Page 51 of The Last Duke She'd Marry
He wished to hell that he gave a rat’s arse about his performance.
All he cared about was finding Juliet and making amends for the damage that he’d done last night. Since coming to Wiltshire, he’d spent many an hour imagining touching her as he’d touched her last night. Now all he could think of was the desolation in her expression when she sent him off.
At least that miserable cur, Granville, also stayed out of his way. Right now, knowing that Juliet had accepted the prig’s proposal and refused his made him contemplate murder.
Evesham watched most of the show from the trees at the top of the terraced slope. The long benches between him and the stage were packed with aristocratic rumps. Curiosity and expectation hummed in the air, sparked by a scandalous duke’s involvement in the entertainment.
The hum built to a crescendo when Granville took his place in the front row. The antipathy between the two dukes was well known. The ton had traveled all the way from London, hoping Evesham would make a complete fool of himself. That prospect became even more enticing, when there was the added spice of a possible confrontation between two sworn enemies.
Portdown, a showman to his fingertips, had scheduled the scene fromRomeo and Julietas the second-last item on the program. This ensured that his audience remained to the end. The gala would close with his delivery of Prospero’s final speech fromThe Tempest.
Until then, there were a sequence of monologues from Portdown and staged scenes, including a surprisingly touching Ophelia from Portia. All her father’s coaching had paid off.
The sophisticated audience may have come to scoff, but Evesham soon realized that the quality of the production won them over. Portdown was a magnetic actor, even more so now that he had an audience, and the neighbors, while perhaps not up to his standard, managed their parts with credit.
By the time interval arrived and the servants laid on an extravagant feast, the dell rang with unstinting praise. Evesham made himself scarce during supper. Since his return to England, he’d avoided society events. He had no wish to undergo a barrage of prying questions before his stage debut.
The performance had started in the late afternoon, progressing into twilight, so the balcony scene took place soon after nightfall. In the beautiful gardens of Afton Park, the effect of the changing light was genuinely magical. Portdown had engaged a small orchestra, and the music added to the atmosphere.
When Evesham first met Portdown, he’d derided the fellow as a deluded windbag. Over the last week, he’d grown to admire his lordship. But seeing the gala come together like this and engross a jaded, sophisticated crowd made Evesham want to applaud his host. The audience felt the same way. Tentative clapping at the start had become an enthusiastic ovation by interval.
A couple of scenes into the second half, Evesham slipped away to change into Romeo’s doublet and hose. When he’d first put on the costume, he felt like a mountebank. Now he was so used to the garments, they felt like a second skin.
By the time he stepped into the makeshift wings, the stage was lit with flaming braziers, creating a dramatic effect. Portdown stood in front of a piece of painted scenery. He was dressed in black and delivering a couple of soliloquies fromHamlet.
Behind the flat, servants in slippers crept around setting up scenery for the balcony scene. Evesham had been impressed at the staff’s professionalism in ensuring that everything went without a hitch. The gala was almost over and so far, it had been a triumph.
Evesham was grimly aware that the coming scene might bring that triumph crashing down to earth. When Juliet was self-conscious, she was more wooden than the scenery, and he feared that his acting inexperience might show, now that he was in front of a crowd.
“Are you nervous?” Juliet asked from beside him. She kept her voice to a whisper.
He turned, surprised that she’d sneaked up on him. This attraction had caught him by surprise in so many ways, not least because of his preternatural awareness of her. When she was nearby, his skin prickled and heat ignited in his blood.
But not tonight.
“A little,” he said, which was an understatement. Like her, he kept his voice low. “Are you?”
“Yes. This is the largest audience I’ve ever played to. And the neighbors aren’t the most critical crowd.”
He permitted himself a quick glance at her. He’d seen her costume at the dress rehearsal, a rose-pink high-wasted gown in some gauzy material cut low across her opulent breasts.
For rehearsals, she’d kept her hair confined. Now it flowed about her shoulders in a shining golden fall.
He briefly closed his eyes, as he recalled tangling his hands in that lustrous mane last night. The medieval dress was close enough to a nightgown to offer an inevitable reminder of having her in his arms, passionate, eager, willing.
More than once today, he’d damned himself for being clodpoll enough to hesitate when he’d been so close to possessing her.
“You’ll be superb,” he said, then wished he’d chosen a different word. He’d called her superb last night and roused her ire.
This was the first time they’d crossed paths since they’d quarreled in her room. So far, she didn’t sound hostile. By heaven, having her speak to him at all seemed like a victory.
“Wasn’t Portia marvelous?”
“Yes, she was.” Although he’d never before thought of Ophelia having a pet beagle. Red’s mournful expression as he observed his mistress’s deranged meanderings had increased the scene’s pathos.
“We can’t let Papa down. This is a dream come true for him. Especially when it’s all going off with a bang.” Juliet’s voice lowered even further. “I’d hate our…differences to spoil everything.”
Evesham realized with a shock that she fretted about him wrecking the performance as a way of getting back at her. She really didn’t have much confidence in him.
