Castrati were said to possess legendary sexual prowess, with the added benefit of guaranteeing no pregnancy. They were much in demand by a certain set of ladies. He wondered if Miss Lithwick knew this, and jealousy bit all the harder.
“Perhaps you would enjoy the performance better from my uncle’s box,” Jem said. Anything to interfere with her complete fixation on the stage.
She spoke without glancing at him. “We are very comfortable here, thank you.”
The tall Russian said something to Lucasta in a language Jem didn’t recognize. Her native tongue? Lucasta gave a short response, and the German princess added something. All three of them looked to the fourth girl, the small brunette. She avoided Jem’s eyes and, behind her fan, answered their question. Lucasta turned her eyes back to the stage.
“Perhaps when Signor Marchesi has completed his aria,” she said, following the singer’s every movement as he swept back and forth in majestic promenade, his perfectly shaped nose in the air.
It was not remarkable that Jem had achieved this concession. Almost certainly a box, overlooking the action, was to be preferred to craning one’s head to look up at the stage. So why had Miss Lithwick not agreed instantly?
Why might she be trying to avoid him?
Because he was being as subtle as a goat, Jem reminded himself. As her promised inheritance became common knowledge, gentlemen would descend on her in hordes. He had to position himself now. As a tradesman, an artisan who wanted her custom. Not a suitor longing for a smile.
When the chorus took over, three women warbling half a beat out of time with one another and more or less drowned out by conversations among the audience, Miss Lithwick allowed Jem to lead her and her friends to the stair and the balcony where his uncle’s box stood empty much of the time. Jem dropped a question in Ashley’s ear.
“Did you catch what language they were speaking?”
Ashley’s glare at the German girl rivaled the fabled stare of Medusa. “I couldn’t say the dialect, but the Gorgons,” he said grimly, “converse in Ancient Greek. Why are we sharing your box with them?”
Because Jem’s aim of making Lucasta Lithwick the subject of admiration would be greatly advanced by exposing her to public view in the Marquess of Arendale’s theater box. Equally speculated upon, however, would be his personal interest in this particular Gorgon.
Was he ready to risk the further scrutiny that this exercise would result in? He already walked the fine line between theton’sfavor and their ridicule, a line sometimes too fine to see.
And Clara had already turned her attention to the rest of Jem’s family. Where Clara Bellwether led, others would follow.
Jem was not like Ashley, who had borne his courtesy title since birth and had been bred to the stature he would eventually assume. Ashley’s education included, in addition to hunting, shooting, gambling, racing, and taking the Grand Tour, an innate understanding of conduct, courtesy, the complicated schedule of precedent, and schooling in Latin and Greek. Jem possessed none of these skills.
But the Gorgons apparently did. At least the schooling in classical languages. What sort of girl’s school taught Ancient Greek?
The box was crowded with all of them in it, but the jostling from other persons in the pit was reduced, and the sound from the stage much improved. Lucasta went straight to the balcony as if afraid she’d miss something.
The German Gorgon and Ashley stood on opposite sides of the small chamber, ignoring each other with proud emphasis, while Plimpton hung near the rear, engaging the little knight’s daughter in polite conversation. The Russian joined Lucasta at the balcony, standing at her left, which yielded Jem the place ather right. He claimed it, noticing how many glances, stares, and opera glasses turned in their direction, the sudden whispers that arose behind raised gloves and fans.
While nothing could be done about Miss Lithwick’s gown, Jem was pleased that at least the rest of her showed to advantage. She had a straight, proud carriage—part of her arrogant demeanor overall—and a long, elegant nose, a broad brow narrowing through prominent cheekbones to a decided chin, and a long, smooth neck that disappeared into the lace enfolding her neck.
He had the odd urge to remove the swath of fabric and unveil her décolletage. No other woman in the room failed to put hers on display. Miss Lithwick possessed a strange combination of antidote and appeal. He wanted to get to the bottom of her mystery.
Jem also did not understand a word of Italian, so he settled himself with studying how much Miss Lucasta Lithwick enjoyed the opera. The action, which to Jem’s eyes was nothing but a lot of mincing and prancing, held her in thrall. Her eyes followed every gesture, every flourish of the singers. She breathed when they did, as if she were silently following along with the musical passages.
Her eyelashes were a spiky black, her eyebrows dark brown, and her complexion was a light olive, suggesting a heritage more Mediterranean than the pale fairness frequently seen in British Isles. He couldn’t discern that she had powdered her face, or in fact used any cosmetics. What an unusual girl, lacking birth and name, to forgo paint and fashion as well. No wonder the Gorgons were relegated to the perimeter for Society parties and balls.
He had not been mistaken that she held the promise of real, bewitching beauty. What a pleasure it would be to bring that out. And have others note her transformation and put themselves in Jem’s hands, and in the fabrics of Dixon & Co.
The last shattering note faded, and the actors took their bows to extended applause. Lucasta clapped most enthusiastically for Signor Marchesi. The actor came out alone upon the stage to sing a solo tune, and Miss Lithwick’s attitude became reverent. Even her friends refrained from attempting to talk to her during the song.
Envy slithered and hissed through Jem’s chest. He wondered what it would take to turn Lucasta Lithwick’s entire concentration on him.
Thunderous applause greeted the castrato’s final flourish, and Miss Lithwick turned a radiant countenance toward Jem. “What a glory to have a box and hear the music pass your ears on its way to heaven,” she said with a happy sigh. “Did you enjoy the performance, Lord Rudyard?”
Her glowing face and unexpected joy surprised Jem into honesty. “I didn’t understand most of it,” he admitted. “Except I gather there was a marriage at the end.”
The Russian girl uttered what was clearly a deprecatory remark, and Lucasta laughed. The high, bright sound seemed to burst in his chest. “Yes, that was an unexpected turn of events. I gather the librettist borrowed from Gluck, who introduced that twist at the Paris Opera a few years ago. In Racine’sIphigéniethe goddess Diana intervenes and substitutes a deer for the sacrifice, and Iphigenia is carried straight up the heavens.” She sighed again. “Here, her reward is marriage to Achilles.”
“You sound dubious about the merits of that reward.” Jem offered her his arm as they made their way out of the box. Plimpton escorted the knight’s daughter, but the other two girls strolled out arm in arm with each other, leaving Ashley to stalk behind, scowling.
Jem liked the way Lucasta Lithwick unselfconsciously placed her hand on his forearm. There was nothing coy or flirtatiousabout the gesture—no leaning against him, no covert squeeze. She was straightforward, practical, solid, and warm.
