Page 91 of Regency in Color

Chapter Four

It wasn’t often Frank got a night off. Or close to it, at any rate.

All he had to was introduce Alessandra and Cosimo, then he was free to find Andie and enjoy the show until he had to close it at the end. After checking on the lads at the doors, Frank put on his coat and took the stage to scattered applause. “I now have the great honor of presenting a new act. All the way from Sicily, I give you The Spider Dance.”

Frank exited the stage as the drumming began. As it happened, there was nothing new about the tarantella, but even if his audience had heard one before, they never would have seen it played like this. Leaving his coat on its peg in the kitchen, Frank rolled up his sleeves and retrieved a bottle of rum from the cold cellar. Two clean glasses in hand, he took it behind the bar and met Andie at the foot of the stairs. She watched the stage, enthralled. Frank offered his arm. “Shall we?”

She glanced up at him, obviously alarmed. On the stage, Nyra, Diana, and Polly were just getting started. Draped in colorful scarves, they were fully covered at all times, but their sensual movements gave the impression that their clothes were about to fall off.

Frank mentally kicked himself. It should have occurred to him that Andie was likely more sheltered than she seemed. “I’m sorry, is this a bit much? You don’t have to stay.”

Andie noticed the bottle in his hand, and an odd resolve settled over her features. He couldn’t blame her; it was bloody good rum. “No, I’d like to stay. Where shall we sit?”

With a smile, Frank led her to the highest balcony open to the public. It was empty tonight, and they’d be able to see the show but still talk without disturbing anyone. He motioned toward the pink seashell-shaped sofa overlooking the stage. “How’s this? You’re not afraid of heights, I hope?”

Andie shook her head, taking in the Moroccan lamps suspended from the star-painted ceiling. “This is perfect.”

* * *

The dance was notlike anything Andie had seen before. It started with Nyra, Diana, and Polly dancing to the roll of the drums. This was no waltz, but a kind of awakening that seemed to overtake them an inch at a time. Andie had never seen hips move like that, and when they tossed their shoulders and arms into the dance, spinning gossamer veils in the air, she had to catch her breath. It was beautiful.

Frank offered her a glass of rum and she accepted, the familiar burnt-sugar taste as comforting as her great-grandfather’s profile on the side of the bottle. How would Achille feel about her being here? A proud and accomplished man, his example inspired everything her family did to this day.

Then again, he himself had married an English barmaid from Southwark, so perhaps he would understand.

Acutely aware of the man beside her, Andie focused on the stage without really seeing it. Sitting next to Frank felt natural, and comfortable in a way she’d never experienced. She didn’t have to explain herself or fight to be understood; he saw her and celebrated her the way she was.

Well, as much as he really knew about her, anyway. Would his opinion change if he knew her real name?

The drums sped up, and the dancers moved away from each other. As the song began in earnest, they started to spin, tossing themselves about as if in a storm. They shook and tore at their clothes, warring with the drums for speed. Frank leaned forward on his knees. “This is the tarantella,” he said. “Have you ever seen it?”

Andie shook her head, leaning toward him to hear him better. “What is it?”

He licked his lip, excited to explain it. “It’s a traditional dance from Taranta that dates all the way back to antiquity. It symbolizes the effects of a venomous spider bite, which in this case is a metaphor for the torture of falling in love. The dance itself is therapeutic; the idea is that if they do it correctly and with enough passion, they can exorcise the venom.”

She frowned. “So they’re doing it to not be in love?”

“Theoretically.” Frank shrugged. “I suspect it’s that all that pent-up energy just needs somewhere to go.”

Andie watched with new insight. The dance was captivating, and the women did indeed look tortured. But as they danced and lost themselves in the music, the anguish took on another quality until the women seemed to enter a state of divine ecstasy. “It’s incredible.”

“It’s for you,” Frank said. Clearing his throat, he clarified, “In the show, your character—you’re based on these ancient mystery goddesses of love and war.”

As she looked down upon the dancers and musicians, she tried to imagine them playing for her favor, and the role did indeed begin to make more sense. If she had the power to heal these women of their affliction, she would. “How do I fix it?”

Frank looked at her askance, the lamps glittering in his eyes. They were as dark as the longest night—clear, endless, and deep enough to fall into. “You don’t. You can’t cure love,” he said quietly, his gaze falling to her lips. “The only way out is through.”

Andie’s breath caught. They were close enough now that she could smell the ginger in his soap. An odd smell for a man, the heat of it diffused with the warmth of his skin, mixing with the starch in his collar and the spice of the rum. Was he going to kiss her?

She hoped to God he would.

A burst of applause announced the end of the dance, and the moment was lost. Andie finished her drink and leaned against the backrest of the sofa, trying to catch her breath. To her surprise, Pietro, Lorenzo, and Andrei joined the women on the stage. Nyra picked up a set of castanets to add to the percussion as she continued to dance. A new rhythm started, and the whole mood of the theater changed. “What is this?” she asked Frank.

“This is ‘through.’ The tammorriata.” He refilled both of their glasses. “You might need that.”

The tammorriata was a couple’s dance, seemingly improvised. Taking turns supporting each other’s weight, each couple leaned back and forth in impossibly deep dips, swinging and swaying and all but climbing each other on stage. Andie might have been inexperienced, but she knew the dance was meant to mimic making love. The dancers took turns taunting each other, pulling away, then embracing each other once again until Andie was sure the temperature in the theater had risen by at least ten degrees. It drew her in but made her uncomfortable at the same time. “Should we be watching this?”

Frank paused with his glass halfway to his lips. “What, together?”