He shifted onto one hip and rested his palm on her knee. “The lights are down. Everyone’s attention is on the stage. We might as well be alone.”
She saw his hand on her knee, and raised him her palm on his thigh. High on his thigh. “Have I ever told you, Lord Summerset, how much I appreciate the manner in which your mind works? You are never dull.” He was thrilling, provocative, and provoking, in the best way possible. With so little time given to them, she needed to enjoy as much of him as she could before she set sail.
He leaned closer, his breath hot on her cheek. “And you, my dear, are…blast!” He rocked back into his chair.
“What is the matter? Is there a mouse you’d like me to take care of?”
He did not look amused. “We are not alone. I had forgotten my grandmother is here, even now peering at us through her opera glasses.”
Netta turned to look. Sure enough, the older woman held a pair of onyx glasses to her eyes. She raised a gloved hand in a greeting John ignored.
John tugged on the hem of his jacket. “Even I am not so perverse as to perform lewd acts in front of my grandmother.”
“What is the disagreement between you and her?” Netta raised her own hand, but the woman had turned her attention back to the stage.
“None of your concern.”
A small muscle pulsed in his jaw and the dim light shadowed his eyes.
Her throat went thick. She rested her hand over his and squeezed. “No. And my visits to The Burns Theatre at night weren’t yours. Yet you wanted to know, and so do I.”
He sniffed. “You are living under my roof. I do have some responsibility for your safety.”
“And my safety was your only reason for following me?” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Curiosity had nothing to do with it?”
His shoulders unbunched. “Perhaps a very little. But,” he said when she opened her mouth, “I still do not want to discuss my grandmother.”
“Not even if we make it a game?” She slid her hand under his cravat to feel the beat of his heart against her palm. “For every detail you tell me about the problem between you and her, I will give you something to help you forget it.”
He clasped her hand, keeping it pressed to his chest and running his thumb along her skin. “Really,” he drawled, “that sounds more like a quid pro quo than a game, but I am intrigued nonetheless. All right, poppet. You win. A little background.”
Her heart leapt at the word win. She so did love to win. She settled into her seat and tuned out the music and drama happening below.
“You know that the House of Summerset hasn’t always been as wealthy as it is now.” He stared at the curtains hanging above the stage. “My father’s gambling had ruined us.”
“And your grandmother disowned her irresponsible son.” Netta could see the story play out in her head. The fights. The recriminations. The door slowing closing in the previous earl’s face.
Yes, she might be overly dramatic in her imaginings. But it was her job to tell stories. It was what she did.
John dipped his chin. “Good guess, but wrong. My grandmother is my mother’s mother. She is the Dowager Marchioness of Mallen. From an honorable family. One much too good to include a wastrel and gambler, even if he was an earl.”
The bitterness in his voice stunned her. All the fanciful stories in her head disappeared. This was real life. John’s life. And it hadn’t always been easy. “I’m sorry.”
He bit out a laugh. “Little Netta LeBlanc is sorry for me? A sad day for the House of Summerset indeed.”
The back of her throat burned. She made to lower her hand, but he held it tight.
“After my mother died and my father had spent not only the Summerset fortunes but his wife’s dowry, he decided to humble himself to her parents.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I don’t think he would have suffered that humiliation if he hadn’t had three sons to care for.” He huffed. “And it was all for naught. We presented ourselves before the marquess and marchioness, dressed as neatly as we were able in our used clothes, and received nothing but derision.”
She couldn’t stand the stark look on his face a moment longer. It was as though he were facing a firing squad, with no hope of preventing the inevitable outcome. She lowered her head to his shoulder.
“I will never forget,” he said softly, “standing on her marble floors, looking up at the marchioness in her silks and laces, and thinking she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Until she looked at my brothers and me with contempt. I felt our shabbiness to our very bones.”
“You weren’t the one who was shabby in that situation.”
He patted her hand. “Thank you, poppet.” He inhaled deeply. “Anyhow, that is the story of the breach between myself and my grandmother. We haven’t spoken since.”
She jerked upright. “But that’s been…”
