“I cannot believe Mr.Dean fell asleep,” Lady Rosalie says in a loud whisper.
“I know!” Catherine says, turning to her. “How can you fall asleep during Shakespeare?”How can you fall asleep next to someone so beautiful?
“He was nodding off before the play even started,” Lady Rosalie grumbles. “Christopher was keeping him awake, but once the play began, there was no getting him back.”
“Your brother, or Mr.Dean?”
Lady Rosalie laughs and Catherine can’t help but smile. “Both,” she says. “Christopher would have become an actor if it wouldn’t have ruined the family, so helovesthe theatre. It’s one of the few things he and my father agree on. That and opera.”
Catherine bobs her head, not quite sure how to respond.
“Anyway,” Lady Rosalie says, shaking her head. “How is Mr.Sholle?”
“Awake,” Catherine replies with a shrug. Lady Rosalie laughs again. “Enjoying the performance, if his conversation with my mother is anything to go on.”
“He’s not talking to you?” Lady Rosalie asks, sharper, meeting her eyes in an instant.
Catherine swallows, her throat suddenly tight. “Not just now. I’m in here with you, you see.”
Lady Rosalie snorts, and it’s almost as lovely a sound as her laugh, which is absolutely absurd.
Why is this silly moment in the cloakroom her favorite of the entire evening so far? They’ve barely spoken, they’re standing near the water closet, of all places, and she doesn’t want to leave.
The chatty women at the other end of the vanity bustle out, leaving them alone in the quiet together.
“He should be talking to you,” Lady Rosalie says firmly.
“Mr.Dean should be awake,” Catherine returns.
Lady Rosalie sighs. “Some evening.”
And somehow, it is. Here. In the cloakroom. It’s... lovely. This brief moment between them—no competition, no artifice, no mothers looming. Just Catherine talking with a beautiful woman who looks amazing in the candlelight with her face all flushed with excitement, and whose eyes are so—
Lady Rosalie reaches out to brush one of Catherine’s wilting pin curls from her face. Catherine sucks in a breath at the contact. Even with her thin gloves, it’s like a spark skitters over Catherine’s skin. Soft, and tingling, and unexpected.
Their eyes lock. In the quiet stillness of this room, something shifts. Somehow they’re leaning toward each other, and the butterflies in Catherine’s stomach are rioting and—
The door opens for another group of women to enter.
They step back unsteadily, Lady Rosalie’s arm dropping. Catherine twists her fingers together, and they hover there while the group titters around them. Catherine glances at Lady Rosalie just as Lady Rosalie’s looking away from her, both of them flushed. Catherine doesn’t know what to do with her hands, with her breath, with her face.
What was just about to happen? Were they really going to—
“Darling, are you well?”
Catherine flinches as Mother comes through the cloakroom door. Her voice is like a bucket of ice water and Catherine feels instantly guilty, as if she’s done something wrong.
But she hasn’t. Has she?
“Lady Rosalie. Hello.”
“Mrs. Pine,” Lady Rosalie says, her voice even rougher than before, her curtsy unsteady.
“Sorry, Mother, we were... talking about the performance. Enjoy the rest of the play, Lady Rosalie,” Catherine says quickly, giving her own halting curtsy before hurrying across the room to follow her mother out of the cloakroom.
The door swings shut on Lady Rosalie behind her. It feels like there’s something crawling over Catherine’s skin, an unease that’s almost too much to bear.
Or is it disappointment?
