Page 32 of Fairest of Heart

Narcissa dipped her chin in a well-practiced display of modesty. “The honor was mine, Mr. Kerr. Granbury might not be as large as Houston or Fort Worth, but your stage rivals any house I’ve played in. Those backdrops alone made me feel as if I were back at the Columbia in Chicago.”

The new backdrops were Kerr’s pride and joy, so she made sure to stroke the man’s ego accordingly. Her efforts did not go unrewarded. The man’s chest practically puffed before her eyes.

“I hope you’ll consider coming back to our fair town in the future, Madame.”

Not if she could help it. Still, she offered a smile that mixed a touch of fondness with starry-eyed hope. “One cannot say what the future will bring. If I am so blessed as to pass this way again, I will be sure to contact you, sir. Treading the boards of your stage has been an absolute delight.”

Not wanting her escort to feel as if he were being ignored, Narcissa placed a hand to her throat and rumbled it lightly. “Please excuse us, Mr. Kerr. My throat is going dry. Mr. Clayton? I think I could do with a glass of sherry.”

“Of course, my dear. Come with me.”

The two men nodded to each other as Ambrose led her to the bar and ordered a sherry from the dark-haired man pouring drinks. The fellow carried himself differently than most barkeeps of her acquaintance. Setting her drink in front of her with a flourish, he orated in a clear voice that could have easily carried to the back of the room had he so desired. “‘God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another.’”

“Hamlet. I’m impressed.” The fellow knew his Shakespeare. More than that, he delivered the line like a professional. Slipping into the character of Ophelia, she replied in kind.

“I shall the effect of this good lesson keep

As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother,

Do not—as some ungracious pastors do—

Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven,

Whilst, like a puffed and reckless libertine,

Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads,

And recks not his own rede.”

She’d always loved that line. Ophelia calling out the double standard society placed on women, expecting them to be all that is proper and moral while not holding men accountable for their misdeeds.

Ambrose brushed her arm. “Well played, my dear. Mr. St. Helen likes to quote the Bard on occasion. It’s rare that anyone can answer in kind. Isn’t that right, John?”

“Just so.” The barkeep nodded, respect and a touch of challenge in his gaze, as if he wanted her to know that he saw beneath her façade but wouldn’t cast judgment. “Your drink is on the house, Madame.”

“Thank you.” Something about the man unsettled her. Turning to remove him from her line of sight, she resolved to erase him from her mind just as easily. John St. Helen was not her target tonight. Her attention belonged on Ambrose Clayton. And that’s where it would stay.

She slid her hand through Clayton’s arm and leaned her face close to him. “You know,” she murmured in a low, throaty voice, “as much as I love a good party, I was secretly hoping to spend some time alone with you this evening before I depart.” She lowered her lashes and tilted her head with just the right blend of demure modesty and coquettish flirtation.

When he edged away from the bar toward a shadowy corner, she followed, satisfaction surging so strongly within her breast it became difficult to restrain her boldness. Overplaying her hand would gain her nothing, however. She took a sip of sherry, then tripped over an imaginary object on the floor. When he moved to steady her, she clutched his arms, taking care to turn and press herself against him. Not for long. She’d not have anyone call her vulgar. Just long enough to see desire flash in his eyes.

“I looked for you.” She blinked up at him as she slid her hands slowly down the lapels of his coat to gently push away and recover her balance. “In the audience. Every time I took the stage.” She peered at him as Juliet would gaze at Romeo. “I couldn’t believe you paid to attend each performance. You must truly appreciate the theatrical arts.”

“It wasn’t the show I came to see, my dear. It was you.” His hand tightened on her arm as his voice growled the admission.

Her breath caught. “Oh, Ambrose.”

His nostrils flared at her use of his given name. “My house is not far from here,” he murmured. “We could be alone. Share a bottle of wine.”

She glanced about the room to project an aura of uncertainty, then bit her lip and nodded. “We can’t be seen leaving together, though. I must protect my reputation.”

“Of course. I’ll retrieve my carriage and meet you behind the theater.”

Blood pumped through her veins at a staggering speed, fueled by nerves, anticipation, and intoxicating power. She hid the huntress behind a mask of new love’s excitement and grinned at the middle-aged man with the soft middle as if he were Michelangelo’s David. “I’ll meet you in ten minutes.”

She made her way through the partygoers, slowing only when necessary to accept a compliment or make an excuse for leaving early. Headaches were beautiful things. All one needed was a furrowed brow and a pained expression to achieve sympathetic acceptance.

Cecil Hunt met her at the door and helped her into her wrap. His deep frown made his disapproval clear. Placating men was so wearying.