* * *
Millie LeCour strained her vision through the stage gas-lighting to once again find him. He wasn’t hard to find. Though he was cloaked in shadow, his magnetic pull was indefinable and unmistakable.
Two thousand two hundred and twenty-six seats at the Covent Garden Theater, and each one was occupied. But the moment Millie’s eyes had alighted on the rough-hewn gentleman in the impeccable suit, he may as well have been the only audience member she’d ever played to. She’d thought that he seemed more like a character in one of the Bard’s more violent plays than a connoisseur. Something about his presence excited and enticed her, and also made her utterly nervous.
The spotlights were dimmed by the light boy to illuminate only Iago and Rodrigo whilst they pontificated onstage upon her fictional demise. If she hugged the crimson velvet curtains just so, she could peer out at least three boxes on each tier of stage left without garnering any attention.
“Are you nervous?” Jane Grenn, who played Emilia, settled a friendly chin on Millie’s shoulder and peeked into the crowd. Her golden ringlets tickled Millie’s bare skin as they mingled with her ebony curls.
“No.” Linking her arm with her friend’s, Millie didn’t look away from the arresting shadow that hadn’t so much as shifted in the entire time she’d been watching him.
“Really? Not even for your debut at Covent Garden?”
“All right, I’m petrified,” she admitted with a whisper. “This is the biggest night of my life thus far, and the crowd seems so subdued tonight, don’t you think? What if it’s a disaster?”
Jane wrapped her arms around Millie’s corseted middle in an encouraging hug. “They’re all just waiting breathlessly for the great Millie LeCour to make her appearance.”
“Oh go on.” Millie waved her compliment away with an embarrassed huff of breath. “They’re here to see a Shakespeare play.”
Jane’s unladylike snort tickled her ear. “Othello never sells out Covent Garden like this, trust me. They’re here for Desdemona.”
“Or perhaps to see Rynd play Othello.” Millie gestured to the strong, coffee-skinned actor whose deep voice sent thrills through every lady in the audience, whether she deigned to admit it or not. The golden lights shone from his sharp cheekbones and illuminated the brilliant white of his smile. He was exotic, sexual, and powerful as the Moor of Venice, and when she was on stage with him, even her body responded to the sparkle of mischief in his dark eyes.
“We’re all dying to know if he’s as horse-cocked as reputation suggests. Is he?”
Millie hid her gasp behind a hand and backed away from the curtain lest she be caught by the audience making such a gesture. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know!” she stage-whispered at Jane, shooing her away with playful, indignant slaps.
“Don’t be coy.” Jane giggled. “Everyone knows you’re swiving him. It’s the reason you won’t take Lord Phillip Easton’s offer to keep you.”
“Bite your tongue,” Millie admonished. “There are innumerable reasons why I won’t take Lord Easton’s offer, all of which are my own. Besides, Rynd is married to that adorable woman, Ming.”
Jane wrinkled her nose. “Being married never stops anyone from swiving whomever they please. And while Ming is a dear, I heard they’re—you know—not right down there.” She made a discreet gesture between her legs. “Sideways or some such.”
“That is a malicious rumor,” Millie insisted. “Really, Jane.”
“How would you know? Have you seen one?”
“No, but they’re people. And we’re all pretty much made the same. I’m not discussing this further with you.” Millie sidled back as close as she dared to the edge of the curtain, sure to stay out of the way of the entrances and exits of the various actors from the stage that made up the populace of a fictional Venice.
“Who are you playing to tonight?” Jane asked, assuming her place by Millie’s shoulder and peeking into the shadows of the Covent Garden audience. She referred to Millie’s habit of picking one figure in the crowd and delivering her lines through a connection she created just for that individual. Of course she performed to the entire audience, but through her awareness of that link with her chosen theatergoer, she was somehow able to convey more emotion, sentiment, and passion. If she ever lost herself, she would find her mark and it would ground her back in the moment. She attributed much of her success to the practice, and never failed to pick her ritualistic audience-of-one before each performance began.
“See that man there, sitting alone in the second box back on the second tier?” She pointed to the lone figure.
“My, but he’s a giant shadow,” Jane marveled. “Not hard to pick him out of a crowd.”
“No, indeed, and his eyes are so shockingly blue, I could see them from the stage when the houselights were up.”
“Giving Rynd a run for his money, is he?” Jane poked her in the ribs with a sharp elbow.
Millie poked back. “Of course not, since we’ve already established that Rynd and I aren’t involved.”
Jane smoothed her coiffure and sent Millie a sideways wink. “Sure you inn’t. Anyone just has to watch you on stage to know you’re setting each other’s bed linens on fire, you lucky wench.” She swept onstage for her cue, cutting off Millie’s chance at a retort.