Duchess (17 page)

Indeed, outside, a small band of photographers gathered, shooting her picture as she and Rolfe exited to a cab. Rolfe settled beside her, his face tight.

“Are you angry?” She couldn't help it and wanted to snatch the question back even as it emerged.

He stared at her, frowned. Shook his head.

Right. She folded her hands in her lap. “I was twenty the last time I visited Paris.”

“I remember,” he said and turned away to the window.

They rode in silence along the
Rue du Cardinal Lemoine
, past the cathedral of Notre Dame now lit up for twilight. Once upon a time, she'd walked this boulevard with Dash, had confessed to him that she'd wanted to become a star. He'd laughed at her then. But years later, he'd tried to make her dreams come true. She couldn't fault him for that.

“Where are we going?”

“Have you ever dined at
Le Pre Catelan
? It's a cabaret in the
Bois de Boulogne
.”

“Yes, in fact. I dined there with Dash, long ago.” Had infuriated him, actually, with jealousy as she'd danced with his friends.

A muscle pulled in Rolfe's jaw. “I see.”

He said nothing more, and she tried not to care. They pulled up to the entrance, and Rolfe helped her from the car, letting her take his arm as they entered the restaurant. For a moment, standing there in the entrance next to the dark zinc hostess stand, time whisked her back to the moment she'd seen Dash poised across the room, waiting for her at the foot of the long red-carpeted marble stairway.

Dash. Beautiful and charming. Then his memory vanished, leaving only Rolfe. She startled as he curved his hand over hers, strong, steady. “Thank you for coming to dinner with me tonight. These are important people.”

His soft tone could bruise her after all this apathy, and she couldn't stop her acrid tone. “Isn't that my job?”

She smiled for the patrons who looked up from round tables, in case some might recognize her. “I'm just trying to play the role you cast for me.”

Oh, she hadn't exactly meant to be so sharp, but the hurt lingered there on her tongue.

He said nothing, but his hand slipped away. “We have a table waiting for us,” he said to the hostess when she greeted him. Then he slipped his hand to the small of Rosie's back and guided her into the room.

She remembered the piano in the cabaret, a white baby grand, and from it, a soft, romantic tune seasoned the air. The terrace doors remained closed, probably to protect from any hint of night breezes, but she longed to walk into the courtyard, breathe in a moment that might calm her pulse, soothe the ache inside.

She could play this better, the actress on the arm of her director, wooing their audience. Wasn't that why she was here?

Golden light from the chandelier dripped magic into the room, over men and women in evening garb, their conversation a low, distinguished hum. It paused when she passed by, like a lull in the breeze. She saw herself in the mirrored backsplash between the columned fireplace, and her breath uncoiled from her chest, leaving only a dark burn inside.

She had deserved at least one word of acknowledgment from Rolfe.

They reached the table, and two men rose from it. The first had dark, oiled hair receding from the brow, brown eyes that fixed on her as if hungry. He wore a double-breasted suit, a black tie, and, when he took her hand, his grip pinched.

Rolfe introduced him. “Fredrik Muller, I'd like you to meet Roxy Price. Fredrik is from Germany and is currently assigned as a minister of diplomatic relations to Austria.”

“Delighted,” he said, and one side of his mouth rolled up, as if she might be something he had expected, something perfect and delicious. Indeed, his eyes nearly undressed her, and she looked away from him, a chill touching her spine.

“And this is my friend Wilhelm Horst. He works for the Austrian chancellor's office.”

She glanced at Rolfe as he said this, noted the tenor of his voice. Something about Horst seemed to unnerve Rolfe. Maybe it was just the way Horst took her hand, cradling it in his own, moving close to look into her eyes. A man in his late fifties, Wilhelm Horst reminded her of John Barrymore, suave, attractive, easy around the women, as if used to charming them, and with his salt-and-pepper hair, his blue eyes, they might be easily wooed.

“Roxy Price. You are even lovelier in person.” Wilhelm lifted her hand to his, kissed it.

Rolfe drew in a long, ever so subtle breath.

Wilhelm pulled out a chair for her, and she sat across from Rolfe. He glanced at her, his smile wary even as the garcon attended them.

She perused the menu, but Wilhelm ordered for her. “She'll have the Fois de Gras and a gin and tonic.”

Rolfe raised an eyebrow as Wilhelm lifted a glass to her. “To our American princess.”

“I'm hardly royalty,” she said.

Muller glanced at Rolfe then back at her. “To some, you might be. Europe is fascinated with the American cinema.”

Rolfe looked at her then, and for the first time his smile seemed genuine.

“Would you care to dance?” Wilhelm asked, and she allowed him to escort her to the dance floor.

