Now she was alone with a man she didn’t know, and while he didn’t seem threatening, her reputation, at least, was endangered. Lurid fantasies aside, there would be gossip if anyone of import saw her in his company, for Mr. Drake seemed the sort of man proper ladies would gossip about. The way he looked, the way he carried himself, she was sure he couldn’t walk by anyone without attracting attention.
She’d never encountered a man like Mr. Drake at her all-girls music school in Vienna, or on stage in any classical recital or opera. Goodness, she’d been back in England for nearly two months now, and she hadn’t encountered a man like Mr. Drake in any drawing room or tea parlor either. He wasn’t like the gentlemen who’d courted her older sister Nanette, or the mousey viscount she’d finally settled upon.
No, Mr. Drake was like the Vikings she’d learned about in her history books, before her famed soprano voice lifted her from her childhood schoolroom and landed her in Vienna. His hair was long and golden-blond like a Viking’s, and his eyes were a startling, vivid green. When he held her atop his horse, his giant hands seemed formed to wield great broadswords rather than teacups.
Oh, she was a wanton dreamer, full of imaginings, and at such an inappropriate time. Such thoughts burst forth when she least wanted them. She deserved another five minutes of shivering in the night air, but instead she reached for the rough, thin towel to pat herself dry.
He must be a working man, she thought, a man of trade or commerce who could buy a fine stallion, but hadn’t yet saved enough money for proper tack. He was too clean to be a low sort of laborer. Nor was he a refined gentleman, for no gentleman would ride about in his shirtsleeves with his collar all undone. She’d never seen a man in that sort of undress, not in all her eighteen years.
Being so close to Mr. Jack Drake and his non-refinement had piqued a certain curiosity, but she needed to govern her thoughts. As her mother often told her, she had to be the most proper lady in all of London society, since God had gifted her with a voice that necessitated a life on stage. You cannot silence such talent, her mother had argued when her father pointed out that theater circles were not the place for his highborn daughter. God had given her an angel’s voice.
And so Ophelia must behave like an angel, and remain above reproach, or Papa would force her to abandon her singing. That would doom her chance at adventure for good, for then she’d have to marry some terribly boring suitor like the one her sister had chosen, and settle down in some stuffy country house to be a wife and mother for the rest of her life. She didn’t believe she’d done anything really sinful yet, aside from harboring Viking fantasies. She should not be in the company of such a man, of course, but he’d been kind enough to pay for separate rooms.
She lifted the opera costume with disdain, and instead put on her own cotton chemise she wore beneath it. It smelled less of ash and was mostly clean. The smoke, the fire, the fleeing crowds, she had to put all that away, or she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Her mind turned on fears of her parents burning in the flames as they searched for her. When she refused that horror, it was replaced by thoughts of her heavy wig on fire as she tried to outrun the advancing inferno. So many images she couldn’t tolerate at the moment, and her empty stomach was churning because she’d been too worried to eat.
Even if her parents hadn’t been harmed, they’d be beside themselves with worry. Her father might send out riders to search for her, but they’d never find her in this far-flung room. How was she to sleep now, with so much to worry about? Her performance in Armide seemed a million hours ago. She hardly remembered if she’d sung well, or whom she’d performed with, or who had been in the audience to watch.
She pulled the covers up to her chin, wishing her mind would be still, because her body was exhausted and needed rest. And tomorrow…tomorrow she’d need to get home without Mr. Drake learning how highborn she was. She didn’t dare tell him her true address, for then he’d know who she was. Worse, someone might see them together, right outside her father’s house.
Oh dear, that mustn’t happen. She’d have to ask her rescuer to drop her off at some nearby establishment. Perhaps in the park? How humiliating this all was.
She blew out the candle and lay in the dark, listening to unfamiliar noises and the settling of the old inn, and felt even more homesick than she’d felt in Vienna. She missed her Mama and Papa, and even her faithless French maid Jacqueline. She only had the ability to say a very short prayer through the ache in her smoke-scorched throat. Please, God, let them all be safe.