They all seemed to have proceeded with the rest of their lives.
Without him.
He gave himself a mental shake. What was this? Was he turning into a self-pitying noble—the worst sort of noble there was?
Right.
Tomorrow night, he would have a bit of fun—the sort unencumbered by the duties of a duke or feelings of self-piteousness.
Chapter Two
Sebastian stepped ontothe village green and tugged his slouch hat lower over his forehead, hoping his identity wouldn’t be obvious to all. He had no desire to foreground himself and make people uncomfortable while they were enjoying their night.
So far, no one had cut him a second glance.
Of course, why would they?
Though the evening had gone gray with approaching night, the green was bright with the atmosphere of a festival. A magician here. An acrobat there. A terrier dressed as Queen Elizabeth dancing for treats on its hind legs, grabbing giggles from children and their parents alike. A stallholder thrusting a sugar plum into his face. “Three fer a ha’penny.”
Sebastian dug into a pocket and found a linty shilling.
The stallholder’s eyes went wide. “That’ll do.”
And Sebastian was left holding a bag full of sugar plums.
Sugar plum incident notwithstanding, it felt good to move through the crowd like a ghost. No one deferred to him here—a freedom enjoyed the more for its rarity.
He popped a sweet into his mouth and kept walking. Most villages didn’t allow theater companies use of their village green. Usually, they had to ask a local gentleman for use of his land. Sebastian supposed that was why he hadn’t been aware of their presence in the area. The village had granted them the necessary permission.
He experienced a strange stab in his chest. No one would’ve thought to invite the local duke who only graced them with his presence two or three times a year to throw a country house party.
And he didn’t blame them.
He wouldn’t invite the local duke either. Dukes were a reliably dour, unimaginative lot.
He snorted.
A small puckish lad scampered across the stage—the terrier Queen Elizabeth prancing behind him—and began lighting the lanterns, one by one, which would not only illuminate the night’s entertainments, but also the company’s sign in bright crimson and gold—Ye Olde Albion Players.
Sebastian took a standing place at the farthest edge of the audience. He’d always appreciated the egalitarian nature of theater. Everyone who watched was entitled to an opinion, and everyone’s opinion was equally valid, because it came from a place of the truth that resided solely within them. The same applied to all the arts.
Once the performers took to the stage, Sebastian felt himself entering the spell of the pantomime—a mixture of popular scenes from various plays—the sorts of scenes that pulled a laugh…or drew a tear—broken up by a song here, an acrobat there, a few magic tricks to hold the attention.Clever.In a festival atmosphere, spans of attention tended to run short. Ye Olde Albion Players understood their audience wouldn’t be in the mood for a three-hour production ofMacbeth. Instead, the full gamut of emotion would be run across their stage tonight.
He knew a lady who would be thoroughly delighted to be here. The same lady who had flashed across his mind last evening. A lady he’d resolved not to think about.
Ever.
She despised him.
Half an hour into the performance—Sebastian’s arms crossed over his chest, shoulder propped against an elm—an actress entered stage left. Not as a main player, but as a member of the chorus. His brow crinkled, as unconsciously he pushed off the elm and straightened, sudden tension entering his body.
Tall…willowy…short blonde curls tucked behind her ears…clear azure eyes that flashed mischief at the crowd…
She reminded him of a lady. Nay, notalady. A specific lady.
Lady Delilah Windermere.
He blinked and squinted and allowed recognition to steal in.
