Duchess (16 page)

“Colin is regal, not stiff.”

“Austere?”

“Untouchable, maybe. Especially for Bridget.”

“Oh.” He undid his suspenders, slouched.

And then, finally, smiled.

The effect of it took her breath away. As if she'd been parched for so long, the first gulp of water could undo her. She stared at him, nearly drinking in his smile and hating herself for her weakness.

How had she become that desperate? Moreover, how would she spend a year with this man and not want to be in his arms?

“Rolfe,” she said and tried to frown.

“I'm trying to relax.”

She rolled her eyes but found herself smiling back. Maybe they could be friends. Maybe this could work. She just had to keep a grip on her goals. Her heart. What she really wanted.

“Okay, starting at the top of the scene.” She looked up quickly, her words taken from the script. “They already questioned me.”

He stared at her, as if caught off guard. She handed him the script, pointed to his line. He read the words. “I know. I was there.”

“How about a little more emotion?”

He cleared his throat. Met her eyes. “I know.” He swallowed, his expression twitching as if he'd seen something terrible, something that had broken his heart. “I was there.”

It seemed, suddenly, in that moment, painfully real. She closed her eyes and saw herself in a rustic French home, before a cold hearth, shoving her worldly possessions into a burlap bag, lost, afraid.

Overwhelmed.

Afraid she might throw herself at anyone who would help her, yet fighting for the courage to stand alone. Wishing that she could rewind time. If she had, would she have saved Jardin? Maybe run into the arms of Colin?

Warned herself that love would cost her everything. And more?

Maybe she could play this role. “What do you mean, you were there?” she said, her voice soft, horrified.

She opened her eyes as Colin took a step toward her. She saw him in a German uniform, his dark hair slicked black, gleaming, blue eyes on her, paralyzing her.

“I was watching as you defied them. Your courage. Even the fear that I see now in your eyes. But you don't have to be afraid of me, Bridget.” He lowered the script. “I am the one who freed you.”

She stood there for a beat, staring up at him.

He waited then checked the script. “Your line is, ‘It was you? I can't believe it.'”

I can't believe it
. It sounded right, but the words felt suddenly too easy. Not enough…truth. She shook her head. “Why would you do that?”

He stared at her, glanced at the script.

“I'm improvising,” she said.

“But it says that you throw yourself into my arms.”

She considered it, acting out that moment, stepping into his arms, winding her own around his neck. “No. It's not realistic. I am too hurt, too jaded. I'm not simply going to accept that you would love me after everything—”

“But that's what I wrote.” He actually looked confused.

She stepped close, looked at the script. “See, here you have her breaking down. But she's not that weak. I think she pushes him away. What if she asks him where he's been all this time? What if she picks up something and throws it—” She reached for a crystal vase, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Rosie—”

“She's angry, Rolfe. She's angry that he let her go through this, that he didn't tell her the truth. She's angry that she wasn't rescued in the beginning.”

“But she didn't want to be rescued then. She wouldn't let him.”

“And she's not ready to be rescued now.” She put the vase down. “Not by him. Not with what she's done, the sacrifices she's made. She will push him away, tell him to leave her alone.”

He stared at her frowning, shaking his head. “But why? I don't understand.”

“Because she doesn't trust him that this time it will be different. That she won't end up broken and alone.”

That seemed to catch him, his jaw tightening a second before he stared back at the script. They'd veered so far off it, she didn't know what he might be looking for. Maybe, “She believes he pities her,” she said softly. “That's why he came for her.”

He looked up then, his gaze on her, as if seeing her for the first time. “That's absurd.”

“Not to Bridget. She sees everything she is and can't believe he'd love her. And until he convinces her otherwise, she won't believe a word he says. She'll push him out of her life. Frankly, I'm not sure she'll ever be able to give away her heart. Or if there is anything left to give.”

“What if he walks away. This time for good?”

Oh. She didn't expect that. Her voice thinned. “Then he didn't really love her, did he?”

She wanted him to refute her, give her an argument that told her that Colin would always love Bridget, despite what she did.

His words, softly spoken, came at her like a slap. “Maybe not.”

She swallowed, her eyes burning. Why had she suggested replaying this scene? His version had worked just fine. But, “Why did Colin follow her, keep protecting her, even come to her if he didn't love her?”

He swallowed, his breath rising and falling. “I don't know. Maybe to convince himself to let her go. That he could live without her.”

He stared at her then, and she had the crazy urge to run at him, to shove him with both hands into the hallway, slam the door. Lock it. Instead she turned around, walked to the window. Stared at the Palais de Justice, down the street, and just over the muddy Seine. She folded her hands over her chest.

“That's perfect, Rosie. You're absolutely right.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, saw him scribbling down words. “I am?”

He looked up at her, and this time managed a wry smile. “I think so.”

Oh. He continued to write. “Is there any hope for Bridget and Colin?” he said softly, not looking at her.

She turned away, watching a boat part the waters of the river. “It's your script, Rolfe. You tell me. Do they have a happy ending?”

He was silent so long, she finally glanced back at him. He was staring at her, wearing an expression she couldn't read.

Say yes
. She didn't know where the urge birthed from, but the words pulsed inside her, forbidden, yet hot and sweet.
Say yes
.

She nearly reached out to him, nearly surrendered to the crazy urge to run into his arms, to make him remember everything good they'd nearly had. And then what? She would tell him how she never forgot him?

Rolfe pulled her back from the precarious edge by looking down, gathering his papers. “Maybe not—at least not the one I wrote. I guess I need a more realistic ending.”

