The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (30 page)

The man released Sophia’s arm and swatted her backside, turning her toward the stage
and giving her a shove when she dared to protest.

“And you too, Romeo,” Sophia heard the man say to Nicholas as she narrowly avoided
tripping up the narrow aisle.

“Here we are, Mr. Beaton,” the man called out to a small group gathered in the front
row. “Stratham recommended them both, so I thought it might be worth a wait.”

Sophia turned to look at the group as she made her way to the stage. A man rose to
tower above the rest, his mannerisms those of an overly proud peacock.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Mr. Beaton answered imperiously, capturing Sophia with
an icy glare. “If you want to be considered for Juliet, I suggest you take the stage.
Now.”

“As it so happens—”

“We apologize, Mr. Beaton,” Nicholas interrupted, prodding Sophia forward with one
finger against her spine. “Ach, if you’ll just bear with us for a minute more, please.”

“A Scottish Romeo?” Mr. Beaton demanded. “Well, now I have seen everything.”

Sophia attempted to drag her feet and succeeded instead in almost tripping for the
second time. “What are you doing?” she hissed in Nicholas’s ear as he bent to help
her up.

“You heard the man; he’ll be off to the pub once we’re through. Then we’ll have the
run of the place,” Nicholas explained, righting Sophia and urging her forward. “He
would have little time for Miss Farnsworth and her missing father in such a state.”

“And I suppose you know Romeo’s part?” Sophia pressed, lifting her skirts as she ascended
the stage stairs.

“Why on earth would I?” Nicholas replied, bounding up the stairs and past her.

“We do not have time for the entire scene,” Mr. Beaton bellowed. “We will start from
the nurse’s arrival. ‘Yoo-hoo, Juliet,’ ” he cried out in falsetto, and then gestured
for them to begin.

Sophia scanned the stage for the scripts that the burly man had mentioned out front.
She knew Juliet’s lines by heart, of course, the play being her favorite of all of
Shakespeare’s works. Still, Nicholas would need help.

The voice, tinged with a Scottish brogue, was most definitely Nicholas’s. Sophia turned
to find he’d assumed a spot near the base of a newly constructed turret.

“Go on. Up the turret with you,” Beaton hollered, his impatience growing.

This is absolute madness
. Sophia caught up her skirts and trotted toward the turret, going around to the back,
where she found a set of stairs. Relieved, she ran up the short flight and came out
on a small landing, a view of Mr. Beaton and his men appearing through the hole cut
for a window. Sophia looked down at Nicholas and glared.

“Madam,” Beaton’s falsetto rang out, startling Sophia

“Madam!”

Nicholas tipped his chin up and closed his eyes reverently.

“Skip to your last lines in the scene,” Mr. Beaton demanded, his thirst—and perhaps,
Sophia realized, their performance—getting the better of him.

She gazed upon Nicholas, much the same as Shakespeare must have envisioned his Juliet
looking into the
eyes of the fictional Romeo hundreds of years before. Despite Mr. Beaton’s impatience,
Sophia wanted to savor the moment and its pure emotion.

Nicholas opened his eyes just as she finished, tears welling up in them.

“Well, it was rather better than I was expecting,” Mr. Beaton stated, as though he
was disappointed. “Still, not quite what we’re looking for. I always like to have
a few attractive actors milling about, though—window dressing, if you will. Go see
the costume mistress. If we have anything in your sizes, we’ll find a small part for
each of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Nicholas replied, gesturing for Sophia to come down from the turret.

“And you’ll do something about the bloody accent, yes?” Mr. Beaton added.

Sophia came around the turret and stood next to Nicholas. “Of course he will, sir.
I’ll see to it myself.”

“Good girl,” Mr. Beaton told her, then sauntered off without saying good-bye.

“You heard the man,” Nicholas whispered. “Ach, it’s to the costume mistress with us.”

22

Nicholas took Sophia’s hand and led her into the wings, only to find their way blocked
by a massive papier-mâché sphinx. He turned about and stalked back across the stage
and into the curtained wings on the other side, finding the stairwell to the pass-through
quickly enough.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Sophia asked as they descended the stairs and walked
along the narrow passageway used by the actors and crew to travel from one side of
the stage to the other.

“Yes—and no,” he answered, mounting the stairs at the opposite end of the corridor.
“Most theatres are situated in a similar fashion, with dressing rooms and the costume
shop on the right, above the stage; props and director’s office, etcetera, on the
left.”

They reached the stage level and Nicholas gestured toward a second set of stairs.
“This way.”

“I did not know you were an admirer of the theatre.”

Nicholas was about to respond when he realized his explanation involved a particular
actress. And nothing to do with her stage skills. “May I be honest?”

“I wish you would,” Sophia replied, squeezing his hand.

Nicholas paused at the top of the stairs and pulled Sophia around to face him. “I
am familiar with the general layout of a playhouse not because of my particular
affection for the theatre, but because of my particular affection for an actress—an
affection, let me be clear, that has since died a most dramatic and salacious death.”

“I know.”

