The aria ended, and she stood before the audience, eyes shining, cheeks glowing, chest heaving. The collective breath held under thespell she’d woven.
Archie felt winded…invigorated…inspired.
He needed more of it.
He needed more ofher.
He shot to his feet, clapping like a maniac. Half a second later the room followed on a roar. Everyone understood what they’d witnessed. Talent supreme…Magic.
Archie wanted more.
He glanced over at Rory, who was as awestruck as the rest of the room. “I’ll see you on the morrow for our morning ride?”
A crease formed between Rory’s eyebrows. “You’re hanging up your hatchet already?”
Not exactly, but he’d no intention of explaining to his friend the urges pulling at him. If he told Rory he was heading backstage to meet the singer, Rory would get all nudge-nudge winky-winky and possibly waggle his eyebrows.
And this wasn’tthat.
Well, maybe a little. The woman was attractive in the earthy, voluptuous way that, well, Archie rather liked.
But heneededto be in her presence, for other reasons. Reasons having to do with the muse now flowing through him.
He gave Rory a firm nod of farewell and began pushing through the crowd that had begun booing thecompère. The audience wanted more ofher, and preferably with fewer clothes.Philistines.
Yet…
Why was she singing at the Five Graces? Her technique and stage sense weren’t yet perfected, but she was young and those skills would come with proper guidance.
Didn’t she understand her worth?
While the crowd remained mostly distracted by the contortionist who had taken to the stage, Archie slipped behind the dusty brown curtain, and found himself in the midst of another sort of chaos—tetchy performers hying to and fro as they readied themselves. Heresat a clown in silent contemplation. There a dancer shouting for a glass of water while applying a thick coating of kohl to her eyebrows.
“La Contessa?” Archie asked a woman who was combing the fur of the monkey he’d seen take the stage earlier.
The woman silently pointed her comb in the direction of a short, dark corridor, and Archie followed it to a room that appeared to be empty at first glance. Except it wasn’t empty. There, behind a screen in the corner, flickered orange candlelight.
He strode over and peered around the wooden frame. Back to him, she sat before a dressing table. Wig off, she was half undressed, down to chemise, corset, and drawers. He knew from other backstage visits that performers weren’t too fussy about their state of dress—or undress.
“Contessa?” he spoke into the silence.
Luminous brown eyes shifted and met his in the mirror, and he experienced that jolt again. As if a vise had tightened in his chest.
“Buona sera,” he said, choosing to greet her in Italian.
She simply nodded and resumed wiping stage makeup off her face. He sensed he’d been dismissed.
He’d once heard his smile described as pure sunshine. Yet this woman remained utterly, fixedly unmoved. Not charmed in the least.
His intrigue only grew.
He was always intrigued by the ones who didn’t give him the time of day.
When he made no movement to leave, her gaze met his again in the mirror. “Well?” she asked, the single word more demand than question.
Archie knew a few truths at once. The woman wasn’t Italian, and certainly no contessa. But she wasn’t from London, either. With that onewell, he had her down as a country lass.
What was a lass from the country named La Contessa doing singing German operain Southwark?
