Page 79 of Dukes All Night Long

This year’s performance was their last obligation. With no new material, next year’s only certainty was its cost.

She couldn’t start again at zero. The company deserved more than zero.

She lifted a sheet of paper from the drawer before dipping her pen in the ink pot.

Sir, I am interested in your offer. I will be available on or after 10 May to discuss specifics of the sale.

*

“How long is a widow required to wear black?” Silas asked as he slid a stitch into a shirt cuff.

“One year and one day,” his Aunt Daisy replied. “You should know, since your father—”

The needle slid through the fabric and into his index finger. “Damn it,” he muttered as he pressed the bloody digit against his tongue.

Theatre folk don’t wear black, m’boy. Not for long. Throws off ticket sales .

Daisy snatched the shirt from him. “We have too few costumes that fit you without your bleeding on the rest of them.” Despite her harsh tone, she wore a smile. “And you should be dressing for rehearsal instead of playing seamstress.”

Silas stood and kissed the top of her head. “It calms me to be in here with you.” It reminded him of working with his mother. Aunt Daisy even hummed the same songs.

Her thin hand was warm against his cheek. “I’m so glad you are here, dear boy.” She patted him twice. “Now go. It’s not polite to keep a lady waiting.”

“If she’s there at all.”

“She’ll be there,” Daisy said. “And if she’s worn black longer than most, you shouldn’t hold it against her. She and Edgar doted on each other.” She went back to her stitches. “Loveliest couple, never mind his age…”

Silas lifted his coat from the peg and left her reminiscing, but he didn’t rush to rehearsal. For a man who had spent most of his life wrestling secondhand sets into place on innumerable village greens, having a backstage was a dream come true.

“Good afternoon, Silas.” Benjamin Orwell, the set painter, beckoned him over. “What do you think?”

Musty canvas, bitter paint pigment, and the salty breeze floating through the window Benjamin kept open to vent paint fumes all combined to create a perfume. It was different from fresh grass or violets, but just as intoxicating.

“What do I think?” Silas stroked his chin and tilted his head first one way and then the other, surveying the pastoral scene that would be the background for the second act. “Don’t you think those sheep are a bit too fat?”

“Go on w’ya.” Ben cackled as he shoved Silas’s shoulder. “They need to be fat to be seen from the balcony.”

Silas laughed with the old man. “I don’t know why you ask if you aren’t going to take my advice.”

The man was a master at his craft and could have earned his living a dozen other ways. He’d chosen the opera because he liked the challenge.

It was a theme Silas had noticed from the moment he’d arrived. Edgar, with his love of art and music, had surrounded himself with other gifted artists who had dedicated themselves to his dream. They’d stayed for years, loving the craft and the company—and seeing the opera for free.

“Before I forget.” Silas retrieved a tobacco tin from his pocket and offered it to Benjamin. “A man at my local was tossing this in the bin.”

Ben opened the container and inhaled. “He’s got no taste, then.” He resealed the treasure and offered to return it.

Silas shook his head. “It’s of no use to me. I thought of you when I saw it.”

Near the stage, past the wrong side of the curtain, violins and cellos awakened, their plucked strings reminding Silas of the songbirds that used to wake him outside the caravan. Rehearsals were about to begin.

“Thank you, lad.” Ben pushed him forward. “Don’t keep Zara waiting, lad. And try to keep your mouth closed when she takes the stage.”

Silas shrugged into his coat before combing his fingers through his hair.

Dear God, let this go well. And while you’re at it, don’t let her be in black.

A hum started at his toes the moment his shoes touched the polished planks of the stage, yet it wasn’t the wood or the orchestra causing it. It had been this way even when his stage was grass and his orchestra was Father’s fiddle.

“Are you ready, m’boy?” the director, Andrew Donovan, asked. He continued without waiting for an answer. “We don’t have the orchestra for long, so let’s begin with the aria in act one.”

Silas nodded in the direction where Andrew seemed to be and pulled in a deep breath.

Breathe. Hold. Release. Again. Open your lungs. Again. Lift your shoulders and open your chest.

It was the best advice his father had ever given him—other than not to sleep with every lass who smiled at him.

Speaking of lasses, whether they smiled or not… “Zara?”

“I’m here.” She stepped from stage right as she spoke.

Silas barely remembered Ben’s warning to keep his mouth closed. The only black she wore was her hair, which was still in its sleek, simple style. However, the cut of her dress exposed the graceful sweep of her neck and her delicate collarbones. The blue fabric almost exactly matched her eyes.

A flush stained her cheeks. “Daisy made this for my last performance. I thought it fitting to bring it out of retirement as well.” She pulled the fabric covering one shoulder back into place. “Though fitting may be a concern now. I’ve lost some weight, it seems.”

