Page 16 of A Snowfall of Silver

“I don’t think you look a fool,” I manage, my mouth dry.

He chuckles. This time it’s Viola’s turn to roll her eyes. I wonder if this means you do eventually become immune to his handsomeness. At the moment it is too much like looking directly at the sun for my brain to function properly.

“Right,” Nora says briskly. “That’s you done for today, Viola.”

“Lovely.” Viola smooths her dress, scoops up her bag and grabs her coat. “Wish me luck, won’t you?”

“Good luck,” Nora and I chorus, as Viola sweeps out of the room, waving lightly to Russ as she goes.

“Where’s she off to?” Russ asks, looking after her. “Dinner with another producer?” He snorts. “Ambitious little thing. She’d do better to make sure she’s at rehearsal on time. Didn’t even turn up on Tuesday, and the understudy had to go on. And then breezing in the next day like nothing had happened, not a word of apology…” He halts, as though realizing he sounds petulant and gives an embarrassed smile. “It’s just frustrating when there’s so little time before the tour starts. We shouldn’t be wasting it.”

“Well, she is very good,” Nora points out. “Mr Cantwell likes her.”

“Oh, yes, she’s good,” Russ agrees. “She wouldn’t get away with behaviour like that if she wasn’t. And I’ll admit her looks are a draw. She brings in the crowds, all right.”

“She is beautiful,” I say, feeling a strange urge to defend Viola.

“Mother was Indian or some such.” Russ shrugs. “Not that she advertises it, obviously.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

“Marco, is it, this time?” he asks then. Without waiting for a reply, he nods knowingly. “I heard he was sniffing around, promising her a part. Not that it’ll come to anything … he’s not the first to make her an offer, if you know what I mean.”

I have no idea what he means, actually, but I school my face into what I hope is a worldly expression.

“Come on, then,” Nora breaks in. “Now that you’ve made your grand entrance, you can take off that costume.”

“Why, Nora, I had no idea you were so forward,” Russ murmurs, “But if you insist…”

I blush, hating myself for it, but Nora smirks. “I’ve no taste for snot-nosed school boys, Russ.”

“Twenty-four, Nora,” he objects mildly. “Hardly a school boy. Rather, shall we say … in the prime of my life.”

“I’ll stop calling you a school boy when you stop acting like one,” Nora says. “You and Viola winding each other up all day long, it’s enough to drive a woman mad.”

Ah, I think. So that’s it. Russ and Viola are warring lovers or some such. It makes sense; they presumably fight mostly over who is the prettiest. It must be why he’s so put out to hear about her being wined and dined by producers.

Russ just laughs at Nora, and then turns to me. The sudden, full beam of his attention is overwhelming. “Now, are you going to introduce me to this young lady?” he asks. “New assistant, is it? What happened to the old one?”

“You know perfectly well what happened to the old one,” Nora says tartly. “And I don’t want a repeat of that performance, thank you.”

“Darling, you wound me,” he says. He gives me a conspiratorial wink. “I shall do the honours myself, then. Russell Whitmore.” He extends a hand, catching my fingers in his own. His hand is large and warm, pressed around mine.

“Freya Trevelyan,” I say.

“Charmed.” Russ executes a small bow over my hand, and I have to say that, with his dark hair falling over his brow and the gold buttons of his Hussar’s uniform gleaming, it’s all I can do not to swoon. “Now,” he murmurs wickedly, “which one of you is going to help me with all these buttons?”

CHAPTER NINE

Taking part in Russ’s fitting is certainly a test of my professional resolve. For one thing, where I come from, handsome young men are not in the habit of disrobing in front of me. I concentrate very hard on appearing unfazed by the whole thing, and eventually it stops seeming quite so strange, particularly as Nora and Russ are so matter-of-fact. Still, it would be a lie to say I didn’t notice the muscles visible under his white vest – which might be what Russ had in mind.

“For god’s sake, stop flexing like a bloody circus strongman!” Nora snaps. “How am I supposed to get these measurements right if you’re too busy putting on a show? Freya, pass me the linen shirt there.”

The brisk command jars me from my observation of Russ’s biceps, and I grab the shirt in question, hurriedly turning it over to Nora’s waiting hands.

“What do you think?” Russ asks, after slipping it over his head. His eye catches mine in the mirror, holding it for a moment longer than is necessary.

“I don’t know,” I say, trying to keep my tone cool. “Perhaps it needs letting out a little?”