Page 62 of A Widow for the Earl
“That is all I can ask,” she said, rising. “Now, I think I will leave you to finish your luncheon.”
She flashed him a sadder smile before departing the room, leaving him with no appetite for cold fish but for something he could never have. If he tried, his mind would only keep stoppinghim, or her curse would kill him. Either way, it could not end well.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Yes,” Beatrice whispered, a grin spreading from ear to ear. “Yes, that is it! That is perfection! The finishing touch!”
She stood back to admire her masterpiece, while the footmen she had roped into helping her exchanged amused glances. The red velvet curtains were out, theblackvelvet curtains were in. With one simple change, her theater room had become the stuff of Gothic dreams. Even the glow of the footlights seemed eerier as the dark fabric dulled the amber hue.
“Are you sure you won’t be wanting green velvet next, my lady?” one of the footmen asked with a chuckle.
“No, no, I am quite satisfied now,” she replied, clapping her hands together in excitement.
Ever since she had installed the stage in the old reading room, something had bothered her about it. The room had looked exquisite, she could not deny that, but it had resembled everyother manor theater that she had seen. There was nothingdifferentabout it.
Now, it is befitting for the Bride of Death, the Sorceress, the Red Widow.
“Is there nothing else you want us to do?” the other footman asked, sounding almost disappointed.
Beatrice laughed. “Oh, I shall assuredly think of something else in due course but, for now, you are free from my mad whims. I expect I have stolen you from more important duties, but I must thank you immensely for your assistance.” She danced a little jig right there on the floor. “Indeed, the first play performed here will be done in honor of the staff here. All of you will be honored guests. Spread the word.”
The footmen seemed pleased by the gift, chattering animatedly to one another about the shadow puppets and what play they might want to see as they left the room.
Alone, Beatrice stood there for a while longer, in awe of the transformation. She envisaged a performance of Macbeth, of Hamlet, of Doctor Faustus, anything with ghosts or ghouls or witches or ungodly creatures. Plays to shock and amaze in this little Gothic theater of hers. Maybe, a small opera or two.
I mustshow Vincent.
It had been several hours since she had heard his story in the dining room, though he had not been far from her thoughts. Indeed, she had not planned to transform her theater that day, but the velvet had arrived unexpectedly. Seeking distraction, she had set to work, making the theater wonderfully gloomy.
She, however, was not sure if she was supposed to feel glum or cheery. The touch of his hand had cheered her. The way he had leaned down as if he meant to kiss her had thrilled her for a moment. The sweet blow of his breath to remove an eyelash from her cheek had charmed her. But the manner in which he had withdrawn had left her confused, and, perhaps, a little glum.
He is not interested in me in a romantic sense,she scolded herself.He was just blowing away an eyelash. There was never going to be any kiss.
Still, after his revelations about his father and his past, she felt like some of the distance between them had been removed. Some of their misunderstandings, too. It was almost as if she had met him properly for the first time, not the character he showed the world, but the real Vincent behind it all.
“Yes, I must show him this. It is his residence too, after all,” she whispered decisively, rushing out like a giddy debutante attending her first society event.
She found him in his study, hunched over a stack of documents as tall as his head. She had not bothered to knock, and his slight glare told her all she needed to know about his opinion on that.
“Your tedious correspondence can wait,” she announced. “I have a masterpiece to show you.”
He replaced his quill in its holder, his fingertips lightly stained with ink. “I am busy, Beatrice.”
“Yes, well, you can benotbusy for a moment,” she urged. “It will not take long. It is just down the hall.”
He frowned. “I have seen the theater room already.”
“No, Vincent, you have not.” She grinned, hastening toward him.
If he would not come with her willingly, then she would have to drag him. Either way, he would be spending the next five minutes, at least, admiring her eerie theater.
She grasped him by the hand, tugging with all of her might. “You will be so inspired that your correspondents will think you have been replaced with a poet. Now, come on, or I shall fetch the footmen to help me carry you out.”
With a bewildered sort of half-smile, he relented. “Have you been eating overripe apples, Miss Johnson? Should I check the bottles of port in the drawing room?”
“I am giddy withlife, Wilds! I need no assistance,” she said, leading him out of the study and down the hall, her hand never loosening its grip on his.
At the threshold to the theater room, however, she skidded to a sharp halt. For him to receive the full effect of the new stage, he could not simply wander in. A theater deserved an entrance more dramatic than that.