He gathered her into his arms, clearly an accomplished dancer. “What do you do, Mr. Horst?”

“Wilhelm, please. I am in charge of diplomatic relations with certain political parties. However, part of my duties seem to include granting permission for Duke Van Horne's cinematic escapades in Vienna.”

Oh, no wonder Rolfe wanted to impress the man. She glanced at Rolfe over Wilhelm's shoulder, saw his gaze on her and, in a moment of unexplained camaraderie, she tried to send a smile of reassurance. But Wilhelm turned her, holding her tight, and then moved into the music. He knew how to waltz, and she resurrected her steps, tilting her head as he dipped her, her arms a flourish.

Thank you, Eleanor Powell, for those brief lessons on the set of
Born to Dance
.

“You are everything the papers say about you,” Wilhelm said as the music died, and he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

She smiled, patted his ascot. “Thank you, Wilhelm.” Then she pulled him close. “I look forward to dancing in Vienna.” She moved back and winked before turning off the dance floor.

Wilhelm didn't take his eyes off her for the remainder of the evening.

She finally escaped after dessert, leaving Rolfe to discuss business, and exited for air.

The music followed her outside onto the white marble terrace. She sat on a bench and leaned back. Above her, the sky winked at her, a thousand brilliant eyes, as if approving.

She closed her eyes, drinking in the smells of Paris, the chrysanthemums still blooming late in the season, the night air twining through the horse chestnut trees.

“How about a dance for me?”

She opened her eyes to Rolfe standing above her. He held out a hand.

Sliding into his arms seemed so easy, but it cost her a slice of her resolve.

He smelled good, the tangy scent of cologne rich off his skin, his breath close to hers. They did something small, a foxtrot, a dance meant for conversation.

She waited for it, even as she leaned into him, wrapping her arm close to his shoulder.

“You smell good.”

She leaned back, looked at him.

He met her eyes then looked away. “I guess I'm not the only one who noticed that, though.”

She frowned.

He seemed to wince then at his own words. “I'm sorry. I should be thanking you. You dazzled them. Both of them.”

“Muller barely looked at me all night.”

“Oh, he was looking, all right. He's just married, is all, to a Belgian baroness, one with considerable wealth.”

“And Mr. Horst.”

“In between wives at the moment, I believe.”

“Will you get your permission to film in Vienna?”

He turned her, found her eyes then. Nodded.

“Then I played my part well, didn't I?” she said softly.

“You did. You played it perfectly.” He didn't break his gaze. Then it roamed over her face, as if taking her in. It stopped at her mouth.

She felt it then, the old rush of desire, the hope that he might kiss her, the longing to stay in his arms.

No. He was supposed to fall for her; she was not to allow herself to lose her heart. She broke away, backing up, running her hands over her bare arms, now covered in gooseflesh. “Then perhaps you could take me home? It's getting cold out here.”

He stood there, still looking at her, the music drifting around him. Then finally he nodded. “Indeed it is.”

Rosie wasn't sure what she'd done to anger Rolfe, but he couldn't look at her without frowning. Or walking away.

Or making her feel as if the chill of northwest England might be emanating right from his glower.

Since that night nearly six weeks ago at
Le Pre Catelan
restaurant, he had avoided her, and she'd been forced to dine with Nellie or even Sophie until finally they traveled to England and assembled the crew.

She kept busy adding notes to nearly every page of the script, hoping that Rolfe might be doing rewrites in between his long absences. She was rewarded with an improved script two weeks before shooting.

He'd set them up in a proper castle in the middle of Manchester, just north of the RAF airfields where he'd received permission from the British military to shoot. The castle came equipped with a tower and long drafty halls adorned with tapestries from France, Germany, and Austria. The house staff kept a fire burning in the hearth constantly, and she permanently smelled of smoke, despite trying to practically bathe in the Cancan de Caron perfume she picked up in France.

They shot the main scenes on the first floor, in the dark, now unnaturally lit, kitchen, in the long hallway with the imposing portraits of previous owners, in a library with towering shelves and a long ladder that traveled the length of the room, and in the barn, outfitted with horses bred to be docile. And of course, in the English countryside, a rolling green expanse that bordered the castle. A lush forest filled with poplar and willow rose up behind the castle to whisper to her at night through the early autumn wind. In the morning, when the maid opened the sash, the scent of the climbing roses would trickle inside. It made Rosie believe that she could play her part of a smitten servant girl unknowingly in love with a traitor.

Rolfe had certainly done his part in casting a dashing Jardin. A scamp with a German accent, Spenser Hathaway had a smile that wooed a gal into trouble, the kind of wounded expression in his brown eyes a woman might like to soothe away. He wore his dark hair dangerously long, his shirts open, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his forearms strong as he grabbed her about the waist and held her in an embrace. In their scenes, he had an earnestness that drew her in, made the camera believe that, indeed, he loved her. He couldn't possibly be using her, betraying her.

