“I still don’t like it. It could all go very wrong,” Calchas said through gritted teeth as he tugged at the cuffs of his naval uniform.
“Oh, Calchas,” Cymbeline replied with a masculine pat to her cousin’s excellently broad shoulder, decked with gold. “You are a remarkably good source of manliness when it comes to duty and doing what one ought. So grateful to have you reminding me all the time how lucky I am to be here.”
Her voice was low, slightly rough, and well-practiced, blending in well with the din of other men in the club as several people sipped brandies, drank wine, played cards, and made merry.
Anyone who overhead them would have no idea what gave Calchas his sense of unease.
Not dressed as she was, with the male manners she had perfected under her mother’s and her grandmother’s watchful eyes.
She’d practiced for weeks before daring to come out.
Now, she had few worries, for she had adopted her male clothing with a confidence that thrilled her to her bones.
She loved going out with her cousins!
Even if Calchas still bridled. He was a grand fellow, but he was much concerned with the protection of his family. Which made any terseness he offered forgivable at once.
Her other cousins seemed to love taking her out.
There was such a remarkable casualness to this club.
She was stunned, quite frankly, by how all these gentlemen lived.
She couldn’t really understand it, though she enjoyed it.
Men were nothing like ladies, and it was fascinating to behold.
Perhaps she should not have tried to gain her way into the inner-sanctum of men’s lives, but there was something about being in this particular club that she truly adored.
It was not one of the great lords’ clubs of London. She was rather glad not to have to go to those.
No. This one was a club that was dedicated strictly to lovers of the theater.
One could be a duke, but one might also be a well-to-do actor or playwright.
It was a remarkable place, and she was quite relieved that it felt so close to home.
After all, with grandmama being one of the most famous actresses of her day and their having such huge investments in the theater in London, this almost felt like a second home.
Calchas frowned at her, clearly keeping more opinions to himself. But only just.
“Do you think you could have done it?” Octavian suddenly asked before taking a sip of brandy from a crystal snifter.
“What?” she asked, as she lifted her own glass of brandy to her lips and attempted to drink it.
It was really terrible stuff, truth be told, in her personal opinion, but she wasn’t overly fond of drinking in general.
She hated the way it muddied her mind. She liked to stay sharp, and certainly in a situation like this, she needed to stay sharp.
The last thing that she could afford was to suddenly start acting like a young lady because she was three sheets to the wind.
“Do you think you could die for Cleopatra?” Octavian explained, his brow furrowing. “Give up your country and your loyalty and all that?”
They had just come from seeing Antony and Cleopatra at the theater, and their Grand Aunt Estella had been a magnificent Cleopatra.
“Well, after seeing Grand Aunt Estella,” she began, “I could certainly see why one would wish to throw their entire life away for a woman. But the truth is Antony does not throw his life away for Cleopatra.”
“No?” Calchas queried, arching a brow, intrigued despite himself.
“No,” she stated in her most masculine voice possible.
“And why does he do that?” her cousin Laertes asked, adjusting his cravat.
“Because of his arrogance,” she said with a shrug, enjoying the cut of her coat as it tugged at her shoulders.
She said it as a man would, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and there was no argument to be had.
“He simply cannot stand Octavian, who we now think of as Augustus Caesar, and—”
“Oh, God,” Octavian groaned, as he always did when the dictator of Rome and his namesake was brought up. “We’re not about to go into a Roman history lesson, are we?
Laertes cleared his throat and swung his attention from Cymbeline to Octavian. “Are we discussing the historical events or are we discussing the play?”
“Can’t we do both?” she protested, eyeing her brandy and deciding against another drink.
“No!” announced Calchas. “And you know it better than anyone. Shakespeare was not writing about real history. He was writing about human nature and—”
“Fine,” she cut in and frowned, loving the freedom of open discourse in public, “but the truth is Mark Antony is a completely unreliable figure, who had no sense of honor and really only cared about himself.”
“Can’t stand a fellow like that,” a voice suddenly boomed from behind them. “Someone who only cares about themselves.”
She whipped up her gaze and spotted a man closing the short distance between them.
