There were singers and musicians between the acts, and the farce that followed the main performance. And through it all, Gerald was yammering in her ear about everyone around them, as if they had come to watch the audience, and not the actors. Why was he bothering? She saw these same people at every ball and dinner. Was it really worthy of comment if they wore the same clothing twice in a week?
She had not wanted to bring an escort to the theatre. This evening was supposed to be just the three of them, enjoying Shakespeare and a soprano that Portia assured her was particularly good. But at the last minute, they’d met Mr Balard in the grand saloon, and he’d invited himself to join their party.
And now, she was trapped, smiling politely and being forced to attend to the needs of a gentleman when she only wanted to relax and think about her day.
Her hand stole to the amber pin, hidden amongst the silk roses clustered at the top of her bodice. It was a single spot of gold on the silver gown, only noticeable if one took the time to look for it.
Gerald had spotted it, of course. She suspected he was more interested in the breasts concealed beneath it. Or perhaps he was really that interested in women’s fashion. He had leaned a little too close and announced she had ‘a canker in the fragrant rose’.
When she had not responded, he’d added. ‘That is Shakespeare.’
‘A sonnet,’ she’d agreed. ‘Ninety-five, I believe.’
‘And it is not really a canker. It is a bug,’ he’d added, still staring at her bosom.
‘An ant,’ she’d clarified.
‘It is a curious bit of glitter for such a lovely girl,’ he’d said, remembering a moment too late that he should be looking into her eyes.
‘It was a gift,’ she’d said.
‘You wear it out of charity for the giver?’ His smile had turned patronizing.
‘I wear it because I like it,’ she’d said, then she’d stared expectantly at him until he’d given up and turned his attention back to critiquing the crowd.
She’d allowed herself to do so, as well. It had taken only a moment to spot Westbridge in a box across the way. She’d had to struggle to stay focused on the performance and allowed herself only an occasional hungry glance in his direction as she scanned the rest of the people and feigned interest in Mr Balard’s never-ending commentary.
‘Now, that is interesting,’ he’d said, with a disapproving huff.
She’d spared him a polite glance to show that she cared.
He’d pointed, which was exceptionally rude. ‘Westbridge has a new light o’ love.’
Her head had snapped back to stare at the woman in his box.
‘Harriette Wilson,’ he’d said smugly. ‘I can’t fault his taste. She is expensive enough. But she has lain with half the peerage already.’
Cassie stared at the woman, who had all but draped herself over the Duke and was whispering into his ear. ‘She is attractive, I suppose. But her nose is a trifle too long.’
Portia had looked at her with narrowed eyes, then raised the little spyglass she carried for a better look.
‘It is not her nose that men are interested in,’ Julian said, and his wife struck him in the arm with the spyglass before turning to look at the stage again.
Cassie had as well, though she had not heard a word of the play for the rest of the night.
Now they were in the carriage, on the way home again, and she fiddled with the pin on her bodice and stared out the window at the dimly lit streets.
‘Mr Balard seemed very nice,’ Portia said with a rising inflection as if daring Cassie to comment.
When she did not, Julian said, ‘His pedigree is excellent.’ Then, he waited with the same thinly veiled interest as Portia did.
She turned and looked from one expectant face to another. ‘Next, I suppose you will tell me he has good wind and sound legs.’
‘Well,’ Portia began cautiously, ‘His legs are rather fine.’
Julian gave her a sharp look.
‘Some men pad them,’ she said with a smile and a shrug. ‘He does not.’ Then, she looked back to Cassie. ‘But beauty is a fleeting virtue. It is more important that he be of good character.’
