MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS (12 page)

He saw the way both Linwood and Venetia stared at him, even their usual composure ruffled.

‘Your Grace?’ Kemble enquired of Hawick.

Razeby could feel the beat of his heart and hear the hiss of the collective silence within the room. It was the longest few seconds of his life.

‘My congratulations to Lord Razeby,’ Hawick said, but the look that he shot Razeby was a deal less friendly.

‘Going.’

‘Going.’

‘Gone.’

Only then did Alice look at him.

‘The dance is sold to Lord Razeby for the most generous sum of five thousand pounds.’ Kemble was still talking, but Razeby’s focus was fixed on Alice.

Chapter Fourteen

A
lice’s hand was in Razeby’s and it did not matter that all of London was watching them, the sole couple on the dance floor—it made everything feel right. It warmed the coldness. It filled the void. It lit the light within her heart, just to be with him for these few moments.

Their steps were perfect, their bodies moving in perfect time, each a perfect complement to the other. It was their dance. And as the music, so sweet and melodic, played on she knew that she would never dance this dance with anyone else.

She looked up into his so-beloved face. ‘You have created a scandal,’ she said, but she could not stop herself from smiling.

‘All for a good cause.’ He smiled, too, that same smile of old.

And that attraction, that same connection that had existed between them from the very start, bound them stronger than ever.

‘You have been avoiding me, Alice.’

‘It is for the best, Razeby.’ Their eyes held and the dark liquid warmth and tenderness that she saw in his sent a thrill right through her body to her heart.

‘You admit it, then?’

‘I admit nothing.’

‘You did not answer my letter.’

‘What letter?’ she said teasingly, but her heart missed a beat and her stomach gave a little somersault.

‘You know very well, Miss Sweetly.’

‘You must be mistaken, Lord Razeby.’

He smiled. ‘Over many things, but not this.’

‘I get so many letters.’

‘I am sure you do.’

‘Refresh my memory. What did the letter say?’ She bit her lip while she waited to hear.

He lowered his voice so that it was soft and dark and smooth as black velvet. ‘Do you really want me to say it aloud, Alice? Here?’ The smoulder of sensuality in his eyes stroked a shiver down her spine.

She felt a faint blush warm her cheeks. ‘Maybe not here,’ she conceded.

They danced on.

‘I know why you did not take the dresses from your wardrobe.’

Her heart skipped a beat at his words. ‘Because I wanted a new wardrobe,’ she replied smoothly.

‘Really?’ He arched an eyebrow.

‘Now that I’m a famous actress I’ve got to be keeping up with the fashion.’

‘And the diamond bracelet?’

‘Diamonds are so passé. Didn’t you know?’ she teased.

‘And the cheque?’

‘Such an inadequate amount.’

‘Why don’t I believe you?’

‘Because you’ve a mind that runs to suspicion.’

He smiled. ‘I have another theory.’

‘That I knew that you had taken to wearing ladies’ dresses?’

He laughed. ‘You did tell me that I looked good in your old polishing apron and nothing else.’

She couldn’t help herself. She laughed, too.

And when the laughter died away and their eyes held, both were filled with the simple joy of just being together.

‘No, my theory is a little different to that,’ he said quietly.

Her smile faded. She swallowed, suddenly afraid. Her eyes clung to his.

‘Do you not want to know what it is, Alice?’

‘Not here, Razeby. Please.’

‘Not here,’ he said, soft as a breath against her ear.

They danced on together as all of London looked on.

* * *

Venetia sat beside Alice on the sofa of the little drawing room in Mercer Street.

‘Last night, you and Razeby...’ Venetia let her words drop away, but not her gaze.

Alice shook her head. ‘We’re not back together, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘It is what all of London is asking, Alice.’

She swallowed. ‘Creating a bit of scandal is just a part of the job, isn’t it?’ But when Razeby had taken her hand in his, nothing of it had been about the job. ‘And it was for charity.’

‘It was. And that means that you can get away with it. But you only get to play that card once.’

Alice did not meet her eyes. She knew the truth in what Venetia was saying. They had got away with it this once. They would not get away with it again.

‘Are you still playing your dangerous game with him?’

Alice shook her head. ‘I never really was.’

‘You have feelings for one another.’

Venetia’s words were not a question but Alice nodded her admission, glancing down at her tea, knowing she could no longer pretend a denial.

