Free Love Plays a Part by Nina Coombs Pykare Page B

“What noble simplicity and self-confidence he portrays.”
    “I do not need your comments on the play,” Samantha almost hissed at him, so distracted was she by this continual whispering in her ear.
    Roxbury chuckled softly. “You may as well relax and enjoy my enlightened company,” he continued cheerfully, “for I am quite conversant with the ways of the theatre, and I know that you cannot leave your station here. Your presence in this place, with your ever-ready needle, is required. And, since I find your company interesting though a trifle surly, I shall stay right here through the remainder of the play.”
    Samantha could barely suppress her fury at this nonchalant disregard of her wishes. Must her dream be spoiled by the interference of this arrogant lord? “Are you too cheap to rent a box?” she asked acidly.
    A momentary tightening of his lordship’s strong mouth told her that she had scored a hit, but his voice maintained its same even quality as he replied. “No. In fact, I have rented a box for the season.” He took a step closer, so that the sleeve of his corbeau-colored coat brushed against her arm. With difficulty she stood her ground. Surely he would not repeat his kiss of the other day. Not here, where everyone could see.
    “But what you do of necessity - observing from the wings - I sometimes do from desire. The play looks different from here. It is usually easier to observe the varying expressions on Kean’s face, though, master of the art that he is, every limb is capable of portraying his emotions.”
    Samantha, remembering Maria’s earlier advice, strove to calm herself by counting slowly and silently to ten. Perhaps if she presented his lordship with a pose of indifference, he would tire of his game. That it would have to be a pose was very clear to her. There was something strangely disturbing to her about the Earl of Roxbury, something that must be based on more than his unflattering remark that she was plain, especially since he was now pursuing her in a way that indicated quite the contrary.
    Unconsciously Samantha sighed. His attack on her person in that stolen kiss had been provoking, certainly, but neither could it account for the strange combination of feelings that warred in her breast. Her few days in the city had already showed her that lords of Roxbury’s ilk considered all the young women of the theatre as game. And, to be perfectly fair, Samantha was convinced that most young women saw things the same way. Also in fairness, she supposed she should concede that Roxbury would be a plum for any young woman. Though obviously past the age of thirty, he was still in his prime. In his black coat, his black silk breeches and stockings, with his precisely tied cravat rising above a white marcella waistcoat and his chapeau bras under his arm, he was quite a figure of a man. That much she could in good conscience admit. And she supposed that she must be rather an anomaly to such a man, into whose strong hands young women most likely fell like ripe fruit.
    As the play proceeded, she continued to stand silent, not condescending to reply to his remarks, though after some time she was forced to admit to herself what certainly she would never have conceded to him: that, for all his rakish airs, the Earl of Roxbury really did know his theatre. This thought was followed almost immediately by one even more striking: Perhaps she could learn something from the man. Since he was entirely correct about her not being able to leave her station, she might as well receive his remarks with an open mind. After all, the fact that he was a rake did not necessarily say anything about his knowledge of the stage.
    So it was that when Othello, responding to Brabantio’s accusations that the Moor had used magic to seduce Desdemona, said, “She lov’d me for the dangers I had pass’d/And I lov’d her that she did pity them./This only is the witchcraft I have us’d,” and his voice rose sharply on “Here