‘Rafe, when you kiss Hero, you must initially do so hesitantly, reluctantly—after all, the woman you love is dead, and it’s all your fault. As penance you’ve elected to marry another woman of her father’s choosing, but you have no desire for the marriage. Your wife-to-be is not Hero. And yet, as you kiss her, your senses relate to you the fact that you’re holding in your arms the woman you love, so before Hero removes her mask you’re already saying wonderingly, “Another Hero…”
‘And you, Kirsty,’ he turned to Kirsty, ‘you’ve told yourself that you’ll marry Claudio to punish him; his shock is your sweet revenge, and yet when he kisses you, revenge is forgotten and you remember only that he’s the man you love. I want you to communicate that to the audience.’
He made them run through the scene again, exclaiming with dissatisfaction when they played the final scene.
‘No, you’re not striking the right sparks off one another. When you kiss it’s like watching two comfortable friends embracing. When you kiss Hero, and realise who she is, all your love and anguish must be in your face; you break the kiss reluctantly. Look, perhaps it will be easier if I show you what I want.’
Rafe moved aside, as Kirsty stared numbly up into Drew’s face. He instructed the other actors to lead them in, approaching Kirsty with reluctance as he was shown his new bride-to-be by Antonio.
‘Why, then she is mine.’ The words were spoken wryly, with a faint edge of bitterness that faded to sorrowful acceptance as he continued. ‘Sweet, let me see your face.’ His fingers touched the mask she was wearing and Kirsty trembled to feel them against her face. Her skin felt hot and dry and she barely heard Leonato’s lines, didn’t even realise he had finished speaking until Drew took her hand. She had forgotten everyone else existed; forgotten that they were playing parts and was conscious of very little other than the powerful magnetism of his eyes on her face, his fingers stroking the vulnerable flesh of her inner wrist.
‘I am your husband, if you like of me.’
It was her cue, and she raised her eyes to his, conscious of the warmth of his palm through her costume as he drew her against him, shaping her body to his as he kissed her, lightly, lifting his head to study her face with dawning incredulity before kissing her again.
Her mouth moved on hers softly, feeding her deep hunger, until in spite of all her efforts to resist him she was responding blindly. His hand slid into her hair, holding her captive, the pressure of his mouth increasing, no longer subtle, but hungrily demanding. Kirsty forgot that they were merely playing two parts. He was Drew, and she loved him. She was drowning in his kiss, taking pleasure from the hardness of his hands against her skin. She wanted it to go on and on for ever.
When he lifted his head she stared blindly up at him. He was speaking, and it was several seconds before she realised, humiliatingly, that he was speaking Claudio’s lines.
When he had finished there was a spontaneous burst of applause from the onlookers, although Rafe did remark teasingly, ‘Of course, the fact that you and Kirsty are engaged had nothing to do with the excellence of your performance!’
‘It helped,’ Drew admitted. He was watching Kirsty with an expression she could not decipher; a considering, almost yearning expression, but he moved and she decided it must have been a trick of the light, unless of course he had been thinking of Beverley alone in New York.
The scene came to an end and with it the play. Drew summoned them all together to run through what he had seen of the play, and as Cherry had suggested, announced that they would have another full dress rehearsal at the end of the week.
‘So far, so good, from what I saw,’ he told them, ‘but there are several things that need brushing up. Your scene, Kirsty and Rafe, and also Rachel—your Beatrice is excellent, but occasionally you seem to forget that you’re very fond of your cousin—it doesn’t always come through.’
It was obvious that Rachel wasn’t too pleased by the criticism. She opened her mouth to retaliate, but Drew had already moved on to another part.
Kirsty was exhausted by the time they had finished and she had changed back into her normal clothes. Cherry and several of the others were gathered in the foyer as she left, chatting about the rehearsal.
‘We’re off to the pub,’ Rafe told her. ‘Fancy coming with us?’
‘She’d better not!’ None of them had seen Drew emerge from the other side of the foyer, a supple cream leather jacket over his black pants and cashmere sweater. ‘I’ve already got plans for tonight, and they don’t include sharing her with anyone else!’
