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‘I saw no point in telling you until we know the theatre is definitely on the market,’ Eden said. Whether he had understood what his mother had assumed, Maude could not tell, but she could only admire the delivery of the line.
The actress produced an exaggerated start of surprise. ‘The theatre?’ she enquired, in ringing tones, managing to make three dramatic syllables out of the word.
‘Yes.’ Eden began to gather up the letters. ‘The owner has died and the agents are finding out if the new owner will sell.’
Madame appeared momentarily speechless; not a state, Maude guessed, she was often reduced to. It did not last long. ‘Eden darling, a word, if you please.’ She swept Maude with a look that was assessing and speculative. ‘Lady Maude,’ she said coolly, before she swept off stage.
‘I must be going.’ Maude tidied her hair by touch. ‘Anna!’
‘Here, my lady.’ The maid hurried out of the wings with Maude’s muff and bonnet. ‘I’ve called the carriage, my lady, seeing what the time is.’
‘Thank you.’ Maude looked across at Eden, his face as cool and unreadable as it usually was. ‘I will see to the invitations, which will take a day or so. Shall we call it The Unicorn Musicale?’ He nodded, unsmiling. He must be thinking about Madame’s false assumption that they were betrothed. He would be feeling trapped by that, coming so close on the realisation of how much she desired him.
There was an ache inside her, not just embarrassment, but something else. The sudden change in him hurt, she realised. Whenever she believed they were getting close, Eden brought down an intangible barrier and retreated behind it. Was he truly so unable to love, to make
himself open to another person, to trust her enough to make himself vulnerable? She needed love, and she would sacrifice everything for that. But lack of it would kill her spirit, she knew it. It would be better to put some distance between them, just for a little while.
‘I…I may not come to the theatre for a day or so, there is so much to do for this. I will send notes, of course. And you will let me know if there is any news?’
‘Of course.’ He agrees so readily, he is relieved that I am going. Her heart sank a little. ‘I will see you at the special committee meeting we arranged for planning the event?’
‘Next week? Yes, of course. Goodbye, Eden.’ Maude paused, tying her bonnet strings. ‘I’ll be thinking about the Unicorn, and wishing you luck.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘Madame?’ Eden closed the door of his office behind him and went to sit in the high carved chair. He felt decidedly unfit for dealing with his mother in one of her moods. His body was still jangling with nerves and arousal from being around Maude, the thought that he might have the chance to buy the theatre was threatening to fill his brain to the exclusion of all else, and, on top of it all, his leading lady was leaping to quite ridiculous conclusions.
‘What are your intentions towards Lady Maude Templeton?’ she enquired.
‘Intentions? To continue with my existing partnership with her. Her insights are useful and I find the charity work she has involved me with surprisingly interesting,’ he said coolly, instinct warning him against allowing Madame any hint of his feelings.
‘Don’t try to cut a sham with me, Eden. Any fool with half an eye can see the pair of you are like April and May,’ Marguerite retorted. ‘Are you sleeping with her?’
‘No.’ Eden got a tight rein on his temper. ‘You are speaking about an unmarried lady of quality.’ It was probably not the most tactful of observations to make to someone who had been a lady of quality herself, before she had turned her back on her family and her chances of a respectable marriage.
His mother’s eyes widened, and he was seized with sudden doubt. She was a great actress, but could she really counterfeit that flash of pain? Had that scandalous split with her family not been her choice after all? ‘I am fully aware of that. And what a catch! Marry the girl, for Heaven’s sake, Eden. Think about her dowry, her connections!’
‘Think about the Earl of Pangbourne’s response when a bastard theatrical manager turns up asking for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Horsewhips would feature, I imagine.’
Marguerite shrugged. ‘Then get her with child—he won’t refuse then.’
If we were so careless, then I suppose I would marry you, she had said. And, A child deserves to be loved by both its parents. He eyed his own parent, that uncharacteristic feeling of sympathy quite gone. ‘Debauch her, in effect, so I can marry her for her money?’
‘A sensible strategy.’
‘A despicable one!’ he said hotly. The pain of the heavy carving biting into his clenching hands cut through the wave of red anger that her suggestion provoked. ‘Lady Maude is a friend.’
‘She’s in love with you,’ his mother said. ‘She’ll be willing.’
‘There may be some physical attraction between us,’ Eden conceded through clenched teeth, ‘but she is not in love with me. And,’ he added before she could say anything else, ‘I am not in love with her.’
May I be forgiven for that lie. Even as he denied it, he recognised the emotion that was possessing him. He loved Maude. How had that crept up on him, overwhelmed him without him realising? When had he fallen in love, so disastrously, so hopelessly? With that first kiss? The second? But she, with her gift for friendship, her passionate defence of the wounded and needy, she was simply encompassing him within the fortunate circle of those she cared for. She was not going to give her heart to someone as unworthy of it as he was. And if she did, then she needed protecting from herself. And from him.
‘Sentimental fool,’ his mother observed, getting to her feet in a flurry of silks. ‘I came in today because I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to visit me. Now I can see why I have been neglected. You will want to start rehearsals soon, I imagine?’
‘Yes.’ He had been intending to call on her that evening. Not to do so now would be childish and he was not going to add that to the list of failings that seemed to be written in letters of blood on his lids whenever he closed his eyes. And an evening doing a read-through with Madame would most certainly distract his mind from the shattering realisation that he had fallen in love.
But I don’t believe in love, the old, hard, cynical part of his brain protested. Everything that he thought he was, was false, it seemed. ‘I will bring the script round this evening. May I see you to your carriage, Madame?’
