When You're Desired (36 page)

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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

BOOK: When You're Desired
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It's only hair
, she wanted to shout at them.
It grows back.
The rest of the play passed in a dream, punctuated by a few frenzied, nightmarish bits.
In the third act, she had a long break, during which she had planned to enjoy a lie-down and a cup of tea. Instead, she was greeted with the horrifying news that Belinda, who only had to go on in the last scene, had split her breeches.
“Would you happen to have another pair, Miss St. Lys?” asked the desperate dresser. “A spare pair?”
“No!” said Celia. “No, I don't have a spare pair. I gave her my spare pair! They cost me sixty guineas. Can't you just sew them up?”
“I tried. I've torn the bloody leather! I'm not a tailor, you know,” the dresser protested.
“Oh God.”
“Oh, you just had to have those fancy white leather breeches, didn't you?” the dresser said bitterly. “Just like the Household Cavalry, you said.”
Celia caught her breath, and so did the dresser, for they had both had the same idea at once. Lieutenant Osborne was posted at the stage-right stairs, but eschewing him, Celia ran around to fetch Tom, who was posted stage left. “Tom!” she called to him sotto voce, and beckoned.
“Sorry, Miss St. Lys; I can't leave my post. I'm to make sure no one goes onstage except the actors.”
“I just need your breeches,” Celia explained, running to him. “Or rather, Miss Archer needs them for the last scene.”
“But then I should be out of uniform,” he protested, going red in the face.
“Strip,” she commanded him. “I'll find you something to wear.”
Someone found a kilt for the young officer, and Celia ran to Belinda's dressing room with the precious breeches. Belinda was in the daybed, crying. “What if I split these, too?” she asked.
“But you're not going to split them, are you? Now stop crying and put them on.”
“Ugh!” said Belinda. “They're warm!”
“Of course they're warm,” Celia snapped. “I just took them off Mr. West!”
Belinda gasped. “What? These are Tom's breeches? Oh no! Miss St. Lys, I could not possibly wear Tom's breeches. It wouldn't be decent—and still warm from his body, too. Oh, I couldn't!”
Celia's eyes narrowed. “Oh yes, you could. You will put them on, or I will kill you. Do you understand me, Miss Archer?”
Belinda blinked at her. “Yes, Miss St. Lys,” she said meekly.
She was perhaps too harsh with the girl, for by the time she left the stage in act four, with the interval to follow, Belinda Archer had disappeared from the theatre, taking Tom's breeches with her. “This is all your fault, Miss St. Lys,” Mrs. Archer said accusingly.
“But I don't understand,” said Celia. “No one was to be allowed in or out of the theatre! Lord Simon's orders!”
“She was dressed as a soldier—a Life Guard,” Rourke explained. “What the devil are we going to do?”
“Don't panic!” said Celia, breathing hard. “Tom will just have to do it. He'll have to play Sebastian in the last scene. It's only a few lines he'll have to learn, but there's enough of a resemblance. He could be my brother.”
“I should be very glad to help, Miss St. Lys,” said Tom, when asked, “but you forget, I have no breeches! I cannot go out there—in a skirt!”
“It's a kilt, Tom, I swear,” Celia said quickly. “It's a kilt, from
Macbeth.
”
The fatal word slipped from her lips before she knew what she was saying.
The other actors all gasped in horror. “You did
not
just say that!” Mrs. Archer said severely. “I did not hear you.”
“No, of course not,” said Celia, in a voice tinged with hysteria. “I said the Scottish play. It is a kilt from the Scottish play.”
“Whatever it is,” said Tom West rather sullenly, “it ain't breeches!”
“No!” said Lieutenant Osborne, when asked. “Absolutely not! No, you most certainly may not have my breeches, Miss St. Lys! What a thing to ask!”
“But it's for the play, Mr. Osborne,” she pleaded. “I'll give them back to you, I promise. And look, here's a lovely kilt for you to wear in the meantime.”
“Madam, I beg of you—Please!”
“If Lord Simon were here,” she said desperately, “he would order you to do as I say!”
“Would I?” asked the man himself, coming out of the shadows.
Celia jumped in fright. “Oh! My lord! I did not see you there,” she murmured in dismay. “Shouldn't you be with the prince?”
“Fitzclarence can look after him for a few minutes, I am almost certain,” Simon replied. “Is there a problem?”
“No! Of course not. Not really. Nothing for you to worry about. Yes.”
“May I help?”
Celia took a deep breath. “I need Mr. Osborne's breeches,” she confessed, not daring to look at him. “That is to say, Mr. West needs them.”
“Why?” Simon asked, not unreasonably. “What happened to Tom's breeches?”
“I took them already,” said Celia, almost in tears. “You see, Belinda split her breeches, and that was my only spare pair, so I borrowed Tom's. But now Belinda has run away with them—the breeches, I mean. Anyway, what I need now more than anything are Mr. Osborne's breeches on Tom West's arse! Does no one understand?
It's for the play!
”
“You heard the lady, Mr. Osborne,” said Simon, with scarcely a pause. “And that is an order, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Celia looked up at Simon incredulously.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Well, yes,” she said. “As a matter of fact, Tom will need permission to leave his post in the last scene. I shall need him onstage.”
“I'll see that he is relieved.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Anything else?”
“No, my lord. Wait!” she added, as he turned to go. “Why did you come backstage? Did His Royal Highness send you? Have we—have we offended him in some way? It was the kiss, wasn't it?” she fretted. “I should never have urged Miss Vane to kiss me. Indeed, it is all my fault. I alone am to blame.”
“It wasn't the kiss,” he assured her. “We all quite enjoyed that, as a matter of fact.”
“Then what—”
“I just wanted to ask you something,” he said, “but I can see that you are busy—”
“I am not busy at all,” she protested, taking a step toward him.
He chuckled. “It will keep,” he said, walking away.
Celia stood looking after him for a moment, then, recalling herself to her surroundings and the problem at hand, snapped at Lieutenant Osborne. “Haven't you got them off yet?”
 
