Chapter 1

One

Rose

Six weeks earlier

Union Square Theater

Another half-full house. This show was awful—an over-the-top, self-important farce. Audiences had steadily dwindled since opening night.

Which was how I noticed him . The man in the box on the right side of the stage.

This wasn't his first appearance in the theater. He'd been attending for weeks , every night, alone. An older gentleman, perhaps mid-thirties, well dressed. Handsome. I could feel his eyes track me as I performed, an intense dark stare that sent heat arrowing through me. It was as if I could taste his interest, his desire, from across the stage.

At first I thought I was wrong, that he watched all the actresses as intently. I quickly learned this wasn't so. Any night when my understudy performed in my place, I was told the mysterious stranger stood up and walked out.

Yet he hadn't approached me. No flowers or notes had arrived backstage, as was customary from admirers. Instead, he gifted me only with his remote attention night after night.

I became fascinated. Who was this swell? I asked the crew and my fellow actors, but no one knew his name, and he always left before I could seek him out.

Not tonight, I'd decided. Tonight I will have answers .

My skin buzzed with anticipation as the final curtain fell. Instead of participating in the bows as usual, I darted into the wings and toward the front of the theater. I hurried to the stage door, where the guard waited. Through labored breaths, I asked, "Did you see, Jimmy?"

"I did, Miss Rose." He propped the heavy metal door open for me. "That nice lacquer one right there."

I peeked out. Sure enough, a fancy black carriage waited at the curb. I handed Jimmy a coin. "Good work. Distract his driver, will you?"

"You'll land me in trouble, one of these days," he murmured, but stepped out onto the walk.

When Jimmy began arguing with the driver about blocking the street, I slipped outside, still in my costume. Very carefully, I opened the carriage door and eased inside. Ducking low, I closed the latch behind me and settled onto the velvet seat. Lord, it smelled nice here. Clean, with a hint of oak and cigar. A far cry from the stench of refuse and waste that lingered on the downtown streets.

Jimmy finished his fake argument and returned to the stage door. Now all I had to do was wait.

One thing about me? I was tenacious when I set my mind to a task. No matter how long it took I would sit here until the stranger returned. And I wouldn't give up until he told me his name and explained why he kept attending this show night after night.

Bodies trickled out from the theater doors. Was he wondering about my absence from the curtain call? Was he disappointed? I bit my lip, my blood humming as each portentous second ticked by.

The carriage door suddenly flew open.

A large figure filled the doorway, his face in shadow. He paused, fingers gripping the door, and I could feel him staring at me. Weighing his options.

"Hello." I patted the seat next to me. "Do come in, won't you?"

His lips twitched ever so slightly. Not looking away from me, he told his driver to stay put.

Then he removed his silk top hat and stepped up. Long legs folded as he arranged himself elegantly on the seat across from me, and I could see his features better now in the low light inside the carriage. Strands of silver threaded the dark hair at his temples, so a bit older than I'd first thought. He had a sharp jaw and high cheekbones, and a wide, arrogant mouth. There was something commanding about him, as if he belonged on the bow of an ironclad, waging a battle on enemy warships.

Still, I wasn't intimidated. I could wage war, as well.

He spoke first. "This explains your absence at the curtain call."

I batted my eyelashes dramatically. "Had you noticed? I am touched, sir."

A touch of color dotted his cheekbones. "Why are you here?"

Direct. I liked it. I folded my hands on my lap, which had the added effect of compressing my bosom. His eyes remained on my face, dash it. "I've come to ask why you are attending each of my performances."

"Perhaps I appreciate the theater."

"And I would call you a liar, sir."

"That's bold of you."

"Hardly, when I haven't a clue as to who you are."

A long second ticked by before he nodded once. "Alfred Moore Emerson III, at your service."

"Goodness, so many names," I murmured, my mind whirling. So, he was an Emerson. Nearly everyone on the island of Manhattan had heard of the family at some point. Like it or not, the richest and most powerful always received the most attention, and New Yorkers were obsessed with their version of royalty, the Knickerbockers. "I am Rose O'Donahue. But you already knew as much."

"Is that your given name, or a stage name?"

I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I didn't like this question. Rose Doyle—the girl I left behind in Youngstown, Ohio—was no more. She had died years ago. "Are you attempting to annoy me?"

"As you have stowed away for an ambush, I do believe that shoe is on the other foot."

I didn't care for how he was turning this around on me, clearly deflecting. He struck me as a man used to having the upper hand in each situation. But I would not be cowed, not when I'd felt his gaze on me nearly every evening.

I leaned in slightly and lowered my voice to a husky rasp. "Mr. Emerson. You haven't missed a performance in three weeks, except for the ones I skipped. Were you hoping to gain my attention?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped. Much too quickly, it was worth noting.

I couldn't keep from smirking. "I see."

"Miss O'Donahue, pray wipe that expression from your face. You are far too young for a man of my age."

Which meant he'd thought about it. Quite a lot.

Hmm. Who possessed the upper hand now?

"You may call me Rose . . . Alfred ."

He swallowed hard, his throat working in the shadows of his collar. "Moore."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I prefer to be called Moore."

