Julia lowered her gaze, feeling a stab of guilt. “I won't disappoint you again.”
“You'd better not.”
“Shall I tell the others in the greenroom that you want them back here?”
He nodded and waved her away, his face set.
Sighing, Julia walked from the stage into the wings. She rubbed her temples and eyes, willing her headache to go away.
“Mrs. Wentworth?” A young man's hesitant voice intruded on her thoughts.
Julia paused and looked toward the speaker. It was Michael Fiske, a scene painter of exceptional talent. Armed with his paint and brushes, he had created some of the most beautiful and original flats, set pieces, and backcloths Julia had ever seen. Other theaters had recognized Fiske's talent and tried to lure him away, forcing Logan Scott to pay him an unusually large salary to retain his exclusive services. With his usual confident bravado, Fiske had informed Logan and everyone else at the Capital that he was worth his high wages. Most of them privately agreed.
But Michael Fiske's normally cocky expression was gone today, and his manner seemed unusually hesitant. He stood in a shadow, holding a small, bulky package, his warm brown eyes beseeching. “Mrs. Wentworth,” he repeated, and Julia approached him.
“Yes, Mr. Fiske?” she asked with a touch of concern. “Is anything wrong?”
He shrugged his wide shoulders and clutched his package more tightly. “Not exactly. There's something I wanted to ask you…if you wouldn't mind…” He stopped with an explosive sigh, his good-looking face creased with doubt. “I shouldn't have bothered you. Please, Mrs. Wentworth, just forget—”
“Tell me,” she insisted with an encouraging smile. “It can't be all that bad.”
Looking tragically resigned, Fiske extended the paper-wrapped package to her. “Please give this to Miss Barry.”
She took the object from him and held it carefully. “Is it a gift for Arlyss? If you don't mind my asking, why can't you deliver it yourself?”
A flush covered his lean face. “Everyone knows you're the best friend Miss Barry has. She likes and trusts you. If you would give this to her, and speak to her for me—”
Understanding dawned on Julia. “Mr. Fiske,” she asked gently, “do you have a romantic interest in Arlyss?”
Hanging his head, he made a gruffly affirmative reply.
Julia was touched by his evident sincerity. “Well, that's no surprise. She's an attractive woman, isn't she?”
“She's the dearest, loveliest thing I've ever seen,” he blurted out. “She's so bloody wonderful that I can't bring myself to talk to her. When she's near, my knees turn to jelly, and I can't even breathe. And she doesn't even know I exist.”
Julia smiled sympathetically. “Knowing Arlyss as I do, I'm certain she would prefer it if you approached her yourself—”
“I can't. It's too important. I've thought about telling her how I feel, but…she might laugh or feel sorry for me…”
“No, I assure you she's not like that,” Julia said hastily. “Arlyss is very fortunate to have a man like you to care for her.”
He shook his head, crossing and uncrossing his arms. “I'm not a fine gentleman,” he said glumly. “I don't have fancy clothes or a grand home—and I've got few prospects. She won't want me.”
“You're a good man, and a wonderfully talented painter,” Julia said reassuringly, but inside she worried that he might be right. Arlyss had always been easily swayed by glittering promises and tempting presents. In the past few years she had gone through a string of jaded men who used her for their own selfish pleasures, and then discarded her with no remorse. And then there was Arlyss's hopeless crush on Logan Scott, who would certainly never give a thought to a relationship with her. Arlyss had made no secret of the fact that she was attracted to powerful men. If only she would fall in love with someone like Fiske, an earnest young man who might not ever be wealthy, but who respected and loved her.
“I'll give this to her,” Julia said decisively. “And I'll speak to her for you, Mr. Fiske.”
He managed to look relieved and despairing at the same time. “Thank you—although it's a hopeless cause.”
“Not necessarily.” Julia reached out to touch his shoulder consolingly. “I'll see what I can do.”
“God bless you, Mrs. Wentworth,” he said, and walked away with his hands crushed inside his pockets.
Wandering to'the greenroom, Julia found the other actors conducting their own rehearsal. She gave them all a shamefaced smile. “Mr. Scott wants you back on stage. I'm afraid I've put him in a royal temper. My apologies to everyone.”