 
The play hurtled along to its happy conclusion with no further calamity. Tom West took the stage as Sebastian, and with liberal aid from the prompter, was able to stammer out his lines, of which there were mercifully few. Then Orsino turned to the leading lady and, holding out his hand, said, “‘Cesario, come—For so you shall be when you are a man; but when in other habits seen, Orsino's mistress and fancy's queen.'”
Or so he would have spoken, had he been allowed to.
“Stop!”
Rising from his seat beside the Prince of Wales, Lord Simon moved to the end of the stage and, with scarcely any effort at all, jumped onto the stage, making rather a loud noise. The principal actors, all of whom were gathered on the stage for the finale, stood paralyzed as his lordship strode across the stage.
“You cannot marry her, Orsino!” said Simon, drawing his saber. “Unhand her, ye yeasty varlet. Draw your weapon, coward, and fight me if you dare!”
Mr. Rourke, strangely enough, did not seem very eager to accept the challenge. “Take her,” he said, releasing Celia.
“Simon, what are you doing?” Celia whispered fiercely.
“You cannot marry Duke Orsino,” said Simon, loud enough for the whole theatre to hear. “He doesn't even love you. Yesterday he was in love with—with—”
“Olivia,” Miss Vane said helpfully.
“With Olivia, yes,” said Simon. “Tomorrow he'll be in love with some other person, no doubt. But I . . . I have never loved anyone but thee. I love you, Celia St. Lys! I have loved you from the first moment I saw you. You were Desdemona, strangled in your bed by Mr. Kean. Like every other man in the place, I longed to storm the stage and rescue you from your fate. But I was too cowardly to follow my heart. I let you go.”
“Simon, I don't know what to say,” Celia murmured. “Everyone is looking,” she added foolishly.
“Of course they are,” he said. “I want them to look. I want everyone to know how much I love you. Celia St. Lys,” he went on, going down before her on one knee, “will you marry me?”
Celia stared in shock. “Don't be a fool, Simon,” she whispered. “You don't have to marry me; I am yours.”
“I shall indeed look like a fool if you don't say yes,” he said, talking through a forced smile. “I am asking you,” he went on loudly, “before all these witnesses, before His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, and all the rest of them, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“Yes!” she said quickly, stretching out both hands to him.
Climbing to his feet, he took both her hands in his. Together they faced the audience.
The Prince of Wales looked very grave. The theatre fell silent as the sovereign stood. All the ladies on the stage curtsied, and all the men bowed.
“Your Royal Highness,” said Simon, bowing. “I—Would it be impertinent of me to ask for your blessing?”
“Do you need my blessing?” asked the prince.
“I should very much like to have it, sir,” Simon replied.
“But, dear boy!” said the prince. “What about this other fellow that she was in love with? The one who died at Waterloo?”
“He did not die, sir,” Simon replied. “He only fell. He is . . . on his feet again at last,” he added.
“I see,” said the prince, looking at them. “In that case, not only do I give you my blessing, but I offer myself as your best man, Lord Simon. Tomorrow I create you Earl of Sutton, and you shall take the oath to me in the House of Lords. But on Saturday,” he went on, “on Saturday you shall take the oath to this young lady. And I trust,” he added, with a slight bow to Celia, “that you will bring Lady Sutton with you to court very often.”
“Thank you, sir. I shall.”
“Kiss!” cried a voice from the stage boxes. It was Eliza London alone, but the rest of the audience soon took up the chant. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
“Well, my dear?” Simon murmured. “Shall we give them what they want?”
Celia laughed. “I think we'd better, don't you?”
 
 
On Sunday, the following notice appeared in the London papers:
Married, at Berkshire House, London, the Right Honorable, the Earl of Sutton to Miss Celia St. Lys of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, and ward of His Grace, the Duke of Berkshire, who gave the bride away; His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, standing as best man to the bridegroom.
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
 
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New York, NY 10018
 
Copyright © 2012 by Tamara Lejeune
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
 
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
 
 
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-2847-5
 

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