The fellow’s long burgundy coat stretched to the floor and drifted out behind him. He was shockingly handsome. Dark hair framed his face, and he looked like no one else she’d ever seen.
He did not fit the classical norm that she was so accustomed to seeing on the gentlemen of her own family or even on the statues in the museums. No, actually, he looked odd if one was going to admit it.
His features were slightly too much, slightly too large, slightly too bold, as if his body couldn’t quite contain his whole spirit and soul.
His eyes were a riveting shade of blue that seemed to shimmer between various hues as he looked at each of them.
She clamped her mouth shut as quite unfamiliar sensations shimmied through her.
He was a shocking thing to behold. Everything about him appeared larger than one expected.
“Baxter,” Calchas called. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”
“Can’t keep me away from an excellent performance like that,” Baxter said. “You know it.”
She blinked.
The Duke of Baxter.
Of course! She had read about him. She’d even seen him across the theater. He had his own box. He was the sort of hallowed fellow that the ton worshiped, that everyone worshiped, and, well, perhaps she had too in her own way.
He was the sort of man that a girl dreamed about at night and wondered if they might ever have a chance at marrying. After all, he was constantly in the newssheets and his actions were always on everyone’s lips.
He was almost like a fictional character.
And here she was meeting this famed fellow, but instead of being dressed in a beautiful gown, she was dressed in the full getup of a young man ready for a night out.
There was absolutely no way she could flirt with the duke like this! That would be a hideous mistake. And so she was going to have to act as normally as she could without…well, swooning.
Because the fact was, dear God in heaven, the entire room seemed to swing to pay attention to him. He was as riveting as his eyes. His entire energy was jovial, bold, powerful. It was as if the sun had come out of the sky and walked into the room and all of them were planets circulating around him.
“And who’s this young, splendidly opinionated fellow I’ve yet to meet?
” the Duke of Baxter asked with a quirk of his dark brow, which did the most miraculous things to his face, turning it both somehow friendly and captivating, as if he would be her best friend in the entire world if she would but let him.
“This is a distant cousin of mine,” Calchas stated quickly. “Mr. Marlowe.”
“What a pleasure it is to meet you, Mr. Marlowe.” The duke cocked his head to the side, giving him the sort of playful air of a great cat. “Like the author.”
Cymbeline gave a nod. They’d picked the name as a sort of family joke, since Marlowe was never quite given his due at Heron House.
Her grandmother had snorted, rolled her eyes, and then waved them on, for she adored Shakespeare above all.
But wandering about London as Mr. Shakespeare would draw far too much notice.
The duke gave a slight incline of his head. “I am the Duke of Baxter.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she coughed, as her voice hitched in her throat, like a boy going through a change of voice. Cymbeline said nothing else, afraid she would say something ridiculous, given how mesmerized she was by him. Or worse, she might give herself away entirely.
“You don’t like Mark Antony? Is that it?”
She cleared her throat, determined to answer, and piped, “Not at all.”
“Oh?” the Duke of Baxter asked, his brows rising up slightly. “It seems as if we have brought back your boyish indignation about history? You’re an idealist, is it? Everyone should be good. Your name should be Sir Gawain, not Marlowe.”
She let out a low, slow breath. She’d almost given herself away. Again. In but a minute’s time.
Her cousins were shooting her secretive warning stares that, having known them all her life, only she could interpret.
Why? Why was she responding thus to the duke?
Because, good heavens, the things that he was doing to her insides were really quite shocking! That was why. It was as if her wits had been stolen and all her energy had gone to quite different parts of her anatomy.
She had, of course, been warned about desire. But she’d never really experienced it. And this? It was the wildest, most alarming sensation. For the first time in her life, she felt on the verge of being out of control.
A state that was completely foreign to her.
She’d never felt anything like it in her whole life, and she realized in that horrifying moment that this was it. He had to be the man for her.
Yes, was that not what these sensations decreed? The Duke of Baxter was the only man alive for her. She’d never responded to anyone like this, and it was appalling that it was happening under these circumstances, when she couldn’t go after him as she would do in a ballroom.