They had reached the end of the topiary gardens and wandered into a new display, this one full of roses and buzzing bees, along with more ground covers swirling into patterns of petals and leaves.It was a good question.He’d often threatened himself with walking away in the past, but then he always signed another contract, stood before another orchestra, and conducted another season.‘I would not know where to start.’
‘I do not know either.My entire life has been about singing.Maybe I am selfish to want everything.To want this opera.Myopera.But the stage has always made me so happy.What else should we do, if not strive a little more?We might as well be automatons, performing for a penny.’
‘It will pass,’ he assured her.‘This thing with the press.We’ll manage.’
‘Perhaps.I’ve never said it, but thank you, Cassius.No matter what threats Karl made, we both know he has no teeth.You did not have to stay.’
She pushed herself onto her toes.Went to kiss his cheek, and on a whim, spurred on by the fresh air and her sadness, he tipped his head into the memory of another time and another kiss.Only the corner of their lips touched, the slightest graze, those angles of pink, plump flesh barely brushing his own.Their breath mingled, two tiny exhalations catching each other like the battling breezes from the pond and the city.For one glorious moment, Cassius leant into her freshness.Tipped a little more.She licked her lips and pressed against him.Tensed her nails against his biceps as he flexed against her.
‘See?’she whispered, her mouth twisting into a smile.‘Youarethe lovesick fool.’
Flame lashed against his ribs, then quietened as he wrestled the furl of anger into compliance.‘Treacherous flirt,’ he muttered, pulling back and turning his cheek.‘You convince only yourself.You are the one stooping to a courtship with a man who doesn’t wear a crown.’
Frail as gossamer, the thread between them tightened, caught the light, then snapped.Odette hooked her arm through his elbow again, but held him a little further away.When they resumed their walk, it carried more purpose, and while they still struck a slow pace, each step landed more deliberately.The gates rose into view, and beyond them, the city tessellated into shape.
‘Tell me, Zadora… why no love story of your own?’she asked.‘You could have married a dozen times over.Why do you only chase women who could never become your wife?’
Her question caught him just as they reached the edge of the gardens and headed towards the spot where her coach was waiting.For a few steps, it hung in the air, thick as a storm that had held on long past the moment it should have broken.‘The music is my love,’ he finally offered.‘It seemed unfair to drag a woman into a contest she could not win.Married women are less problematic.’He guided her up into the carriage.‘I could ask the same of you.’
He stepped back to allow the coachman to shut the door, and Odette leant out of the open window, her slim, gloved arm stretching along the length of its hollow.‘Why have I never married?Oh, that is simple, darling.No one has ever asked me.’
Her revelation hung in the air long past her departure, humming like a faint, wavering note at the end of a song.
Until Cassius decided that yes, he would grasp it, and tuck it into his pocket.
Chapter 9
‘Thereisnothinggoingon?It is still just an act?’
Odette’s eyes skimmed Cassius to gauge his level of discomfort, but as usual, he remained as unreadable as smoke.Karl’s chair creaked as he leant back, his grey eyebrows knitting into a frown.Drawing on years of training to suppress the urge to fidget, she steepled her fingers together and breathed until her insides settled into the sheen of a pond on a calm summer’s day.
‘That is a ridiculous question.Why would you even ask it?’She flicked an imaginary piece of dirt off her skirt for effect.
Cassius, for his part, sank deeper into his seat.He even had the nerve to hitch his trouser leg, loosening the tension in the fabric, and then rested his left ankle on his right knee.As if he had never even dreamt of kissing her two days ago.As if he hadn’t almost kissed her, pulled back, and avoided her since.
Odette had been kissed by men before.She’d also been almost kissed and turned away from them at the very last second.
But no one had ever,ever, pulled back on her.
‘Why would I ask?’Karl’s voice drifted through a wave of pitches.‘Why?Oh, I don’t know.Perhaps because I have nothing more important to do than contemplate such questions.Because I delight in imagining even more bad press to wrangle.Because I am paranoid.Or perhaps…’ he rummaged through the drawer in his desk, ‘…perhaps, because the two of you were spotted in a highly inappropriate embrace!’The magazine slapped onto the cedar wood.With an expert flip, Karl opened it to a page where a bold headline proudly announced controversy—followed by an article that detailed their perambulations at the flower show.‘I worry about reviews inThe Times.I worry about theMusic Hall and Theatre Review.I worry aboutBell’s LifeandFigaro.But never, in all my working days as a theatre manager, have I worried about a scandal being broken by theJournal of Ferns!’
Cassius spluttered, then smoothed his outburst into a cough.He gave a nonchalant wave, as if he were deliberating, but his eyes glinted with water.
That was something, at least.
‘And not only that.’Karl rose from his seat as he kept rummaging through the drawer.Then he slapped another magazine onto the desk.And another.‘Floral World.The Gardener’s Chronicle.EvenAmateur Gardeninghas run an article speculating about the special allure of ground covers after the two of you were spotted making a spectacle of yourself in front of such a display.You were meant to put on aboringcourtship.Something conventional.Restrained.Go for a walk.Maybe shake hands.Not enact some torrid love affair!’
Odette dared to peak at the open page.
More than flowers blossoming…
She sat back.She did not need to read further.
‘Why would they even bother with us?They’re gardening journals.’Cassius bent forwards, his hands resting on his knees.In the low light of Karl’s office, the creases and lines of his knuckles appeared angular and hard, even though his palm had felt feather-light against her waist when he’d held her.His thumb had stroked her hip with… with longing, yes.And the way his small touch had sent her skin crackling…
Odette startled as Karl swept the magazines off his desk.
‘Because every second journalist at a small press dreams of bigger days.Of their own bylines, their own columns, of owning bloody Fleet Street!And they will take any opportunity to grasp at success.The other papers don’t know whether to run the story or make fun of it.Meanwhile, the patron is horrified.’
