which was the polite hour to start drinking, but he’d nearly started earlier in the day, consumed by thoughts of his encounter with Miss Fairmont the previous evening.
At a table by the long window he noticed an acquaintance with whom he often played cards having a quiet drink with his father. The two of them looked relaxed together, comfortable.
For a brief moment Darius wondered what it must be like to have such a companionable relationship with one’s father. He couldn’t recall having a drink with his own papa that hadn’t ended in a quarrel. They’d certainly never chosen to spend time together. Family occasions especially had always been avoided.
No wonder he was so cynical about happy families these days. He’d developed a reluctance—no, an aversion—to ever marrying. He’d seen enough of the so-called happy state to put him off for a lifetime.
When his drink was delivered, Darius gripped the crystal glass harder than usual. He never let his thoughts stray to thoughts of marriage or family life. He possessed too much discipline for that.
He knocked back a gulp of whisky and pulled out his list.
Courting Calista Fairmont.
The words were written in black ink and underlined twice.
He surveyed the list.
He’d planned carefully how to prove that she was just the same as any other title-hunting actress. He had anticipated it would be an easy task. He of all people knew all too well what was required to tempt such women.
To drown any further memories he took another sip of drink.
The previous night he’d gone home and had lain restless in bed for hours. Miss Fairmont’s company had been more stimulating than he’d expected. He couldn’t quite countenance that she’d refused his offer to walk her home.
For a moment, he’d thought she had wanted to accept. There had been a strange flicker in her eyes as she’d looked over his shoulder into the shroud of fog—had it been fear? He could have sworn just for a moment that she was almost terrified, before she’d covered it up with a lift of her chin and a determined step into the dark.
Her dignified acceptance of his apology had surprised him, too. He realised she’d known it to be a sham at first, had sensed it with her woman’s intuition, perhaps, yet when she’d offered him her hand, his own honour had kicked in. He couldn’t shake her hand in mockery. His apology, at the moment their fingers touched, had become real. Even through their gloves the memory of her fine-boned hand in his seemed imprinted in his mind.
Yet he wasn’t going to be fooled by this woman. He’d awoken this morning with a renewed determination to stick to his plan. He wouldn’t allow the Carlyle curse to ruin another generation. But he had to admit the previous evening had been something of a revelation. Above all else, there had been Miss Fairmont’s extraordinary performance on the stage as Rosalind. He’d seen the play before, of course, but never like that. She was Rosalind. She had been utterly believable, completely compelling, as if Shakespeare had created the part especially for her.
And those breeches had revealed a stunning pair of legs.
Of course, it hadn’t merely been Miss Fairmont’s legs that had convinced Darius he must be watching one of the best actresses of her generation. It was her husky, melodious voice that had carried across the audience. Her gliding movements across the stage. The entrances that captured instant attention, the graceful exits. Her timing, both comic and dramatic. Every element had come together into a perfect performance. She was generous, too, allowing the other actors and actresses to shine, appearing to bring out the best in them. He knew enough of the arts to recognise true greatness.
She possessed it.
A waiter appeared, hovering at his table. ‘Another drink, Your Grace?’
Darius shook his head. He tossed back the last of his whisky and folded the list.
Tonight’s performance was about to start.
* * *
Calista stood in the wings and stared.
In the royal box to the left of the stage she spotted an unmistakable figure. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Even in the light of the footlights she swore she could see the gleam of those dark, impenetrable eyes.
The Duke of Albury.
It simply made no sense. She couldn’t fathom it. What was he doing back in the Prince’s Theatre?
‘Calista!’ a stagehand hissed. ‘Calista! You’re going to miss your cue!’
‘What? Oh!’ As she rushed on to the stage she faltered momentarily in her line, but no one else in the cast appeared to notice.
She cast a sideways glance at the box.
It was him. There could be no doubt.
The duke had come to watch the play again.
* * *
‘Hello, Herbert.’
Darius’s cousin