To Undo a Lady Page 3

  And at night, she dreamed about the feel of Danyl Fitzhugh, as he had moved in her body. It was scandalous, of course. But there was no denying that the physical act of love had been more satisfying than any stage kiss. The few moments spent with him had been a revelation. Was it the risk of discovery that had excited her? Or was it the man? She had to know.

  He could not avoid her forever. She would beard him in his den and brazenly engage him in conversation. She would be flirtatious, coy and charming. And of course she would pretend that her unusual request had nothing to do with him. She merely wished to hang a kissing bow backstage, since it was almost the season for it. Would he mind?

  Or did this violate some theatrical superstition she had not yet learned? There seemed to be many of those. Do not wear green on stage, for that was the color that killed Molière. Do not whistle. And never say “Good Luck!” But was there anything about kissing? Even if there was, mistletoe was a pagan thing. Perhaps she could argue for an exception.

  But she could not barge into his dressing room as casually as he did hers. As leader of the company, he had the luxury of a door. She stood outside it for a moment, pacing nervously, twisting the sprig of leaves and berries in her hand. Should she knock? Suppose he refused her? If she simply called out a warning and entered without waiting for an answer, she would have no time to lose her nerve and he could not put her off.

  She took a deep breath, turned the knob and pushed. “Mr. Fitzhugh…”

  She fell speechless with embarrassment and dropped the mistletoe, her fingers numb with shock. He was sitting at his dressing table with his back to her. But the mirror in front of him gave her a clear view of what was happening. His breeches were undone and he was taking a hand to himself.

  His eyes met hers in the reflection. “Devil take you, woman. Come in and shut the door.”

  Without thinking, she picked up the kissing bow and did as she was told. Then she turned back to him, resting her shoulder blades against the wood and wishing that she could sink back through it and pretend that she had never come in.

  He had paused in what he was doing, his hand still upon his member, and he stared at her with a tight smile. “Best lock it behind you, Sally Howe. We do not need more company.”

  She reached behind herself and shot the bolt, unable to take her eyes off the scene in front of her. She had not seen him in the darkness of the street. She had been far too afraid to look. But aroused, he was magnificent, long and hard. And he was slick enough to glide into her body as he had before. She could almost feel him there, now.

  He stared back at her and his hand began to move lazily again, then more vigorously. He smiled as if to prove that it was her he had been thinking of, all along. “Say my name.”

  It was a simple request, but she stumbled on it. “Mr. Fitzhugh…”

  “You know that is not what I mean, Sarah.” His voice was amazing, as it always was. Rich like sherry, dark and sweet. “Call me by my given name.”

  “Danyl.” It was a relief to say the word. She had been afraid to use it without permission. But she thought it each time she saw him.

  He groaned and closed his eyes.

  “Danyl,” she said more softly, and saw him twitch.

  “Danyl,” she said one last time on an ecstatic sigh and felt her body readying itself for him. He could take her to heaven with a single thrust.

  He finished. Then he matter-of-factly cleaned up the mess did up his breeches and turned to stare at her as though nothing unusual had happened.

  She stared back, unsatisfied and confused.

  But he’d recovered quick enough. Suddenly he was all business, as he had been on the first night. “You wished to speak to me?” She saw his lips twitch as he noticed the plant in her hand. “What is it about, then?”

  It was probably very wrong to announce that she had wished to help him, with her mouth, her hand or her body. So she kept on staring.

  He glanced down, as though to acknowledge his own arousal. “That was a perfectly natural response, after being onstage with you. I swear, woman, by the final curtain, half the men in the audience are rock hard. It only makes them harder when you will not pick a favorite. You should have mercy on us all and select a protector.”

  Was he honestly suggesting that she leave him? Did he not understand that he was the one she wanted? And why could she not manage to find the words, now that he might listen.

  He shrugged his indifference. “Very well then. Stand in my doorway like a mannequin. But make yourself useful.” He tossed her a script that waited on the table next to him. “You might as well learn the words to this, as it is a perennial favorite. Your part is marked. We will rehearse it tomorrow evening, when the house is dark.”

  She glanced at the title. Othello. “The death of Desdemona.” They were the same words he had used to seduce her predecessors. And while further proof that he wanted her, there was no reason to feel that she was different from any other woman to him. “Is not this a rather heavy subject, for the season?”

  “What season are you referring to?”

  He could not claim that he did not know. “Christmas, of course.”

  He laughed. “And you expected something special for it? A gift perhaps? Or to hang that silly thing in your hand in the doorway of your dressing room. Next you will be telling me you want to take the day off. It is for us to entertain the revelers, Lady Sarah, not the other way around.”

  It took a moment for her to realize that the lady before her name was nothing more than a mockery of her ignorance. If he had known the truth, he would have called her Lady Sconsbury. To cover her confusion, she looked away. “I do not expect privileges where none are offered.” And then she tossed her head in defiance. “But if you have us working every day of the year, you will prove yourself as heartless as I suspect you are.”