‘Oh, Alice,’ Venetia said softly. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Keep on going. Me in the theatre. Him finding a wife. There’s nothing else we can do, is there?’

‘No, I suppose there is not,’ agreed Venetia, and gave her a little hug.

They drank their tea in silence.

* * *

Razeby was not faring any better.

His mother had come to call upon him at his house in Leicester Square with a rather obvious purpose in mind.

‘You look tired, darling. Did you have a late night?’ His mother touched a hand to his cheek as she scrutinised his face.

‘No.’ He did not elaborate.

She took her seat on the sofa and turned her attention to the tea tray. ‘I took tea with Teresa Darrington yesterday.’ Her focus was seemingly all on her tea-making ritual, but Razeby was not fooled.

‘Did you?’ He stood by the mantel, watching her measure out two rounded dessert spoons of tea leaves into the tea pot before carefully locking the caddy and pocketing the key. Alice refused to lock away the tea from her servants.
What harm does it do if they take a little to make a bit of extra money for themselves, as long as they aren’t greedy?
she always said. It was typical of her attitude to life.

‘The family are somewhat parochial—they come from trade—but a good alliance nevertheless,’ said the Dowager Lady Razeby.

‘Because Darrington is minted?’ He wondered whether his mother had read the newspaper reports over him and Alice at the auction.

‘There is no need to be so vulgar, James. But yes, if you wish to put it in such a fashion. He owns half the mills in Yorkshire and has vast investments overseas. And his lands...’ She lifted the kettle from its small lagged box and poured the hot water into the tea pot.

‘Run concurrent with Razeby,’ he finished.

‘Miss Darrington, his only child and heiress to the entirety of his fortune, is making her come out this Season. Perhaps you have already met her?’

‘I do not recall.’

She gave the tea in the pot a stir and replaced the lid before turning over the small timer that still sat upon the tea tray to time the brew. His mother was very precise in the way she liked her tea. ‘I thought to invite Miss Darrington and her mother to accompany us on our little outing next weekend.’

His eyes focused the grains of sand rushing too fast through the narrow glass of the timer. Rushing like all of life around him, when the only haven within it was Alice.

The ticking of the clock was loud within the quietness of the room. The timer was almost done.

He gave a nod, but it felt like there was an iron band around his chest that was growing only tighter.

‘Splendid,’ his mother pronounced. ‘I thought you would agree. I will send a note round to Mrs Darrington today.’ She smiled and, as the last grains of sand slipped through the timer, lifted the teapot to pour the tea.

* * *

Alice kept on going, just as she had told Venetia she would. Every afternoon she rehearsed on stage. And every evening she performed before a packed theatre. And just as ever, all the emotions that she was trying to hide were channelled into the parts she played. But it was growing more difficult. There was a sense that the boundaries between the roles and reality were beginning to blur.

She cut back on the promotions she accepted. She was afraid of seeing Razeby again and even more afraid of not seeing him. Afraid that he had guessed the truth in full.
I know why you did not take the dresses from your wardrobe.
The words haunted her.

He was searching for a bride. This could not be. She had to avoid him, to stay as far away from as she could, she told herself determinedly again and again. But what she felt in her heart was something else altogether.

She yearned to see him, longed to hear the sound of his voice, needed to feel the warmth of his eyes, the touch of his hand. It felt like part of herself was missing.

She filled every minute of every day with activity, filled her mind with lines and acting and everything she could, but none of it made any difference. Amidst all of the activity and the people who surrounded her she was lonely. Amidst all she tried to cram into her head he was still there in her thoughts. Always. As if he were a part of herself that she could not deny.

At night she could not sleep. In the mornings she could not wake. And in between she still put a smile on her face. With dogged determination she still kept going. She still sparkled in the Green Room. But it was becoming harder with every day that passed. In her ear was the whisper of his name. And in her heart was the beat of his. And she had the sense that something bigger than either of them had been set in motion that they were powerless to stop.

* * *

Time was running out as surely as the grains of sand in his mother’s tea timer.

Razeby knew that every accusation about prevaricating, about making excuses and stalling for time over finding a woman to marry was true. When he stood in that ballroom at Almack’s all he could think about was Alice. The dance at the auction had buoyed him, elated him almost, but now, as the days passed without a sign of her at a single function, the feeling had faded to be replaced instead with a sense of bleakness.

