Chapter 29

Victoria muffled the ragged sobs with her pillow, its wet fabric pressing uncomfortably against her face. It had been hours since Lord Thomas had broken her heart, and it seemed impossible to her that she could have any tears left after such a harsh betrayal. But still, they came, and her eyes burned like they never had before.

She understood now, she supposed, what Charles had really meant about heartbreak. A dull and bitter part of her thought that this situation would be a great drama. Was this not how the romances with headstrong ladies always ended? Was this not how the plays always concluded if there was a lady who wanted to indulge in her desires, especially those of the flesh?

Victoria had known the dangers of pursuing a rake, and she had done it, nonetheless. This was her penance to find herself alone at night and crying into her bed. Slowly, she lifted her head and looked across the darkened room at her desk. Forcing back her tears and trying to catch her breath, Victoria rose to her feet. She had been wrong to assume that Lady Constance and Lord Belmont would have a happy ending. It was clear that theirs was a tale that could only end in tragedy.

She had not written a grand romance with a raw, magnificent woman. She had written Romeo and Juliet with a heroine who had learned the horrors of what men were capable of. Lady Constance had been lying to herself by assuming that a man might really love her. Surely, her Lord Belmont was as cruel and selfish as any man. Victoria went to her desk.

She found her pencil and pulled out the papers that she had scrawled over. Some of them were nearly intelligible, with all her marks and additions and retractions. She must write the ending that such a play deserved, and that would be a terrible one.

LADY CONSTANCE: I love you with all my heart.

LORD BELMONT: And I love you, my dearest Constance. I wish that I had told you that on the very day that we met. Even though you were across the ballroom, I felt at once such a profound feeling rise within me.

Victoria scowled and viciously drew through the offending lines. No, that would not do.

"I was foolish for thinking that is how their story would end," Victoria muttered.

A small part of her whispered that theatre did not have to be like the lived experiences of people. That was part of what had initially drawn her to drama, after all. Victoria had enjoyed the magic of the theatre and the idea that a person could if only for a little while, find themselves in a wondrous new world where anything was possible.

That had been a foolish idea, though. Plays were written by human beings—most of them men—who had only their own experiences for inspiration. The theatre was precisely like life. It was cruel, careless, and disappointing.

Victoria seized the pages of her play, where Lady Constance and Lord Belmont were happily wed, and she tore them to pieces. Even though she felt a spark of guilt for wasting such a precious resource, that feeling was quickly buried in the onslaught of her anger. There was something so satisfying in destroying her own childish work that way.

She wrote a new scene where Lady Constance learned the truth about her beloved Lord Belmont, the man who only wanted to wed her for her fortune. It was no longer Lady Constance's well-meaning friend who was the villain but Lord Belmont himself.

LADY CONSTANCE: Oh, my dearest Abigail! You tried to tell me that Lord Belmont would prove false, and I did not believe you! [LADY CONSTANCE casts an arm over her forehead and looks bereft with despair. Her lips quiver as she speaks.] I feel faint, my friend! I did not know that it was possible to feel pain so acutely, and I have been a fool for believing a single word that fell from that rake's lips!

Victoria tried not to think about Lord Bedford's lips, so warm and soft against her own. She winced when she remembered the way that she had moaned against his mouth and how her heartbeat had quickened when his breath brushed against her cheek, her jaw, and her neck. That familiar ache curled between Victoria's thighs, and she stifled a groan. It was unfair that Lord Bedford could still affect her in such an intimate way after he had betrayed her. She drew in a sharp breath and forced herself to focus on her writing.

How should Abigail react to her friend's errors? Victoria bit her lip, thinking. A harsh and impulsive part of her wanted to leave Lady Constance all alone and without a single person to comfort her, but she also knew that if she went to the theatre right then, Loralie would offer more support and kindness than Victoria could ask for.

With a sigh, Victoria lowered her pencil. It would be a tragedy, regardless. She rubbed her eyes, raw and exhausted from all her tears.

At least, I have Loralie and the rest of the troupe.

