One Perfect Rose by Mary Jo Putney

they waited in the wings before the play began, and not only because they would make their entrances together. Even the most experienced actors felt tension before a performance. Though her protégé hid his nerves behind an impassive face, she sensed that he was ready to jump out of his skin.
    Garbed as Oberon, the fairy king, her father peered out at the audience. “A full house,” he said with satisfaction as he turned to the other actors. “I’ll go tell the musicians to start the march.” He slipped away to perform the task.
    Stephen gave Rosalind a rueful glance. “Is it too late to change my mind about playing Theseus?”
    â€œI’m afraid so, but don’t worry,” she said soothingly. “You’ll be fine. Mama was right—you make a wonderful duke.”
    â€œEasier to be a duke than an actor, I think.”
    â€œNonsense. You have the lines down perfectly, and you did very well when Papa put you through your scenes earlier.” She surveyed him from head to foot. In a flowing purple robe and wearing gold chains and crown, Stephen had a natural aristocratic dignity that made him a convincing royal hero. He should be almost as effective in the role as her father was. “Remember, all you have to do is say your lines clearly and don’t fall down. And you have to convey only two emotions—your authority as ruler of Athens, and your love for the woman you are about to marry.”
    â€œYou make it sound suspiciously easy, Hippolyta,” he said dryly.
    â€œIt will be easy, once you’ve said your first lines,” she assured him. “If you make any errors, I can gloss them over so the audience will scarcely notice.”
    The musicians ended the overture and struck up the stirring march that signaled the entrance of Theseus, Duke of Athens, and his affianced wife, Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. Feeling the tingle of excitement that always came when she was about to go onstage, Rosalind took Stephen’s hand. “Courage, my sweet duke. This is only Redminster, and if you do badly, who will know?”
    â€œThe Bard may rise from his grave and smite me,” he said darkly.
    â€œDon’t flatter yourself,” she said briskly. “He’s slept through centuries of performances that have mauled his work in every way imaginable. You can’t possibly be as dreadful as some of the actors I’ve seen.”
    He gave her a ghost of smile, but she suspected that he would rather be almost anywhere than about to go onstage. Luckily their musical cue sounded before his nerves could get any worse. She raised their joined hands to shoulder height, and together they swept grandly onto the stage.
    Covertly watching her partner, Rosalind saw the instant when he felt the impact of all the watching eyes. His face tightened into a mask.
    She squeezed his hand hard. “Say the words, and don’t fall over your feet,” she breathed in a tone that barely reached his ears.
    He closed his eyes for an instant, collecting himself. Then he turned to her and said with a powerful authority that filled the hall, “Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour draws on apace.”
    Rosalind caught her breath, shaken by the warmth in Stephen’s eyes. Perhaps because he was not a trained actor, he had none of the mannerisms of the professional. Instead, he radiated a sincerity that for a moment was more real than the stage around them. He was a ruler and a hero, a man among men. He was her beloved, come to claim her for all time. She wanted to lift her face for a kiss and press her body to his….
    A cough in the audience brought her back to her senses before she missed her cue to answer him. Calling on her decades of professional experience, she smiled seductively at Theseus—not Stephen, Theseus —and told him in Shakespeare’s lush words how quickly the days would pass until they wed.
    As the scene progressed, Rosalind