He needed to marry. Before his thinking had been so clear. Black and white. Now he saw only shades of grey. And what he thought about, what he dreamed about, what he could not get out of his head was not the future of Razeby, not the days that were ticking down to his thirtieth birthday, but Alice Sweetly.

* * *

‘A little water clears us of this deed.’ Within the empty Covent Garden theatre came the prompt for the fourth time that afternoon.

‘A little water clears us of this deed,’ Alice said.

‘Everyone take a break. We will reconvene in half an hour,’ Kemble ordered.

The stage cleared of everyone except Alice and Kemble. He walked over to her.

‘I’m sorry for fluffing the line.’ She smiled and gave a little shake of her head, trying to clear the thick cotton wool feeling from it. ‘I must be a bit tired today.’ She could not remember the last time she had slept the night through.

Kemble was both an acclaimed actor and a manager. And as such he had high standards, he pushed hard, expected much. The slip was not her first. There had been too many of late. All those lines she was holding in her head were becoming confused and slow to recall—Alice, whose memory had never been anything other than perfect. It was how she had managed to fool people for so long over her inability to read. She expected him to harangue her, but Kemble did not look angry, only worried.

‘You look pale, Alice.’

‘I always look pale when I’ve no make-up on my face.’

‘You’ve been working too hard of late.’

‘Not hard enough.’ Razeby was still there in her head and in her heart.

‘You need some time off. Some early nights. A rest.’

‘I don’t need a rest.’ If she rested, she would start thinking more and she did not want to think, could not bear to think as it was.

‘In my opinion, you do,’ Kemble countered.

‘No, I—’

He placed a fatherly hand on hers. ‘I need you at your best, Alice. I need Miss Sweetly to sparkle and be happy. We all do.’

‘I am sparkling, aren’t I?’ she asked, suddenly afraid.

‘You will be again, after a rest. Sort out whatever is going on in your life and come back in a week.’

She kneaded her fingers against the tight spot on her forehead.

‘They will want you all the more for the absence. And I do not want to risk losing you.’

She took a breath.

‘Will you get through tonight’s performance all right, Alice?

‘Of course I will. I’m fine, really I am.’ But she was not fine. She knew that. And so did he.

He nodded and called over to a stage hand, ‘Have a cup of tea taken to Miss Sweetly’s dressing room.’ Then, to Alice, ‘Go and take your break. And then we will rehearse a little more before tonight.’

* * *

Razeby stood by the unlit fireplace in his study as Linwood took his seat in one of the nearby winged leather chairs. The morning light seemed harsher than normal, the ticking of the clock too loud.

Linwood’s eyes moved to the empty brandy glass that sat upon the mantelpiece, although he made no comment upon it.

‘Bad night, Razeby?’

Razeby glanced away. More an impossible night in which all that was happening haunted him and made sleep impossible.

‘You did not go to Almack’s.’

‘No.’

The clock ticked louder.

‘This is to do with you and Alice, is it not?’ Linwood asked quietly.

Razeby raked a hand through his hair and did not deny it.

‘You still want her.’ Not a question, just a statement.

‘I have never stopped wanting her.’ Although want was not the right word. It was too petty and inadequate to describe what he felt about Alice. He gave a dry laugh and shook his head. ‘I have never felt like this before, Linwood. Never felt what I feel for her for any other woman.’

Linwood gave a slight nod, as if he understood. ‘It is hard when it happens.’

‘I did not think it would be like this.’

‘Does Alice feel the same?’

‘We are stepping round it, Linwood, and I cannot blame her. She will admit nothing, but I believe the feeling is reciprocated.’

‘You know that what is between the two of you—it is not going to go away, Razeby.’

‘I know.’ Razeby lifted the decanter and poured some brandy into his empty glass, before offering it to Linwood, who declined. He swallowed his own measure down in one go, but the burn and the strength of the alcohol did nothing to numb what he was feeling.

There was a small silence.

‘Have you considered the unthinkable solution?’

‘Were it that easy, I would make Alice my wife and all of society be damned.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Just now she is their golden Miss Sweetly, but you, more than most, Linwood, know what they would do to her—what they did to Venetia, who is the daughter of a duke no less. And your family closed around her to ease her way. Alice has no such link to either nobility or gentility. You and I both know her past.’