And she would be across the ocean clinging to the memory of the surprising earl who’d made her laugh long after she’d thought such fancy was lost to her.
He paused behind her and pressed his lips to the curve where her neck met her shoulder. “There is an Italian opera at Drury Lane four nights hence. I’d very much like it if you’d accompany me there.”
She tilted her head, giving him better access. “To rouse the interest of the men of your acquaintance?”
“Yes. In part.” He ran the tip of his tongue up her neck to behind her ear.
She shuddered.
“I also intend to enjoy your company to the fullest extent while I have you,” he murmured. He scraped his teeth over her earlobe. “Now hurry up and dress.” He patted her bottom before moving to the hallway, taking his warmth and intoxicating scent with him. “I’ll be waiting.”
He closed the door behind him, and she shut her eyes. They’d both be waiting. Her excuse to avoid the hells didn’t seem so clever anymore. Her deception had just removed her from his bed for the next few days.
She dropped her head to her chest.
Hoisted by her own lying petard. It was going to be a long couple of nights.
Chapter Sixteen
Netta arranged the velvet hood over her head and sucked in a deep breath. Time to start the show.
She took John’s hand and stepped from his carriage. The gas lights of the Drury dazzled her eyes and she inched closer to John. As a child, she had longed to come here, to see a show so badly she could have burst from the wanting. Now, the theatre held a different sort of appeal. What would it be like to tread upon the boards of such an acclaimed stage? To hear the applause from thousands of spectators?
The crowds had thinned, the first act already begun. John had agreed with her assessment that a late arrival would only increase her allure. With the subtle shading of face paint, a slight powder to her hair, and a cloak hiding her features, she strode through the front doors with the nariest of qualms.
“Have you ever seenThe Barber of Seville?” John nodded to a couple in the lobby but kept his stride even as they made for his box.
“No.” She’d never seen any opera. Her wages didn’t allow for such extravagance.
John drew back the curtain to his personal box and ushered her inside. “Good. We haven’t missed overmuch,” he whispered. “If you have any questions, let me know.”
She nodded, her gaze transfixed. No warped and discolored wooden boards made up the stage here. The thick, red velvet curtains were held back by ornate brass hooks, and what they revealed….
“Oh!” She sank to her seat and leaned forwards, resting her elbows on the box ledge. “Look at those costumes.”
John settled next to her and pressed a pair of opera glasses into her hand. “Not as charming as wax noses and warts to my mind.”
She shot him an exasperated look before turning her full attention back to the stage. The lead female, Rosina, was beautiful and tragic. The Count desperate in his longing for her. Netta sighed in delight and blocked out the rest of the world.
The curtains fell on the first act, and she blinked as the house lights came on.
“I take it you find the evening’s entertainment agreeable.” John’s voice held laughter, and when she turned to look at him, it was matched by the crinkles around his eyes.
“Very much so.” She leaned back in her seat. “It’s more than I ever imagined.”
“Do you sing?”
“Not well. Watching a musical production is as close as I will ever get to such a performance.” She shook her head. “I can never thank…” She trailed off as John’s entire body went stiff. His gaze was fixed over her left shoulder, his nostrils flaring.
“What is it?” she asked, craning her neck but seeing nothing of account. Realizing her hood had slipped down her shoulders during the performance, she hastily pulled it back over her head.
“No one of account.” John sat back. He took the opera glasses from her hand and slapped them against his palm. “Only my grandmother.”
“Your grandmother?” She searched the boxes opposite in earnest, looking for a distinctive pair of cobalt eyes or set of high cheekbones. It was no use. Not from such a distance. She turned to reclaim the glasses, but John had already put them to use, peering through their lenses, his jaw clenched.
“Do you want to pay your compliments?” Netta followed the direction of the glasses. A woman with a fringe of snowy white hair beneath a red turban stared intently back in their direction. “I’m happy to wait here while you do.”
“That won’t be necessary,” John said, his words clipped. “We no longer speak.”