The audiences would devour him, and weep rivers for him when he died in her arms.

Just like Grayson, Spenser was easy to work with, never demanded anything from her as an actress.

She worried, however, for Rolfe's choice for Colin. An actor named Hale Nichols, he was aloof, cocky, too confident. Sure, she'd peg him as handsome, with his wide shoulders, muscular arms, laughing green eyes, and dark brown hair, sometimes unruly when he came to the set, as if he'd enjoyed the attention of one of the scullery maid extras. He lounged around in his oxford shirt, sometimes open to his undershirt, and she'd caught him twice smoking outside the building, flirting with one of the extras, his smile too smooth, too intoxicating. But he cleaned up like royalty, and the costume designers sculpted his wide shoulders under a proper suit, slicked his brown hair back. He reminded her of Dashielle, perhaps, and maybe that accounted for why their first scene contained too much heat, the dialogue sparking off the page and veering so far off script she thought they'd have to retake it. But Rolfe ordered the shot canned and took a moment to congratulate Hale.

As if he'd done the hard work. She'd been the one carrying the scene, toeing up to her mark for the camera, adding in the believable lines. She'd been the one working late with her dialogue coach, wheedling the story into something that audiences in America might like.

Trying to be brilliant, just like Rolfe needed, to make this movie a hit.

Even if he'd neatly forgotten her. Indeed, both the leads and even the director, a short, vocal Irishman named McDuff, seemed to have more of Rolfe's attention than his so-called star.

McDuff scared her, the way he stalked up to her, cornered her with his directing instructions.

And she thought Rooney had made her hair fall out.

She still wore the wig now, every day, but at night her hair flowed out in soft waves, nearly to below her ears.

Golden brown, like baked sugar. She loved to run her fingers through it.

Now she sat in a canvas chair in one of the grand portrait rooms they'd turned into a dressing room as they adjusted her makeup, reading the pages for her next scene. Her costumes hung in a rack, gray and dowdy for this run of shots. From the walls, dour faces stared down at her, as if disapproving. She hated this room, the prying eyes.

“You're too tense.”

She startled, nearly out of her chair. See, McDuff had terrifying written all over him, the way he stalked into the room then stood behind her, with hands on his hips, wearing a beret, his dark eyes on her, peering at her through the mirror. She forced a smile. “What?”

“We need more vigor, sweetheart. More tragedy. Make us believe you're in love with him.”

“Colin?”

“No, Jardin. This is your first love scene, and you need to sell it.” He crouched next to her. “Listen, I know it's not fair, but Spenser is a European favorite, and you're the unknown, so the pressure is on you. Make us believe in him, in you. Break our hearts with your love for him.”

He gave her shoulder a squeeze, as if that might temper the way he barked; then he walked away.

She picked up her script. She'd gone over it with Nellie a dozen times, playing the swooning servant girl, caught in the embrace of her clandestine love, Jardin.

“Break our hearts with your love for him
.”

She closed her eyes and stilled her thoughts, searching for that moment when she had felt the same as her character. The wonder of knowing someone saw you, believed in you.

“How do you know my real name?”

That day on the beach, so long ago swept through her. Rolfe, standing in the sand, the wind combing his dark hair, those blue eyes following her. She put her hand to her mouth, remembering his kiss, the way the world had dropped away, how, in that moment, she'd belonged in his embrace. Or wanted to.
“Rosie, you don't have to play a part with me
.”

Yes, she had. Just like she would now. But she could remember that moment, use it for her scene.

She could break all their hearts.

And maybe Rolfe would stick around long enough to see it.

Even break his cold, royal heart a little.

Jardin was on set when she arrived, sitting in his canvas chair while his assistant applied fresh makeup. They'd take this scene in Colin's office, where the lighting director had already positioned the cams, the camera boxes ready, her blocking etched out on the carpet. She knew her blocking and now ran it through her head.

Nellie stood talking with McDuff but broke away to meet her.

Rolfe stood behind her and glanced up from the knot of conversation. His gaze landed on her for a moment; then abruptly he turned away.

Yes, well, see if he could turn away after she finished this scene.

“McDuff wants to start with you entering the study, looking for Master Colin. That's when you catch Jardin in his office. He then tries to dissuade you from questioning him with his ardor.” Even Nellie reddened as she detailed the scene.

“Don't worry, Nellie. I know what I'm doing.” Rosie winked at her. “This isn't my first love scene.”

“Of course not.” Perhaps once upon a time, Rosie had blushed at the act of kissing a man not her husband. But with dozens of eyes watching, she could hardly call it intimate or romantic.