As she tugged one side, the other fell. It wasn’t her weight loss teasing Silas’s imagination. It also raised a persistent question. It was easy to understand why Edgar had fallen in love with her, but what on earth had attracted Zara to a man twice her age?

“Shall we begin?” Andrew asked.

Silas had forgotten anyone else was in the room. He nodded and drew a deep breath as the conductor tapped his baton on the music stand.

The music began, and the light notes brought a smile to Silas’s lips as he sang. He wasn’t a fool. He knew he’d got the lead based, in part, on his experience traveling with his father’s troupe. But he’d grown up with songs like this. He loved them, and he was eager to do them justice.

“Stop,” Zara called.

The orchestra screeched to a staggering halt.

“My apologies, Andrew. Give us a moment,” she said as she strode to center stage.

Silas took a step back in self-defense. This close, with their height difference, he had a perfect view of her cleavage.

“You’re breathing wrong,” she murmured.

The devil he was. “I beg your pardon?”

Zara met his gaze and raised an eyebrow. “You are breathing wrong.” This time the words were crisp and clear, and they echoed through the empty theatre, following the trails of his question.

Her next words were quieter. “You’ll damage your voice in your attempt to reach the balcony.”

She reached forward. Again, he stepped back.

Her sigh drifted across the stage. “I’m not going to hurt you, Silas.

” She stepped to his side and placed her hand on his chest. “You’re breathing from here, which is perfect for short pieces, but now you’ll be performing for hours.

You’ll sing yourself out on opening night, and you’ll be in pain by the end of the run.

” Zara lowered her hand to his stomach, almost to his waist. “Breathe here.”

Her sigh told him she noticed his stomach tightening. Silas couldn’t help it. His entire body was as tight as a harp string. “Apologies. I’m trying.” To prove it, he drew a breath into his gut so that it pressed against her palm.

“Now sing. No, don’t squeeze the air out. Breathe again. Open your mouth and let the music float on it. Feel it here.” She moved her hand to his chest. “Relax. Try again.”

Zara followed the breath with her hands, nodding as he went, her smile growing as her hand slid to his nape. He lost the melody again, and she growled in frustration.

“I’m not doing this correctly,” she muttered.

To Silas, she was doing everything right—though not for singing. But he also couldn’t be blamed for growing distracted by her fingers on his skin. “Zara—”

She snatched his hand and placed it on her back. “Let me show you.”

Rooted to the spot, he could do little else but follow her direction as the breath shaped her body on its way to her mouth. When it came out, it carried with a clear, high note that seemed to go on forever. Her neck vibrated beneath his fingers, but she wasn’t breathless at all.

Silas, however… Her voice curled around him like fog from a moor or steam from a fresh cup of tea, pulling him closer.

Her warm, silky skin softened his fingers until they molded to her neck.

His tongue grew heavy with a primal urge echoed by other parts of his body. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to sing.

But when Zara ended the note and began again, it was impossible not to close his eyes and follow her instructions until their voices blended. The orchestra joined them in a song that wasn’t intended as a duet but was all the better for having them both sing it.

The aria finished, and the sound faded. Silas opened his eyes. The orchestra was busy sorting through the score for the next song, as though the world hadn’t shifted an inch to the right.

Past them, he could make out the shadows of the backstage artists standing amongst the first few rows. After a moment of silence, they broke into hearty applause.

Zara removed his hand from her back but kept hold of him as she sank into a low, graceful curtsy. Silas followed suit, bowing to their impromptu audience.

“Bravo!”

“Bravo!”

A few wiped tears from their cheeks.

Zara stood, a wide smile carving dimples into her flushed cheeks. “Thank you. But you shouldn’t be wasting your day listening to me—to us. We have a performance to stage.”

They dispersed, laughing and talking amongst themselves.

Once they were alone, she looked at him. “How’s your throat?”

He swallowed to test the aftermath. “Fine,” he whispered. Then he said it louder. No pain. It was as though he’d had a conversation, not belted notes to the rafters.

She looked at their still-joined hands and jolted before pulling away. “I apologize for being forward, but that’s how Edgar taught me. I didn’t know another way to—”

“Don’t apologize.” Silas fought the urge to reach for her again, even though he’d not realized how empty his hand could feel. “It was the perfect way for me to learn.”

Her color returned to normal, but her smile remained. “Shall we try another?”

His body hummed in anticipation, and he couldn’t use singing as an excuse. This woman in violet blue, with dimples and a voice like an angel, shared a name with the widow upstairs. Otherwise, there was little resemblance.

This was what he’d wished for, and he would be a fool to ruin it. “Let’s.”