"Didn't you just remark that you would never fall in love?" Imogen said.
"Yes. Love seems to me a fatal mistake. Think of Lord Maitland versus the Duke of Holbrook, for example. Draven was—if you'll forgive me—rash, ill-tempered, and childish to the extreme. Rafe, to give him his Christian name, has been unfailingly polite on all occasions and has accepted his illegitimate brother into his family without a qualm. Moreover"—she smiled—"he is, as you say, attractive."
"He's plump," Imogen said, feeling as if she were standing in quicksand.
Gillian shrugged.
How could Imogen have thought she looked docile? Now she saw that Gillian's lips were dark cherry, and her eyelashes were tinged with black color, making the green sparkle. "I like a man to have heft about him," she remarked. "It is obvious that you do not care for him—"
"I don't," Imogen said quickly. "I dislike drunkards."
"It's my lamentable hardheadedness," Gillian replied. "Holbrook is not a fool. He may have been a drunkard, but he doesn't have the look of a cruel man. And he may have a bit of a tummy, although I must say that he appears to have lost weight since I saw him last."
"He hasn't eaten properly since he stopped drinking."
"Hopefully he will recover his good health in the near future," Gillian said.
"Do you have the sense that Rafe is interested in women?" Imogen asked rashly.
"In the way of craving a female, you mean?"
And, at Imogen's nod, "I didn't think that I had to put on a low-necked dress in order to interest him, no. He's lonely, though. I could feel it when I was here with Draven, last year."
"Oh," Imogen said, and then: "Of course, you're right. My sister Tess always said the same."
"There are many ways to catch a wedding ring," Gillian said composedly. "Shall we retire to the sitting room? Now that we are both party to our surreptitious plans, I might as well tell you that I would prefer that the duke not take up drinking again. It is much easier to handle a husband who is not soaked in liquor, although I would never wish to become a nagging wife."
"I nag him," Imogen said abruptly. "I can't bear it when he drinks."
"Well, I suppose given your connection to him, you have more latitude," Gillian said, opening the door. "There is nothing more objectionable, in my opinion, than a husband or wife always pointing out a spouse's shortcomings. I doubt I shall ever dabble in the subject; it's so horrid when a wife is plaguing her husband to death over that kind of thing."
"You must," Imogen said, walking out the door behind her. "He'll kill himself if he begins drinking again."
"I trust not," Gillian said. "At any rate, if he's given it up, I shan't have to think about it at all. I believe I shall try to bring about our engagement as soon as possible. Once the ton realizes that he's sober, the matchmaking mamas will be out in force. A sober Duke of Holbrook will be the most eligible parti in London."
"Yes," Imogen said, feeling oddly unsettled at the thought.
"So what with one thing and another," Gillian said, smiling at the footman who whisked open the door to the sitting room, "this project to put on Mr. Spenser's play is quite fortuitous."
"I see that," Imogen said slowly.
She looked over Gillian's shoulder and there was Rafe, standing by the window. As always, her gaze flew to his hand, but he wasn't nursing a golden glass of liquor. He was staring out the window. Gillian was right. His gut was definitely reduced. It looked almost flat.
"You see?" Gillian said, turning to her, her eyes dancing. "He's quite appealing, isn't he? I'm so tired of wispy English gentlemen in striped vests with buffed fingernails. Your Rafe is a brute. A great brute of a man."
Imogen tried to smile. Was she blind that she didn't see him as a brute of a man? When she looked at Rafe, all she saw was the way he stood alone, staring out the window, and hadn't even realized that they'd entered the room.
Then Gillian had marched up to him, and said some-thing. And he was looking down at her, and then he was laughing.
He never used to laugh, back when he was drinking. Chuckle, definitely. But Gillian had him laughing.
Imogen turned away.
Chapter 14
The Consequences of Dancing in the Sheets
Regency Theater, Charlotte Street London
"You'll end up married to the duke," Jenny said wistfully. Jenny Collins and Loretta Hawes were preparing to go on the stage. Jenny was blackening her tights with shoe black so that the worn parts wouldn't show. Loretta was sitting rigidly upright, doing the facial exercises that she had been told would prevent wrinkles. Not that she had to worry at age nineteen but Loretta believed in thinking ahead.
"I have no wish to marry a duke," she said, massaging her cheekbones.
The wondrous thing, to Jenny's mind, was that Loretta probably actually meant it. Jenny would have loved to marry a duke. That is, if her dear Will had been a duke. She reached up to touch the sprig of rosemary she'd tucked behind the glass; Will had given it to her when she was last home.
"Why not?" she asked. "If I didn't love Will, I wouldn't think twice before marrying a duke. Why, you'd have all those things that dukes have, Loretta!"
"Such as?"
"Such as—as a footman, and a carriage, and butter, lots of butter!"
"I never eat butter. It makes a woman plump."
She didn't glance at Jenny's middle, but Jenny felt the rebuke. "You needn't be so high-and-mighty about it," she said sharply. "It's not as if I swill myself in butter. I haven't had a taste for months."
Loretta looked up in surprise, and Jenny sighed. Loretta was a different sort of person than anyone Jenny had ever met. As far she could tell, Loretta never thought about anything other than how to become a great actress. Even when she stepped on people's toes it was only because she had forgotten that they weren't privy to her thoughts.
"I didn't mean it that way," Loretta said penitently. "You know that I couldn't touch butter, not after that unfortunate episode last year."
Jenny was the only one who knew that the unfortunate episode was a baby. Loretta had lost her place at the Covent Garden (a small role, but it might have led to something), and now here she was, playing intervals at the Hyde Park. Jenny alone knew what had happened.
"No one would ever guess," Jenny said, eyeing her friend. Loretta's straw-colored curls bounced on her shoulders with all the silky energy of her trim little figure. Her skirts swirled around ankles that were as slim as they were visible in her short milkmaid's costume.
Loretta shuddered. "I'll never forget how plump I looked. It was truly awful."
"But why don't you wish to marry a duke?" Jenny persisted. "You're so pretty. I bet the man will fall in love with you at once. What's his name? Arphead, isn't it?"
"I never heard of a duchess who was a famous actress," Loretta said, clearly thinking that statement was explanation enough.
"You can't be an actress all your life. You have to marry someday."