“Rosie, you don't have to play a part with me
.”

Perhaps that is what would make it different. For a moment, she wouldn't. She'd be the woman she'd wanted to be in Rolfe's arms. At least once upon a time.

Jardin came in, took his place, and she backed up to the door, met his eyes.

Oh, he could smolder into the camera when he wanted to. So like Grayson.

“Quiet on the set.”

She refused to cast a look at Rolfe.

And then they were rolling. Two steps and she became the maid, catching the boy she loved in the act of treason. Jardin was magnificent as he stumbled around, caught, guilty before turning on the charm to will her to silence. He pulled her close, curling his arm around her waist. “You don't want Master Colin to fire me, do you?”

He trailed a finger down her cheek.

She looked into those dark eyes and saw Rafe. The flier who'd made her feel beautiful, brilliant, alive.

She shook her head, catching the collar of his shirt, unbuttoning it, running her finger into the well of his neck. Leaning into him. “No, but—”

“Shh,” he said and cupped his hand around her chin. Then he lifted it, running his thumb across her cheekbone. “I love you, Bridget.”

He kissed her, and she closed her eyes.

The sand mortared between her toes, the ocean air tugged at her hair, and she kissed him back. Sweetly, curving into his embrace as he held her.

Rafe. Tasting of the wind and the freedom of her youth. She wound her arms up around his shoulders, let him pull her closer.

Kissed him like she remembered. Like she wanted to again.

Spenser broke away, but she had the sense that he might not have, if the cameras weren't rolling.

“I love you too,” she whispered, holding his eyes. Spenser seemed trapped, his mouth opening. She pressed her hand to his cheek, moved in toward his ear, her eyes on the camera. “I believe in you, and I belong to you, no matter what happens.” She held him, found her camera and the expression she needed, a mix of desperation and disbelief.

The face believing in love, giving away her heart, heedless of the cost.

“Cut.”

Jardin let her go. “Hey, I'd do that about fifty more takes.” He winked at her, but something of his expression seemed undone.

Out of her peripheral, she noticed Rolfe exiting through the door.

“No,” McDuff said, cutting through the thunder of her heart. “That's a wrap. I want to see it on the dailies. Let's prep for scene thirty-seven, Colin in the garden, seeing the lovers through the window.”

Where was Rolfe going?

She couldn't stop herself, brushing past Nellie as she strode after him. She waited until she was in the hallway, out of earshot of the crew, “Rolfe!”

He didn't stop.

“Rolfe Van Horne, I'm talking to you.”

He jerked then whirled around, and the expression on his face whisked her breath away. Anger? Frustration? The hard glint in his eyes should have been enough to slow her, but she kept coming.

To her surprise, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into yet another room, this time a steward's quarters, more of a closet equipped with a telephone, desk, and tiny green divan. More brooding pictures hung on the wall in dusty oval frames.

She yanked her arm from his grip. “What is your problem?”

His eyes were red, his jaw tight. “What is yours?”

“Pardon me?”

“What was that in there?”

“What do you mean? A scene?”

“A love scene!”

“So?”

He held his hands up, stepped back from her. “That's not how I wrote it.”

“What are you talking about? I followed the script exactly.”

“Not…exactly. You were…” He pressed his lips together. Shook his head. “Ardent.”

Ardent?

“I was just doing what you taught me. Going back to a time when I felt—” No. He didn't need to know that. “I was just trying to be real.”

“You were real all right. So real, I think Jardin—or Spenser—just might propose!”

“Please. I was just acting. He knows that.”

He cupped his mouth with his hand. Shook his head. Wouldn't look at her. “That wasn't acting, Rosie. That was—that was…believable. Even, okay, brilliant.”

“Then why are you shouting?”

He glanced toward the door, cut his voice down.

“You know what I mean.”

What was his— “No, frankly I don't. Explain it to me.”

He was shaking, and was scaring her a little. “I don't understand, Rolfe. What's the matter?”

He turned away from her, scrubbed a hand down his face. “Nothing.” He drew a breath. “Nothing.”

“This doesn't look like nothing,” she said softly, her heart so loud she may not have heard her own words.

Please…

But he took a deep breath, rounded on her, and whatever played on his face had vanished, back into the expression of annoyance.

Or anger.

“Rolfe, please, talk to me.”

He smiled, nothing of it real. “I apologize. You're exactly the gifted actress I hired.” Then he reached for her hand, pressing it to his lips.

She stood there, turning cold.

Then he released it, meeting her eyes. “Just don't ever tell me that you have nothing of your heart left to give.”

Then he brushed past her into the hallway leaving her in the quiet servant's room.