“No need for apologies,” Mr. Kerwin assured her, his jowls swinging as he chuckled. “Everyone has a difficult day now and then, even a fine actress such as you, my dear.”
Julia smiled gratefully, and gestured to Arlyss as the others filed from the room. “Come here for just a moment—I have a gift for you.”
“For me?” Arlyss's brow puckered. “It's not my birthday.”
“It's not from me—it's from a secret admirer.”
“Really?” Looking pleased and flattered, Arlyss toyed with her mop of curls. “Who is it, Jessica?”
Julia held, out the package. “Open this, and see if you can guess.”
Giggling in excitement, Arlyss snatched the parcel and tore the paper with childish glee. After the layers of protective covering were demolished, both women stared at the offering in delight. It was a small, exquisite portrait of Arlyss costumed as the Comic Muse, with luminous skin, rosy cheeks, and a sweet smile curving her lips. The interpretation was idealized, her figure painted a bit slimmer than in real life, her eyes a little larger…but it was unquestionably Arlyss. The skill and talent of the artist were remarkable, resulting in a delicately shaded work that captured the joyous essence of its subject.
“How wonderful,” Julia murmured, thinking that Michael Fiske could have a future beyond mere scene painting.
Arlyss scrutinized the portrait with obvious pleasure. “It's too pretty to be me!…Well, almost.”
Carefully Julia touched the edge of the gilded frame. “Clearly it was painted by someone who loves you.”
Thoroughly perplexed, Arlyss shook her head. “But who?”
Julia stared at her meaningfully. “What gentleman do we know who can paint like this?”
“No one around here, except for…” Arlyss sputtered with an incredulous laugh. “Don't tell me this is from Mr. Fiske? Oh, dear…he's not at all the kind of man I usually take an interest in.”
“That's true. He's honest, hardworking, and respectful—completely unlike the debauched men you've been complaining about for so long.”
“At least they're able to provide for me.”
“What do they provide?” Julia asked softly. “A few gifts? A night or two of passion? And then they disappear.”
“I just haven't found the right one yet.”
“Perhaps you have now.”
“But, Jessica, a scene painter…”
Julia stared into her friend's sea-green eyes. “Be kind to him, Arlyss—I believe he truly cares for you.”
The petite actress frowned uncomfortably. “I'll thank him nicely for the portrait.”
“Yes, talk to him,” Julia urged. “You may discover that you like him. Judging by his work, he's a man of depth—and he is rather good-looking.”
“I suppose,” Arlyss said thoughtfully. She gave the portrait a lingering glance and handed it to Julia. “I mustn't keep Mr. Scott waiting. Would you be a dear and put this in my dressing room?”
“Certainly.” Julia crossed her fingers as Arlyss walked away. An ironic smile spread across her face. She had thought herself to be worldly, even cynical, but there was a part of her that was still irrepressibly romantic. She hoped Arlyss would find love with someone who would appreciate her, no matter what her faults, no matter what her mistakes in the past. Wryly Julia acknowledged that it would make her feel better to know that even if her own situation was miserable, at least someone else could be happy in love.
Pauline looked up from the mountain of packages on the carpeted floor of her mauve and gold bedroom. She was a fetching sight, surrounded by frothy piles of ribbon and tissue, her dark hair falling in sensuous disarray over her bare shoulders. Her lips parted with an inviting smile as Damon entered the room.
“You're just in time to see my new purchases,” she informed him. “I had a delightful shopping expedition this morning.” She stood and held a garment up to her breasts, a sheath resembling a thin, spidery web of gold. “Look, darling…it's meant to be worn over another gown, as an adornment, but when we're in private I'll wear it just like this.”
Gracefully she pulled it over her head and let the glittering woven fabric slip over her body, at the same time allowing the gown underneath to fall away. The web of gold enhanced the rounded beauty of her body, doing nothing to conceal the dark triangle between her thighs or the rose-brown points of her erect nipples. Excitement shone in her velvety eyes, and she licked her lips as she approached him slowly.
“Make love to me,” she murmured. “It seems forever since you've touched me.”