Nicholas looked at the stairwell, then back at Sophia. “Did I not hear your question
correctly?”

“No,” Sophia murmured, a soft, dewy quality settling in her eyes. “You heard me correctly.
I simply needed to be sure that you meant it when you swore absolute honesty.”

He looked at the stairwell a second time and back at Sophia again, her gaze nearly
doing him in. “Then that was a test.”

“Of sorts, I suppose,” she answered, furrowing her brow as she frowned. “Do you know,
I hadn’t thought of it as such, but that’s precisely what it was. I’m sorry, Nicholas.
It’s just that with Langdon, every aspect of our relationship was assumed. There was
nothing earned or sorted out. It simply was—like the Almighty,” she explained, smiling
shyly up at him. “I’ve never needed to prove myself, nor has he.”

Nicholas swallowed hard. Yet another complication to their relationship he hadn’t
considered. “I know there is nothing simple about you and me—”

“Which is what makes me happy,” Sophia interrupted, raising her hand to rest one slim
finger on his lips. “Love is not meant to be assumed, Nicholas. It’s meant to be discovered—even
fought for.”

“So you want to fight with me?” he asked, relief beginning where her soft, warm body
touched his and spreading out to the end of each limb.

Sophia smiled, affectionate amusement returning to her eyes. “Amongst other things,
yes,” she said, taking her fingertip from his lips and holding up her reticule, which
contained the sketches.

“Aye,” Nicholas answered. He looked down the corridor before them. “This way.”

He stepped forward and turned right, Sophia following closely behind. Scanning the
closed doors, he found the one marked “Costume Mistress,” just beyond the dressing
rooms.

“Is there anyone about?” Nicholas called in a strong Scottish voice, rapping on the
door with his knuckles.

A grumble of annoyance could be heard through the cheap wood panel, then a series
of clicks as someone walked across the room and opened the door. “I thought the Scottish
play had been postponed until next year.”

A tiny woman stood before Nicholas, a pronounced frown on her lips as she stared at
him. Her hair, a stark white that seemed to double as a light source, was piled on
top of her head, the height extending her diminutive size. Her face was expertly painted,
so much so that Nicholas suspected she was far older than she looked. A thick pair
of spectacles threatened to slip off the end of her nose as she cocked her head to
the right and captured him with her intelligent eyes. “Oh well, I’m afraid you’ve
come to the wrong door. This is the seamstress’s workshop.”

“No, no, we’re here for our fittings,” Sophia answered from behind Nicholas.

“Is there someone with you?” the birdlike woman asked, peering around Nicholas and
finding Sophia. “Ah, well, you I can work with.” She gestured for Nicholas to move
aside and grasped Sophia’s hand, pulling her into the room.

“You’ve misunderstood. He is also here for a fitting,” Sophia added, planting her
feet firmly on the threshold and forcing the costume mistress to stop.

The elderly woman turned back and eyed Nicholas once again, her lips pursing into
a makeshift beak. “Well, there is not a costume in all Britannia that will
hide your brogue, but I’ll see what I can manage. Come in, then, and close the door
after you.”

Nicholas stepped over the threshold after Sophia, pulling the door shut behind them.

“Now, then, I’m Camilla, though everyone calls me Mistress,” the woman explained.
“And you are?”

“Annabelle Farnsworth,” Sophia lied smoothly.

“Lucius McVeety, at your service,” Nicholas answered, sweeping a flamboyant bow.

Camilla let out a chirp of approval. “I adore the Scots. So passionate—so lively!
Still, this is Romeo and Juliet, my boy. Can you manage an Italian accent? Or at the
very least, an English one?”

“I believe so,” Nicholas answered in his own voice, thankful for the chance.

“Perfect!” she replied, then turned to a rack of costumes. “Now, your parts?”

“Window dressing,” Sophia said proudly, attempting to show some measure of enthusiasm
for the inconsequential role.

“I see. Well, you must start at the beginning, I suppose,” Camilla commiserated, pausing
to inspect a dress.

“And Annabelle is doing just that,” Nicholas replied. “She’s gained some experience
in York and Leeds, but nothing compared to the London stage.”

Camilla whirled around and went straight for Sophia, holding a gown up to her and
eyeing both dress and female critically. “This is hardly
the
London stage, Mr. McVeety. Still, I admire your positive attitude.

“Yes, this might do nicely. Go try it on,” Camilla ordered Sophia, pointing to an
oriental screen set up in the corner of the cramped room. “Now for you, Mr. McVeety.
Something in green, I believe.”

Sophia discreetly dropped the reticule at Nicholas’s feet and walked to the corner,
disappearing behind the screen.

“It might not be quite
the
London stage, Mistress,” Nicholas began, watching her flit and fly from one stack
of clothing to the next, her moves as precise and quick as a hummingbird, “but you’ll
be proud to know that, once upon a time, word of one of your productions spread all
the way to Scotland.”

Camilla grasped a folded linen shirt and a bolt of deep green fabric before returning
to stand in front of him. “Is that so?” she asked, a gleam of curiosity in her eyes.