The coach swayed as it bumped down the road, and Lady Chattaway barked Tessa’s name.
“Yes?” Tessa asked.
“You’re sweet on that boy.”
“Oh. Not like that. He’s my closest friend.”
Lady Chattaway snorted. “The truest loves, the loves that last”—she looked out the window now, too—“began as friendships.”
“But there has never been a future for us. Everyone knows it. He has no means to provide for a wife, and I have no dowry. We were always meant to only be friends. And now… I may never see him again.”
“Or you will. Keep your horizons open, girl.”
Tessa chuckled. “Blue skies?”
“All the way to Italy and back.” Lady Chattaway grinned and opened a book.
Tessa closed her eyes and dreamed. But it was not the sky she saw. It was a pair of eyes. Just as blue and more familiar.
Chapter One
Six Years Later, May 31, 1822
Life without drama was terribly tedious, but, occasionally, a man needed a rest. Like right now, for instance. Remington Ives, owner of the Grand Folly Theatre would prefer a bit of silence after seeing a ghost. What he got instead was a headache.
Remmy rested his forehead against his office door as Violet Finch—the Maiden Muse, as the public had begun to call her—knocked for the third time in less than a minute. Each knock had been a series of abuses, rapid fire and loud enough to make Remmy flinch. She knew he was in here.
“I know you’re in there,” Miss Finch hissed. “Open up!”
He could continue playing dead. Or he could get on with it. Open the door, let her in, fuck her good, then push her back into the corridor and dust his hands of her. The actresses knew his liaisons never lasted long. Either the length of the play’s tenure at the Folly or until he left London for the country. Since he was leaving tomorrow, he wouldn’t have to worry about Miss Finch very long.
He looked down at his loose trousers. “Come on, old man. She’s a beauty. And terribly talented. And willing.” But his cock was not willing. Didn’t even twitch.
And he knew why—the ghost.
Tessa King had returned.
Miss Finch abused the door once more. “Mr. Ives! You must let me in. Someone will see!”
He sighed. Even if no onesaw, everyoneknew. But still, they must play their roles properly, and one of the most important parts of this particular play was secrecy. The appearance of it at least. After they left these walls, they were free to whisper all they liked. Encouraged even.
He cracked open the door.
Miss Finch bolted for that crack like rushing water through a stream. Damn she was slender. Was halfway through before he thought to push back.
Stuck half in and half out of the door, the edge of it, bisecting her face, she said through smooshed lips, “Did I not please you tonight, Mr. Ives?”
“It was a smashing performance. You are an exquisite Cinderella. Truly. But I’m tired, Miss Finch.”
“I’ll wake you up.” All but purred.
“I have to travel tomorrow.”
“I know.” The one eye he could see glittered. “This’ll be our only chance.” She tried for a saucy smile that only looked tortured. What with the door and all. Her blond ringlets, meticulously styled for that night’s pantomime, were pushed up the door frame behind her.
“I’m afraid you do not understand, though. I’m not looking for company.” He eased off the door, and she slouched when it no longer supported her weight.
“But… all your leading ladies, those that want to at least… and I want to. You… you know I am not truly a miss, yes?”
