The Lord Archer thetonknew was always up for a jape with his ever-present, devil-may-care smile.
Only he knew the truth of his passions.
Passion.
Singular.
Music.
It was everything to him.
Perhaps his sisters understood a bit of it, for it was known he was quite proficient at the piano. But he desired to be more than merely proficient, good, or even great. For here was the thing:his music, it obsessed him.
And when he watched a musician on stage—like George Fry up there now—inspiration sparked within him, and something else, too.Envy.Those men and women performing tonight were professional musicians, making a living from their skill.
He wasn’t.
He was simply a viscount who would someday be an earl.
In truth, he’d been at odds and ends since returning from Italy. It was the blasted composition he’d been working on for months. He hadn’t been able to get anywhere with it since setting foot on English soil. It was as if the muse had entirely abandoned him.
Apparently, his muse was Italian.
George Fry did something interesting with a minor key, and it sparked a little something within Archie. Perhaps his muse wasn’t Italian at all, but rather a Cockney gent from the East End.
The first performer was a man with a monkey. The act centered around the monkey being more refined than the handler, much to the delight of the crowd. Next came the Shakespeare. Although it was a scene from a comedy, Rory groaned and shut his eyes, snatching a quick nap. Then out sauntered a magician with a flamboyant flourish of his cape, his assistant trailing behind.
Archie sat forward in his seat. He attempted to pay attention to the magic tricks, but his eye kept straying toward the assistant. The woman was quite fetching with sable brown hair that hung loose to the small of her back and luminous brown eyes and full, luscious lips the color of rubies.
That mouth… It was made for sin.
He should elbow Rory, for he knew his friend would want to catch an eyeful of her, but Archie couldn’t.
He wanted her for himself.
Whistles and catcalls shot through the haze of desire that had begun building inside him. Once he paid attention to the actualperformance, he saw what was obvious to everyone in the theater.
For all her beauty, the woman was a terrible magician’s assistant.
She gave away one trick after another before the magician could complete them. Further, the more purple-faced and frustrated the magician grew, the more flustered and clumsy the assistant became, worsening the cycle to the point of farce.
Yet Archie couldn’t laugh along with his fellow theatergoers. Usually, he found this crowd invigorating in its democratic response to performance. If it was great, they cheered loudly. If it was terrible, they booed just as loudly. Tonight…
It felt like bullying.
Tonight, he felt the distinct urge to punch someone in the nose.
Over what?
Over a performer who had no business being on the stage?
Perhaps it was kinder this way. Perhaps the woman would realize the stage was no place for her and find another form of employment. Perhaps the crowd was doing her a favor.
Within minutes, thankfully, the magician and his beautiful, but hapless, assistant were ushered off stage by thecompère. Rory startled awake, his blue eyes wide and unfocused. “What did I miss?”
“The magic act.”
“Oh, blast, why didn’t you wake me? The magicians are my favorite. Did he pull a rabbit out of a hat?”
