But he kept his back to them as he began to speak, his voice deep and slow.
To be, or not to be? That is the question—
Then he turned, but only partially. She studied his profile, her gaze lingering on the masculine cut of his jaw. He lifted his right hand.
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
He turned fully toward them, dropping his hand back to his side, his voice strong and steady, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond where they sat. Genie realized she held her breath and forced herself to exhale.
And, by opposing, end them? To die, to sleep—
No more—and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep.
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub,
His head shifted slightly, and his eye twitched.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
His forehead creased as he went silent. For a fleeting moment, Genie wondered if he’d forgotten the rest. But no, this was too beautiful, too intentional. She held her breath again until he continued. Then his voice returned, more stirring and seductive than before.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
He reached out, his fingers extending. Genie fought the urge to copy his movement, to seek the answers they could never find in this life. She’d found comfort in these words after Jerome had died, and now she found a different solace—an awakening.
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
He lowered his hand to his side. His gaze moved, just slightly, and Genie imagined he glanced at her. Was she a coward for not performing? No, of course not.
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
A moment of silence passed, then he bowed. The ballroom erupted in applause. Genie wanted desperately for him to continue. Alas, he did not. He bowed again, smiling, then took himself from the dais. He helped Cecilia up, then came back to his seat.
“My goodness, that was thrilling, wasn’t it?” Cecilia said, clapping her hands together. “Wonderful. And now for a song from Mrs. Fitzwarren!”
Genie registered what her cousin said, but her focus was on Satterfield as he sat down beside her. “That was brilliant,” she whispered. “I wish you could continue.”
He looked at her askance. “Thank you.”
“Could you?” She angled herself toward him. “Continue, I mean.”
“Would you take on the role of Ophelia?” he asked with a slight smile.
“I could.”
His gaze locked with hers as Mrs. Fitzwarren began to sing a ballad of love and marriage—rather fitting for this party. Genie wondered if Cecilia had asked her to sing that song in particular.
They turned their attention to the dais. Mrs. Fitzwarren had a beautiful voice. But Genie was still lost in Satterfield’s riveting performance. He could have enjoyed a career on the stage.
Genie kept stealing glances toward him, each one longer than the last as she drank in his profile. What was happening?
She forced herself to watch Mrs. Fitzwarren as her voice soared. All the while, she was completely aware of Lord Satterfield’s proximity. Maybe just one more look…
As Genie peeked in his direction, her breath caught. He was watching her, his dark eyes smoldering. Had he been stealing glances too?
She couldn’t look away. If she dropped her hand to her side, and he did the same, their fingers might touch…
What was she doing? Genie swung her attention back to Mrs. Fitzwarren and clasped her hands together in her lap.
The song ended, and Genie considered leaving. Except she’d have to move past Lord Satterfield, and right now, she didn’t trust herself to even speak to him. Doing so might betray her…what?
“That was lovely,” he said, drawing Genie to turn her head.
He’d leaned toward her, and now they were very close. Almost unbearably so. But Genie didn’t move. “Yes, but I still enjoyed your performance more,” she said softly so that no one else could hear.
His eyes gleamed. “You flatter me.”
Genie fought to keep the conversation focused on…anything. “How long did it take you to memorize the speech last night in preparation for today?” She kept her voice just above a whisper.
“None.” He also spoke in a low tone. “I committed it to memory years ago. Along with a sonnet or four and a few other favorite speeches from Master Shakespeare’s plays.”
Oh dear, he loved Shakespeare too. “Is Hamlet your favorite?”
“It is indeed.”
“Mine is Much Ado About Nothing. I adore Beatrice and Benedick.”
His lips curled into a brief smile. “A miracle! Here’s our own hands against our hearts.” He lifted his hand to his chest. “Come, I will have thee, but, by this light, I take thee for pity.”
The answering words came to Genie’s mind without effort. “I would not deny you, but by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.”
“Peace! I will stop your mouth.” His gaze settled on her lips.
She leaned slightly toward him before realizing where they were, that Cecilia was back on the dais announcing the next performance. Her pulse racing, Genie moved slowly back.
Satterfield did the same. “If Lady Cosford decides to have another performance, we could do that scene.”
Oh, they couldn’t. She was saved from responding by Mr. Emerson attempting to juggle apples. He was an absolute disaster, and soon everyone was laughing at his antics as apples rolled from the dais onto the floor. Genie was grateful for the distraction.
She was also careful to speak with the person on her right during the next interlude between performances. Mrs. Sheldon was perhaps a decade or so younger than Genie. With dark sable hair and piercing green eyes, she was a beauty.
“You and Lord Satterfield seem to be getting on well,” Mrs. Sheldon said with a warm smile.
Genie didn’t want rumors to start. “As well as anyone. Will you be performing today?”