  “Not heartless,” he replied. “Merely practical. A theater makes more money at Christmas than it does at Diwali. My father did not stay long enough to ingrain the Christian holidays in me. But if you wish, you may have Lakshmi Puja.”

  “I do not know when that is,” she admitted. Nor would I know how to celebrate it if I did.”

  “Next year?” He calculated quickly on his fingers, “It is on All Hallows’ Eve, and five other days around it. And do not give me nonsense about evil spirits, for there is nothing evil about it. It is the triumph of good.” He looked distant for a moment, as though seeing into the past. “There should be new clothes, and ghee lamps, and firecrackers. And Mother would draw on the floor with colored sand, and make sweets…” His expression had changed to something soft, hopeful and utterly human.

  Then he remembered where he was and who he was speaking with. His indifference fell back into place as quickly as a shutter hiding a house lit for a holiday party. And whether Christian or Hindu, she was not invited to it. “My mother is dead for many years now, of course. I do not celebrate her holidays, either. I am, as you say, heartless.”

  “I never said…” But hadn’t she? Or implied something very much like it.

  “It does not matter what you think of me,” he said, in the usual gruff tone he used when they were rehearsing. “As long as you learn your lines. You may think the murderous Moor is too dark for Christmas, but it is a part that I am well suited for. And I have no intention of letting you, or the audience, or anyone else, choose the bill for me.”

  “Of course, Mr. Fitzhugh.”

  “And as for that thing in your hand?” He stood and walked toward her.

  She could feel her knees begin to quake as he neared. Onstage, when she could pretend she was another person, it was so much easier to be near him. Now, he was coming closer, moving with a sense of purpose.

  He took the mistletoe from her, glancing down at it, turning it over in his hands. “How does it work?”

  Surely he must know that. He was torturing her for his own amusement. She was so nervous she could hardly speak. She wet her lips. “You hang it from the ceiling
, or in a doorway. And couples that pass under it must kiss and remove a berry.”

  “Interesting,” he said. “But hardly necessary.” He reached for her suddenly, pulling her forward into his arms and crushing the thing between them. His mouth was on hers, and he opened her lips with one horizontal lick at their seam. Then he took them, filling her mouth with his tongue with slow, deep thrusts. His hands were immobile, pressing into her spine low on her back, locking her hips to his.

  She’d imagined herself the brave, saucy girl that strutted across the stage. She would steal a kiss from him, intriguing him enough to want another. But in one move, he conquered her, ravishing her mouth as he had her body on the night that they’d met. And that one deep kiss had her trembling to the core, on the brink of surrender.

  Then she remembered the scene she had just witnessed: his erect manhood, and the way he’d lost control of it at the sound of her voice. But that had been for the girl on the stage, and not her at all.

  The tension drained from her, leaving her unsatisfied. He sensed the change and pulled away. But he was looking at her with a knowing smile and took the mistletoe from her hands. In a single casual gesture, he pulled it through his fingers, stripping all the berries from it at one go. He handed the bare twig back to her. “You’d best get another. If there was any magic in that one, I suspect we have used it all. But let us be clear on one point. You are free to kiss whoever you wish. If you feel the need to cloak desire in English superstition, be my guest.”

  He stooped to retrieve the script, which she had dropped while they kissed. “In the future, do not bother me with foolishness. Learn your lines. Be on time for rehearsal. Beyond that, I do not care what you do. And if there is anything else I want—” he reached out a finger and stroked her lower lip, which was still wet and full from his kiss “—we will discuss that at another time.”

  He was lord and master, here. And for now, at least, he desired her. But it was nothing more than that. He did not care. And since she could not manage to talk five minutes without angering him, she should be lucky to have that. She shifted the script in her hands, not wanting him to see the nervousness that left her damp palm prints on the cover. “Of course, Mr. Fitzhugh.” She unlocked the door, turned and left.

  Chapter Five

  Sarah looked nervously at the bed in the middle of the stage. It seemed very white compared to the boards beneath it, or the drop and wings on the stage. The space was dark, with only a few of the floats lit at the foot of the stage to give them enough light to work by. The painted Forest of Arden, from tonight’s production of As You Like It, loomed just outside of the glow, like a forbidding wood worthy of Macbeth. Now that the chandeliers had gone out, the darkness filled the house like wadded black velvet, leaving little room for the two of them on the stage.

  Danyl did not seem to notice, moving easily in the darkened space as though it were his home. And she had to admit, with the doors locked and the last person gone from the huge building, the feeling of security outweighed the desolation.

  If she was afraid of anything, it was Danyl Fitzhugh. She had no reason to be. He would not hurt her. Although he was not always polite, he had never been anything but gentle in his treatment of her.

  The intimacy she longed for was the inevitable outcome of this scene, but she could not shake the feeling of unease. He did not read this play as she did. For him it was a tragedy no different than any other he might choose. And for her? It was a chance to die at the hands of a man who should love her, and to do it over and over again while the world watched and did nothing.

  He glanced back at the bed, and her shifting uneasily beside it. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  As if that would even be possible. She removed her robe and sat on the edge, feeling the pitch of the mattress, toward the place where the audience would be. She would be displayed like an offering before them, stripped to her shift, all disguises gone.