They were all she had. Lord Bedford had betrayed her, and her stepmother had betrayed her too many times to count. Even though Lady Norwood had been right about Thomas' deception, that did not mean that Victoria could imagine herself having a happy life, living with the stepmother who had called her a rake and who also probably only wanted her to achieve her own selfish ends.

Victoria had no choice but to live in the theatre with the troupe.

She supposed that some small part of her had always dreamed of that, had always known that it would happen. Even as she remained at home and tried to be a proper lady and earn her stepmother's love, a small part of Victoria had really always suspected that her life might happen this way.

Once, it might not have bothered her so badly, except now Thomas lingered in her memory like a branding. When she closed her eyes, she still felt the warmth of his hands upon her and the strength within him.

She remembered the way he had gazed at her as if she were the most precious thing he had ever seen in his life and as if he had no desire more than to press his flesh against hers. It was all a lie, though. She could never have that.

The only people in her life who saw her as anything more than her inheritance were those at the theatre. She must join them now. She could become an actress, maybe like Loralie. But even that thought was too painful.

She was not sure if she could bear to look at any other man or feel affection for any other man without thinking of Thomas' gaze upon her and the intense way he held her and touched her and those delicious, delightful sensations that he caused to explode within her, like a spark on the verge of becoming a flame.

She drew out another piece of paper. She must leave tonight and never look back. And although Victoria could not say anymore that she loved her stepmother or held even the most ragged remnant of fondness for her, she ought to tell the woman where she was going.

If Lady Norwood wanted the inheritance so badly, it was hers. Victoria had no desire to fight for the money. She only wanted to live somewhere she felt welcome, where she felt like she mattered as a human being with desires and dreams of her own, and so she began to write.

Dear Lady Norwood,

By the time that you read this, I shall be gone. You need not try and find me. I shall remain out of your life, just as you shall remain out of mine. I have no wish to wed Lord Ardenridge or any other man, so I suppose that you will be given my father's fortune. I hope it will bring you some measure of happiness.

Victoria paused, her eyes roaming over the words. They seemed strange to her as if she could not quite believe that she had penned them. It seemed as though there ought to be more to say. A small, vindictive part of her wanted to tell her stepmother just how badly her neglect hurt.

She almost wanted her stepmother to hurt like she had. Victoria squeezed her eyes closed and thought of her father. He would not have wanted this for her.

Another part of Victoria wanted to ask her stepmother what she had ever done to deserve this treatment. Had Victoria not tried so hard to be a loyal stepdaughter? What had she ever done to deserve such disdain from her guardian?

Nothing at all, Victoria thought. Maybe sometimes, the world is simply unjust.

She swallowed hard and pressed her pen to the paper once again.

I do not imagine that we will meet again, but I know that I am well. I hope that you are, too.

That was all she could think to say. Victoria stared at the remainder of the paper for a long moment, trying to find the appropriate closing to express all the regret and anger she felt. At last, she settled on Yours, etc.

Victoria left the letter at her desk and gathered the pages of her play. She knew how it ought to be now. Victoria took only a few things—her play, her pen, and a few items of clothing.

She wondered distantly if her stepmother would follow her and insist that those items were really hers and not Victoria's, but surely, the woman would not do that. After all, Victoria's leaving would likely mean that Lady Norwood received a sizable fortune. What were a few articles of clothing when compared to that?

With her few items, Victoria quietly left her room. Her footsteps were silent on the familiar floors, and a wave of longing rose within her so strongly that she felt as if she might drown beneath it.

Once, this had been her father's home. They had been a happy family together before her stepmother. Sometimes, after her stepmother if Victoria thought very hard about it. "Farewell," she murmured to the house and her father's memory.

She reached the door and stepped silently into the night. London was dark and silent save for the wind whistling in the air, heralding a coming storm. The theatre awaited her now. It was her home.

She was no longer Lady Victoria but just Victoria, the playwright. Victoria the heart-broken. It was time to forge a future of her own. She only wished that the thought of a future was the one of excitement and joy that she had always imagined. Without the promise of love, however, the world felt bleak and cold.