Her Favorite Duke (The 1797 Club #2)(69)

As Ewan grinned, Matthew elbowed him and shot Graham a look. “Does that mean you’ll go, bad company as you are?”

Graham nodded. “Yes. I’ll do it.” He sighed. “At least it will distract me.”

The other two men looked happy at his decision as they all rose to leave the tavern, but Graham didn’t feel the same. The last thing he wanted was to drag himself off to a public event where everyone could judge him. Not to mention waste a few hours watching some play that would probably be terrible.

But after all they’d done to support him, he owed it to his friends to try. And it was, after all, only one night.





Graham sat in a box overlooking the dark stage. Though he, Ewan and Tyndale had come into the theatre just before the rise of the curtain, it had not diminished the interest in his being there. Even now he felt the eyes of the crowd below on him, he’d heard the whispers of his name when he took his seat.

His cheeks and chest burned with humiliation and renewed anger. Thanks to Simon, his friend, the world pitied and judged and talked about him. He’d spent a lifetime trying to avoid anything that would make others do those very things and here he was. Exactly where he didn’t want to be, and he glanced at the exit behind him.

“Don’t run,” Ewan wrote, nudging him with an elbow to force him to read it in the dim light.

Graham folded his arms. Apparently he was becoming predictable. “I’m not going anywhere,” he grunted as the lights on the stage rose and the curtain along with it.

He settled back to watch what would surely be a terrible performance, as many of these plays were. The theatre was more a place for those who wished to be seen, rather than for anything worth watching. But to his surprise, the usual din of noise of people chatting faded and everyone seemed to truly pay attention as a woman entered the stage.

He leaned forward as she began to speak. She was beautiful, with honey blonde hair that fell around her shoulders in waves. She had a fine, clear voice that carried even to the rafters. But what stood out most was her confidence. As she strode across the stage, it was impossible not to watch her every move.

“I pray for death,” she said, her voice trembling with what felt like true emotion. “To free me from this pain. Strike me down, won’t you? End this farce of a life.”

Graham stared. She was good.

He watched for a while, enthralled as another actor came on stage and the woman turned toward him, her face twisted with emotion. The man was overshadowed by the light of her star. Eventually, he leaned in to Ewan and whispered, “Who is she?”

Ewan sent him a side glance and then wrote on his pad for a moment. When he turned it over to Graham, it read, “Lydia Ford. She’s the toast of London theatre at present. The reason why everyone wants to see this play.”

“Lydia,” he repeated as he turned the notebook back to his friend. He stared at the lady again. She had turned her face and was looking up at the box, at him, though that was just a trick of the light. He knew she couldn’t truly see him in the shadows.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

Next to him, he was aware that Ewan and Tyndale exchanged a look, but he didn’t care. For the first time in what felt like forever, a heated interest had lit in his chest. A need for a woman. This woman. Lydia Ford.

And he wanted to meet her, to see if that desire would last longer than the duration of a play.





Lydia Ford sat on the settee in the dressing room behind the stage, mending a hole in one of her costumes and laughing with her understudy, Melinda Cross.

“I swear, Robin has to stop stabbing me so hard in that death scene,” Lydia said as she shook her head. “Even a wooden sword hurts like a bugger and he keeps tearing the gown. Does he do the same to you on the nights when you play the role?”

“He’s a clod but no, he’s never put a hole in my gown.” Melinda rolled her eyes. “I think he’s just jealous that everyone comes to see you perform, not him.”

Pride swelled in Lydia’s chest at her friend’s compliments, for she was gratified by her nights in the theatre. More to the point, she recognized how lucky she was to be able to do the work, given where she’d come from. Her two worlds couldn’t be more different.

There was a light knock on the door and they both turned to see their stage manager, Toby Westin, open it. He was a tall, thin man with a nervous disposition and a sheet of paper covered with a never-ending list of things to do. “Lydia, you have someone who wishes to meet you.”

Lydia shook out the gown she’d been repairing before she got to her feet. “Oh?” she asked as she hung the garment. She tried to sound nonchalant but dread rose in her chest.

One thing she had learned in her few short months as a star of the stage was that men flocked to actresses. Oh, none of them would dare go out in public with one, since any lady who walked the boards was considered hardly better than a whore, but in private they were drawn like moths to a flame.

Even during her short time as an actress she’d had several impertinent offers from merchant and gentleman alike and had turned them all down as kindly as she could manage when her stomach was turning.

“Please tell us it’s not that awful Sir Archibald,” Melinda interjected with a shudder. “He refuses to leave me alone no matter how often I turn down his disgusting advances.”