Everyone laughed, although Kirsty felt herself colouring faintly. He wanted to talk to her, Drew had said, and she could guess what about. It was hardly likely to be the romantic reunion the others were doubtless thinking. Just for one weakening second she allowed herself to think of how it might have been if they were really engaged. Drew would have taken her back to the farmhouse, the tension in both of them growing until they were alone.
Once inside he would kiss her as he had kissed her earlier, and then…
She deliberately delayed until everyone else had gone, and then when they were alone, and Drew was holding open the door, she told him shakily, ‘Drew, if you don’t mind, I’d rather give it a miss tonight. It’s been rather a long day…’
‘You think I don’t know that? You should try flying across the Atlantic and then you’d really know what a long day is. Where’s your feminine compassion, Kirsty?’ he demanded tauntingly. ‘Is that the best you can do by way of a welcome home?’
‘I’m sure it doesn’t compare at all with Beverley’s greeting,’ Kirsty heard herself saying in a tightly bitter voice that filled her with dismay.
‘Beverley is a woman,’ Drew agreed, watching her sardonically, ‘while you’re still a child. When are you going to grow up, little girl? Come on, I’ll take you home,’ he finished abruptly.
He escorted her to his car in silence, driving competently the short distance to her bedsit. Fortunately she had walked to the theatre that morning, although she would had preferred driving home alone to sitting next to Drew in the unnerving silence that stretched her nerves to breaking point.
‘Not quite the conclusion to the evening the others were visualising,’ he drawled as he leaned across to open the door for her. ‘It’s not exactly idyllic from my point of view either,’ he added with unkind cynicism.
Suddenly they seemed to be enemies. Perhaps he was annoyed because she hadn’t asked him about Beverley. He was obviously missing her, but Kirsty felt far too heartsick herself to pander to his desire to talk.
As though he read her mind, he said curtly, ‘We still have to have that talk, Kirsty, but it’s obvious that neither of us is in the mood tonight. Having waited this long, I don’t suppose it’s going to kill me to wait a bit longer—I can’t pretend I’m going to enjoy it, though!’
CHAPTER NINE
BY rights tonight there shouldn’t be anything on her mind other than the fact that this was their first night, Kirsty reflected, sliding into the car and closing the door. But there was something else on her mind. Drew! Since his return from New York the only times she had seen him had been during rehearsal and occasionally afterwards when he drove her home. During these drives he had been silent and preoccupied—thinking about Beverley, she had told herself, but if so, his thoughts could hardly be pleasant ones, if they were to account for the grim lines round his mouth and the look in his eyes.
He had never made any reference to the discussion he wanted to have with her, and Kirsty wondered if he was waiting until after their first night to break the news. Perhaps he had guessed how she felt about him, despite her pains to conceal it, and didn’t want to upset her before the play opened. The play—she had thought Simon dedicated, but it was nothing to the energy Drew put into the production, and somehow that energy seemed to reach out to everyone involved, striking off sparks that lifted it from being merely good to being something exciting and different.
Cherry had seen it. She had told Kirsty excitedly that it was the best production the company had done.
‘You make a fantastic Hero,’ she praised, but Kirsty knew that no matter how many times she played the final scene with Rafe she would never reach the heights she had done with Drew. Why on earth had she been so stupid as to fall in love with him in the first place? Hadn’t she always vowed that she would never fall in love until she was in her twenties—at least twenty-six, she had once told her aunt. How easy those words had been to say; and how disastrously wrong!
Backstage all was chaos. Members of the cast were hurrying in and out of dressing rooms, demanding make-up and costumes; on stage Pete was testing the lighting, and as she hurried to the dressing room Kirsty could hear the scenery being moved about on stage ready for the first scene. Apprehension gripped her, panic sliding coldly through her veins. What if she forgot her lines? What if she missed a cue? She had felt like this before, of course, but before she had not been a member of such a prestigious cast. She trembled as she remembered how bitchily Rachel had commented on her inexperience the previous day. The older woman seldom lost an opportunity to remind her that Drew and Beverley had been in New York together. She mustn’t think of that now, she told herself panickily as she stripped off her jeans and sweater, pulling on a cotton gown as she sat down to start on her make-up. Fortunately, because she was already dark, unlike Rachel she had no need of a wig.