I nearly grinned. This was the most fun I'd had in ages. Normally, I performed and went straight home to a lonely apartment downtown. "How old are you, Moore?"

"I told you, too old. Now, remove yourself and let me be on my way."

So prickly. Was his age a sore subject, then? I shook my head. "Not until I receive answers."

He tapped his gloved fingers on the seat in an impatient rhythm. "Perhaps I am bedazzled by your abilities. You are regarded as one of the best actresses in the city."

"Are you? Bedazzled, I mean. You hardly seem the type."

If possible, he appeared even grumpier. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that a man born with a silver spoon in his mouth would be difficult to impress."

"I apologize if my presence has offended you," he said after a beat. "I will cease attending after tonight."

"No." I would wither in this awful production without Moore's attention on me. His regard kept me engaged in the role and made me feel alive. There had been admirers before now, but none this . . . intense.

He blinked twice. "No?"

"You haven't offended me, and there is no need to stop attending."

"I disagree. My curiosity in regards to you has been satisfied and there is no need to continue."

"Curiosity?"

His chin rose slightly, the proud bearing of his shoulders evident through his black evening coat. "Surely you must know."

"I don't, actually. A curiosity regarding my intelligence? The capacity to hold a conversation not first memorized on a page?"

"Miss O'Donahue. Rose ." Moore cocked his head and frowned. "No one who watches you on that stage could ever doubt any of those things. You're remarkable."

I soaked in the complement and considered begging for more. Actors are such vain creatures. "Thank you. May I guess your age?"

His mouth curved and I could swear that amusement danced in the depths of his dark gaze. "Only if I may guess yours in return."

"Fair enough."

I pursed my lips and studied him. Since moving to New York four years ago, I hadn't paid much attention to the lobster set, which meant I really didn't know his family history. I could only judge by what I saw now, like the little lines creasing his forehead, framing his eyes. No lines bracketed his mouth, suggesting he didn't often smile. Evening stubble kissed his jaw, which, along with broad shoulders, spoke of manhood. "Forty."

Disappointment and irritation flashed over his face. "Thirty-eight," he said sharply.

I held up my palms. "I beg your pardon. Perhaps if I saw you smile, I might've shaved off one or two years."

"You are quite bold."

"I assume you mean that as a compliment, so thank you."

"Actually, I did not." He sounded amused, so I wasn't the least bit offended.

I shifted under the lamp to give him a better view of my features "Now, it's your turn to guess. How old do you think I am?"

"Twenty."

"Very good. I'll be twenty in six months' time."

"Christ," he said under his breath before dragging a hand over his face. "I should be tarred and feathered."

"For being attracted to me?" No use trying to hide it. We both knew it to be true.

"Yes—rather no . I am not attracted to you. You're practically a child."

If only he knew all the hardships I'd endured in my life. "I haven't been a child in a long time, Moore."

"Well, to me you are almost a child. Though I must say, you look older on stage."

"It's the cosmetics. Without them, I appear my age."

"Ah, that explains it."

We sat in silence for a minute. Was Moore searching for a mistress? If so, I needed to set him straight. Many actresses I knew had benefactors—men who paid for their lodgings and lifestyle in exchange for intimacies. I never judged them. This city was hard enough and everyone deserved a little help now and then. If not for a lucky break, my existence here might've turned out much differently.

Yet I wasn't interested in a benefactor. I had dreams of financial freedom, one that depended on no man. One that couldn't be taken away or leveraged. One that was all mine .

Only when I was financially secure would I choose a husband and move out to a big house in New Jersey or Connecticut. I'd grow flowers and have children and all the happiness in the world. This, however, was years away.

In the meantime, I enjoyed intimacies with a man, much in the way I enjoyed the attention I received while onstage. Both were brief, all-encompassing feverish endeavors that left me sweaty and drained, but in the very best way. Then it was over and I could relax with a good cup of tea, alone.

Unfortunately, there hadn't been a man in months . My last lover, a young man on break from his studies at Yale, fumbled through our encounter, leaving me unsatisfied and bored. The urge to try again hadn't occurred until now.

Moore, I was certain, would not fumble. Not even a little. I hadn't slept with a man in his late thirties before, but there was an air of arrogance around him, and I found it headier than any cologne. My gaze traveled down his chest and over his thick thighs. He looked athletic, fit. Certainly not the type to stay indoors and watch a ticker tape all day. He was probably insatiable . . . I licked my dry lips.

"Are you in search of a mistress?" I blurted. "If so, I hate to disappoint you. I don't sleep with a man more than once."

"You should go," he rushed out, his voice choked as he reached for the door handle. "I bid you goodnight, Miss O'Donahue." He eased the carriage door open, revealing us to the theater patrons lingering on the walk.

"There she is!" someone outside cried. "Rose! Miss O'Donahue!"

The crowd swelled near Moore's carriage and I decided to take pity on him. Theater fans could, on occasion, become rambunctious. But this was far from over.

Gathering my skirts, I slid closer to the door. "I'll see you tomorrow, Moore."

"You won't. Good luck in the rest of your run."

I threw him a challenging glance over my shoulder. "I will see you again. Mark my words." Then I climbed down to the walk and faced my admirers as they circled around me.

Moore's carriage didn't depart until I went inside the theater.