Her gaze lit upon his lips. “Not always.” When she looked away, her cheeks were lightly flushed, and he wondered how much more they might darken if he gave in to temptation and kissed her.
But before he did something he shouldn’t, a gentleman in an ill-fitting jacket strode onto the stage and began offering what Matthew was certain he believed to be witty comments about Americans. The crowd laughing uproariously spurred him on. Miss Trewlove, seeming less than entertained, leaned toward him, her mouth near his ear, bringing with her the scent of oranges. He was rather certain her actions were the result of the loud clamoring that made it difficult to hear anything, that she didn’t mean to be provocative, yet provocative she was. How simple it would be to turn his head and capture her mouth.
“Why do people find it humorous to make sport of others?”
“To distract others from making sport of them.”
As far as Matthew was concerned, the gent couldn’t leave the stage soon enough. He was followed by a lady who couldn’t have been any older than Miss Trewlove. She was far too thin, her skirt and petticoats too short, revealing her slender ankles and bare feet. But she belted out a song about two lovers whose parents sought to keep them apart. It ended with their deaths at their own hands with the aid of a silver dagger in order to be together for eternity. Glancing over, he saw Miss Trewlove discreetly wiping tears from her cheeks. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he slipped his finger beneath her chin and turned her head toward him. Very gently, slowly, he gathered up her tears. “It’s only a song.”
“But such a tragic one.” Her brown eyes held so much sadness he wished he had a talent that would bring her a measure of cheer, chase away the sorrow.
“That is the way of love sometimes.”
“Still, I can’t imagine it’s better not to have it, even if only for a little while.”
“But having had it, could you give it up?”
“I don’t know. And who is to say that we cannot love more than once?”
Having collected all her tears, he stuffed his linen back into his pocket, touched by her tenderheartedness. A flurry of coins was tossed on the stage. The girl gave a series of quick bows and curtsies as she scurried around, gathering up her loot, and then she was gone. Leaning in, he whispered, “I’ll find out who she is and send money round to her tomorrow.”
Dear Lord, but he’d empty out his coffers for the smile she bestowed upon him. “That’s so generous of you, Mr. Sommersby.”
Hardly, not when he could easily afford it. “You enjoyed her performance, did you not?”
“I did. Do you think she really has no shoes?”
“I suspect the absence of them is part of her costume.”
She shook her head. “I forget these people are performers.”
“The really good ones manage to do that, to make you forget it’s all an act.”
His wife had certainly fallen into that category, laughing at his jests, bestowing upon him long, lingering gazes whenever he was walking toward her. She’d always smiled brightly upon first catching a glimpse of him, causing his heart to ratchet up its beat a notch in anticipation of his being nearer to her. Until he realized all her actions had been merely a ploy to achieve a certain end: his standing beside her at the altar.
Fancy didn’t enjoy most of the performances, especially the lewd ones, where people pretended to fornicate. Children were in the audience for goodness’ sake.
Still, she was glad she’d come, had the experience of it so if anyone spoke of penny gaffs, she’d at least have an idea of what they might have seen. She was especially glad Mr. Sommersby had accompanied her.
When they stepped out of the theater, she spied a woman selling meat pies. “Oh, I’m famished. Would you like one?”
“You don’t know what’s in it.”
“Well, it’s a meat pie.”
“What sort of meat? Dog? Cat? Rat?”
“Honestly. Just because this is a poorer area of London does not mean the food suffers.” She stepped up to the cart. “A meat pie, please.”
“Make it two,” he grumbled, before handing over the required coins.
“It wasn’t my intention for you to pay for everything tonight.”
“It’s no hardship, Miss Trewlove.”
“That’s not the point. I don’t want to be beholden.”
“It’s the least I can do after inserting myself into your night.”
