Page 17 of The Scoundrel of Drury Lane
“He must be confused. I will correct the mistake and point him in the direction of whomever he is interested in.” She left the backstage area and pressed the curtains aside to view the darkened theater where the audience usually sat.
She glimpsed a man just outside the glow of the lamps that illuminated the now empty stage. Her heart sped up, and she had a strange sort of feeling, like when she went down the stairs in the dark and didn’t realize there was one more step to go. That sensation of dropping and landing lower than she’d expected always made her stomach pinch. She had that sort of feeling now, falling in the darkness and for a moment not knowing when or where she would land.
The man held a top hat in his hands and straightened his shoulders as she approached. The small action made him look even taller. The wild, half-tamed waves of his dark hair danced about his temples, making him even more attractive. He had a hint of a tortured Lord Byron about him.
His features were painfully beautiful, as though a vengeful Venus had carved a man too perfect for mortal eyes to bear. Despite his aloof, masculine beauty, there was something intimate in his form. She felt as though if she were to touch him, it would make her come alive in a way she never had before.
Perhaps it was the breadth of his shoulders, the trim waist, and strong, powerful legs barely hidden by snug-fitting trousers that made this man in the shadows seem so sensually appealing. Her hand itched to draw him, to capture his face and form upon her sketch pad. The desire was so strong that it awoke the secretive muse within her that led her to create art that could bring tears to her eyes.
“I informed the manager I wished to speak with Miss Townsend, the actress,” he said with some surprise.
Suzannah’s eyes traced up the length of his form, from his elegant shoes to his crisp white cravat folded at his throat. Her breath caught. His eyes were somehow familiar. Could she swear she’d seen them before somewhere? If she had, she was sure she would have remembered his face.
“I’m afraid to disappoint you, sir. I am Suzannah Townsend, but I am not an actress, nor have I ever been an actress. I am merely a set painter.” She waved a hand toward her work on the stage.
“You aren’t an actress,” the man said slowly, as if he was not quite sure he believed her.
“No, sir, I am not. If you can tell me which part you were thinking of, I could fetch the actresses who played—”
“No!” he said quickly and stepped toward her. That single movement was an invasion between them, and it made her nervous.
“No, it isyouI wish to see. I was simply confused. I thought perhaps you acted in addition to painting. I blame the brandy I had at my club this evening.” The gentleman suddenly smiled, and the effect was like being hit behind the knees. She steadied herself on the nearest seat at the end of the aisle closest to them.
“Do I know you, sir?” She tried to be polite, but she swore she knew this man somehow.
“Not yet, but I am hoping that perhaps you will wish to know me.” He glanced down at the hat he held in his hands. “I am in need of a portrait, and after seeing your work, I would very much like to hire you.”
Hire her for a portrait? Suzannah was stunned and excited, but the rational part of her feared it was a trap. Gentlemen simply did not come along and fulfill her dreams without a steep price.
“I do not have amorous relationships with my clients.”
“That was not my intention, I assure you,” the man said bluntly.
She scrambled to think of what he might also want of her, aside from a painting. “And I would expect a fair wage based on what other artists charge for their portraits. Themaleartists,” she clarified.
“You believe I would offer you less money because you’re a woman?” He lifted his eyes and pinned her to the floor with a stare.
“Most men would.”
“I am not, nor have I ever been, most men. In fact, you will find me unlike any other man you’ve ever met.” He tapped his hat with long, elegant fingers, hinting at a slight frustration, and again she felt a tug on her memory before he said, “I’ll pay you double the going rate.”
She gasped. “Double?”
“Double,” he echoed. “If you start tonight.”
“Tonight? But—”
“I have matters during my days that occupy my time. If the evenings are an issue—”
She glanced back at the stage. “Well, I must be here in the evenings for the plays.”
“You have finished painting sets for this particular play, haven’t you?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then I will be happy to speak with your manager and convince him to give you the week off, at least from late-night rehearsals. I would like to start at eight o’clock each evening. I have an excellent cook who rarely has the excuse to cook for anyone other than myself. You will dine with me, and then you may work on the portrait.”
Suzannah stared at him. The man was mad. She couldn’t go to some stranger’s home, dine with him, and then paint him late into the night. Scandal aside, it was not safe.