Heat bit at her eyes. See, this was why she shouldn't play anyone but the bombshell seductress. This part cost her too much.

She was simply lonely and needed to pen a letter to Irene and Sammy. Rosie turned away, blinked away the moisture in her eyes. She could do better than this.
Would
do better.

He gathered his jacket. “By the way, I found you an assistant. She'll help you with your makeup, your costumes, on and off the set.”

“Off the set?”

He reached for his fedora. “She'll be over later to help you get ready for tonight's dinner.”

“Are we going somewhere?”

“I'd like you to meet some friends of mine.” He headed toward the door and stopped with his hand on the handle. “Thank you, Rosie. I'll have to do some rewriting to get the ending I'm hoping for. Thank you for showing me the truth.”

What truth? Rolfe's words hung in Rosie's mind all afternoon as she bathed in the claw-foot tub then toweled off her short hair, reliving their scene.

“Is there any hope for Bridget and Colin?”

Oh, she had to stop analyzing his every action, letting him wander through her thoughts. She didn't love—wouldn't fall in love with him.

Couldn't afford to. She shut her eyes, wishing she could erase his voice from her head. “
I'll have to do some rewriting to get the ending I'm hoping for
.”

What ending?

Oh, she was clearly reading too much into this script. Into the lily-of-the-valley flowers he'd left for her.

She could admit that, even if she couldn't give away her heart, it didn't mean she didn't want him to fall in love with her. The thought came to her as she stared at her thin face in the mirror. He wasn't repulsed by her. Or at least, he hadn't seemed like it. Annoyed, yes, but he seemed unimpressed by her appearance. He didn't look at her as if she were a hairless waif. He still thought of her as beautiful, even.

Which meant that maybe she could woo back his admiration. Reignite that applause she longed for in his smile. She closed her eyes, remembering how he'd waited for her between takes during Rooney's filming of
Angel's Fury
so long ago when she feared dropping every line. He'd called her brilliant and made her believe it.

How she wanted him to believe it too. To dazzle him. Make him glad he'd believed in her and hired her for this crazy part.

“Hold still, Miss Price.”

“Sorry, Sophie.” Her makeup girl had appeared with a case of tools from face paint to fingernail polish. A petite yet curvy girl, a few years younger than Rosie, with short red hair tied up in a green scarf, brilliant blue eyes, black pants, and a white cashmere sweater, she spoke brilliant English, introducing herself as Sophie Le Blanc. She had helped Rosie paint her nails and now applied face powder and black liquid eyeliner, her fake lashes.

“You are as beautiful as your pictures, madam,” Sophie said. “Even without the wig.”

She'd worn a turban for her trip overseas, had left Rooney's red wig on the stand in her room at home. “I don't have a wig,” she said.

Sophie smiled at her in the mirror. “Yes, you do.” She disappeared into the entryway and emerged with a tall wig box. She set it on the bureau and drew off the cover.

The wig sat on a form, arranged in perfectly styled pin waves. But instead of the platinum blond, or the garish red, the color matched her own new tawny brown fluff. Sophie took it out, held it with her hands inside to give it life. “Do you like it?”

She reached out to touch the waves, the hair soft in her hands. “It's beautiful.”

“The duke sent it over today, told me that he'd had it made for you.”

Rolfe had it made for her? Rosie wasn't sure why, but the words tightened her throat. Oh. She turned back to the mirror, touching her soft downy hair.

“Would you like to wear it tonight?”

She forced a smile, nodded. “I think that's the point of the delivery, don't you?”

Sophie nodded then set the wig back on the stand as she covered Rosie's head with the flesh-colored nylon cap, trapping the tendrils to her skin. She looked like a skeleton, her head smooth and hairless, and she got up to find a dress as Sophie worked on the wig.

Oh, she was being so silly. Of course Rolfe wanted her to wear a wig for her public appearances. It didn't mean anything.

She picked out a black dress, the kind that dropped daringly in back, accentuated her collarbones, hugged whatever curves remained. She'd gained a few pounds on the rich French food and no longer resembled one of those starving Dust Bowl women. Sequins lined the straps that crossed in back. She retrieved her long white gloves and found a pair of black felt, heeled shoes. Sophie helped her into the dress.

She'd be beautiful for him, even with the wig, and he wouldn't be able to resist her. She sat on the settee, and Sophie arranged the wig on her head.

It hung down past her ears in gentle waves. “It looks real,” Sophie said. Indeed, it seemed like it might be an extension of her own hair.

If hers were longer. Thicker.

This version turned her from quaint to elegant, she had to admit it. Now, she'd have to figure out how to get her smile to touch her eyes.

Sophie applied Rosie's lipstick then helped her into her shoes.

“You have real talent,” Rosie said as she surveyed herself in the mirror.

“Thank you. It is my first job working on a real star.” Sophie retrieved Rosie's fringed black shawl. “I promise to make you beautiful.”

“I'm counting on it,” Rosie said, slipping the shawl over her shoulders.

Rolfe waited for her in the lobby, at the foot of the long, curved staircase, like he might be a gentleman waiting for his lady. He'd transformed into royalty, wearing a pair of gray-striped tails, his hair dark and slicked back, an ascot at his neck. He watched her descend, his blue eyes on her, and she felt her stomach give a traitorous curl. Then, just when she thought she might recognize a flash of approval, something of longing alighting in his eyes, he looked away.

At the bottom, he simply put out his arm for her. “Your public awaits.”

She swallowed back the bitter edge of disappointment.