When You're Desired by Tamara Lejeune Read Free Book Online Page A

acquired tortoiseshell fan.
    Celia and Fitzclarence went out of the room together, leaving Flood to finish her work and lock up. “We shall have to cancel our excursion to Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow night, I’m afraid,” Celia apologized as they moved through the corridor. “Peg Copeland is breeding, and Lord Torcaster most kindly has sent her down to the country to convalesce. I am to take her place in Mr. Palmer’s benefit. I must go straight home and study my lines like a good girl.”
    â€œWhen is the last time you did anything like a good girl?”
    â€œYou’d be surprised, Captain Fitzclarence!”
    â€œI don’t care what you say,” he said, leading her to the stage door with his hand firmly under her elbow. “I am taking you to Crockford’s for supper.”
    Crockford’s was a fashionable club much frequented by the aristocracy. One could eat and drink there, to be sure, but that was not its main function. It was first and foremost a gaming hell. Though an indifferent gamester, Celia often found herself in such places, being plied with free food and drink, as well as complimentary gaming chips. The proprietors were always glad to see the famous actress. St. Lys was good for business, and her friends were welcome, too.
    â€œAbsolutely not,” Celia said firmly as he pulled her through the door into the cold night. “I must go straight home, Clare. It’s been three years since I played Juliet. I must study or I shall be laughed off the stage.”
    â€œNonsense. You could stand there drooling for three hours and they’d still pay to look at you.”
    â€œThen I’d better brush up on my drooling!”
    â€œYou must eat, Celia,” he said persuasively. “You’re naught but skin and bones. And you know Crockford always lays on a good supper.”
    Celia’s belly rumbled. She could never eat before a performance, and she was always starving afterward. And Mr. Crockford did lay on a good supper. “All right,” she agreed weakly. “But we mustn’t stay long.”
    â€œNo indeed,” he agreed easily.
    Celia frowned suspiciously. “I mean it, Clare. We’ll have a light supper at Crockford’s. One glass of champagne. But then you must take me straight home.”
    â€œOf course,” he assured her, patting her hand as he drew it through the crook of his arm.
    â€œPromise?”
    â€œI promise.”
    A hackney awaited them at the end of Drury Lane. Fitzclarence handed Celia in, climbing up beside her and closing the door. Celia caught her breath in surprise as her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the carriage lamps. On the opposite seat sat two of Clare’s fellow officers. She knew them. Between them sat a third male, also in regimentals. His hands were tied and his head encased in a black silk hood.
    â€œWhat on earth—” Celia began angrily, as the hackney carriage lurched forward. “Clare! I demand to know the meaning of this.”
    â€œHush,” Fitzclarence murmured at her side. “All will be revealed.”
    At a sign from him, the black silk hood was removed. The rosy face of a good-looking, fair-haired, blue-eyed boy, even younger than Fitzclarence, came into view. He blinked at them like a newborn kitten.
    â€œYou said you wanted a greenhorn,” Fitzclarence murmured.
    â€œGreenhorn? He’s an infant,” Celia protested. “He ought to be wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger!”
    â€œI’ll leave that to you, then, shall I?”
    The boy was staring at the actress with his mouth open. “Bloody hell!” he breathed. “You’re Celia St. Lys!”
    â€œYes, I know,” Celia said dryly. “And you are?”
    â€œWest,” he said eagerly. “Tom West.”
    Celia smiled a little doubtfully, then shrugged her shoulders.
    â€œWelcome to the regiment, Mr. West,” she