  But it would be all right, she reminded herself. Later, there might be mistletoe and chestnuts, and parlor games with the others at the rooming house. She could divert herself with ordinary pleasures. Or perhaps she would be lying sated beneath the dark man who had called her here. But there was nothing to be afraid of. This was only a play.

  Outside, the winter wind howled. She could hear it rattling in the roof. She shivered against it, drawing the sheet of the prop bed up to her shoulders.

  And now Danyl was at her side, instructing her in the scene. “You know the story? The Moor is tricked by his underling into believing that his wife is faithless. He confronts her. She denies, of course.”

  “Because she is innocent,” Sarah whispered, wetting her lips. But when had protestations of innocence ever saved her? It was why she’d run.

  “He will not listen. And in a rage, he kills her.” He said it simply, as if it had no meaning outside of the text. Of course, he was not the one who had to die.

  “Very well, then,” she said. “Let us begin.” She was not the director or the lead. It was wrong of her to suggest. But she could not bear to wait a moment longer, before continuing this most unfunny of farces. Once they were through with the business, she would lie back on the pillows and he would come to her as he had the others, and reward her for her performance.

  She lay back on the bed and feigned sleep, just as Desdemona must.

  He admired her pose for a moment. “More vulnerability, if you please. Do not hide yourself. Throw back the covers and throw an arm across your eyes.” She did as she was told, feeling the costume pull across her breasts, outlining her body for the audience. It was an illusion, of course. She was fully clothed. And yet she felt naked.

  Danyl did not seem to notice, slipping easily into the character with a shake of his shoulders. Through her slit eyes, he seemed larger and more menacing, a black silhouette against an even blacker room. He approached the bed, muttering words of love for her even as he plotted her end. “When I have pluck’d the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again. It must needs wither: I’ll smell it on the tree.”

  He knelt at her side now, and cradled her body in his arms. His words were sad and gentle. Had she not known where the scene must go, she’d have found them romantic. She threw back her arm as he raised her head to his lips and kissed her.

  This was better. She would happily do this again and again over the course of an evening, until the results satisfied him. There was little wonder that the others succumbed. She did not blame them for it. She was only too happy to join their ranks.

  As Othello, Danyl poured his passion into her, smoothing her hair, kissing her mouth and her temples, lingering, withdrawing, and returning to kiss again. He was more tender than he had been in the dressing room, but no less passionate. And through it all, she must pretend to sleep and lie unresponsive, though her body screamed to return his affection. She wanted so much to believe that the kisses were real that she forgot to speak her part until she felt the prod in the ribs to remind her.

  She opened her eyes and tried to look sleepy and confused. “Who’s there? Othello?”

  “Ay. Desdemona.”

  “Will you come to bed, my lord?” She held out a hand to him, drawing him closer, stoking his cheek. And for a moment, she saw the character falter, as the actor forgot his lines. He came forward to meet her, rising slowly from his knees and letting her draw him toward the bed.

  His shirt was open, displaying a vee of smooth, dark chest, and she put her lips to it, licking once, over the heart, feeling the gasp as her tongue rasped the skin. His hand touched one of her breasts through the linen of the gown, flat palm circling before sliding between the ties to cover skin.

  Around them, the darkness changed from threatening to comforting. The only secret it held would be theirs as she seduced him. She tugged the hem of his shirt out of the breeches he wore and stripped it over his head, running her hands along the muscles revealed. They had been intimate, but not like this. He was beautiful and she wanted to kiss every inch of him. B
ut she would begin with his chest. She tried eagerly to draw a nipple into her mouth.

  He took a breath, caught her hands and pushed her away, shaking his head. “If you keep going thus, they will close us for indecency. A touch on the cheek only, please. Your upstage hand, so as not to block my profile. And then I will say my line.”

  The scene. She must remember that this was all in play. If they could get through to the end of it, he would start again. And each time she would break down a little more of his resistance.

  But first, she must die. She lay back in his arms and prepared.

  “It strikes where it doth love. She wakes.”

  His hands were on her throat. She was ready. She could do this. She steeled herself for what she knew was to come, the tightening grip, the fear and the sudden lack of air, ordering her brain not to confuse the actions on the stage tonight with the reality of her past.

  He paused in the action and withdrew, and shook her by the shoulder. “What is the matter with you this evening? You were quite enthusiastic, only a moment ago. Suddenly you are as stiff as wood.”

  Was that it, then? There had been no pain. But then, why would there be? It was only a game. “You are doing it wrong,” she said softly.

  “I?” He gave a sarcastic laugh. “And what would you know of how this scene must be played.”

  “More than you might think.” Now, when she most needed to dissemble, the actress had left her, leaving nothing but memories of the past. She reached up and rearranged his hands on her neck. “Grab me so. As it is, you would have to shake me to death. But if you meant to kill me, your hands would be here. Now, if you squeeze, I shan’t be able to make a sound. If I struggle, you have but to slap me until I still.”

  And now, he was the one who was silent. “Sarah.”