Damon stared at Pauline without expression, finding it difficult to believe that he could be unmoved by a woman he had once found so arousing. “I didn't come here for that,” he said, keeping,his arms at his sides even as she purred and rubbed against him. “I want to talk.”
“Yes…afterward.” She caught his hand and tried to bring it to her breast.
Scowling, Damon pulled away. “I want to know the name of your doctor. The one who confirmed your pregnancy.”
The sexual interest faded from Pauline's face, replaced by a defensive, perturbed expression. “Why?”
Damon gave her an unyielding stare. “What's his name?”
Pauline went to the bed, draping herself across the thick brocade coverlet. With catlike languor, she traced a pattern on the fabric with a single fingertip. “Dr. Chambers. He's a very old, trusted physician who has attended my family for years.”
“I want to meet him.”
“It's sweet of you to take an interest, darling, but there's no need—”
“Will you make the arrangements, or shall I?”
A blush swept over Pauline's skin, whether from guilt or anger he couldn't tell. “You sound so accusing. Don't you believe I'm telling the truth about the baby?”
“I believe this ‘accidental’ pregnancy has been damned convenient for you,” he said curtly. “And I think it's time we stopped playing games.”
“I've never played games with you—”
“Haven't you?” he interrupted with a jeering smile.
Abandoning her kittenish posture, Pauline sat upright. “I refuse to discuss anything with you when you're so cross!”
He stared at her coldly. “I want you to arrange for me to see Dr. Chambers.”
“You can't order him about like a servant—or me either, for that matter.”
“I believe I've paid for the privilege.”
Making an enraged sound, Pauline threw a gold-embroidered cushion at him. It landed on the floor near his feet. “You needn't act so superior. It wasn't my fault that you made me pregnant, or that you're saddled with a wife you can't seem to locate. Have you made any progress on that score?”
“That isn't your concern.”
“I have the right to know whether my child will be born a bastard!”
“I told you I would take care of you and the baby. I intend to keep that promise.”
“That's a far cry from marrying me!”
“I was forced into a marriage of convenience by my father. I'll go to hell before I let you or anyone else do the same to me.”
“So this has become an issue of what's been done to you?” Pauline asked, her voice rising. “What about what's been done to me? I was seduced by you, made pregnant, and now it seems you're planning to abandon me—”
“You were hardly an innocent girl from the schoolroom.” A sardonic smile crossed Damon's face as he recalled Pauline's outrageous pursuit of him, the wiles she had used to lure him into her bed. And now she was going to claim that she had been seduced? “You're a wealthy widow with a history of liaisons dating back to before your elderly husband's death. I wasn't your first protector, and God knows I won't be the last.”
“You're a cold bastard,” she said, her lovely face twisting with a sneer. “Get out. Leave this very moment! I'm certain it's harmful to the baby for me to become this angry.”
Damon complied with a mocking bow and left the volatile, perfumed atmosphere of the bedroom, wondering how he had ever allowed himself to become entangled with Pauline.
Realizing it was nearly time for him to meet with two stewards regarding concerns about his various estates, Damon went to his carriage and told the driver to take him to his London home. He didn't want to be late, having always prided himself on being punctual and responsible—qualities his gambling-obsessed father had never possessed. Although he tried to keep his mind on the business before him, thoughts of Pauline and her pregnancy kept intruding.
Damon trusted his instincts, which told him that the “baby” was merely an invention to entrap him…but he had to allow for the possibility that Pauline was telling the truth. He was swamped with resentment. Other men casually accepted the fact of having children with their mistresses, even joked about it, but for him it wasn't a matter that could be treated lightly. The child would be a lifelong responsibility.
Damon groaned and rubbed his eyes wearily. “There is no baby,” he muttered in a mixture of hope and frustration. “She's lying—she has to be.”
When he arrived at his home and walked through the front door, the butler informed him that the stewards were already waiting for him in the library.
“Good,” Damon said brusquely. “Send in some tea, and a tray of sandwiches. I expect the meeting will last a while.”
“Yes, my lord, but…” The butler reached for a small silver tray upon which a sealed note was poised. “You may want to read this. It arrived not long ago, delivered by a messenger who seemed in a great hurry.”