“And you think a mere flirtation will achieve this?”
Montague smiled as he recalled Nathanial’s possessiveness. Rumours of a love match were probably unsubstantiated—at the ball, he had seemed unconcerned with her whereabouts or behaviour until she encountered him—but he was still herhusband and subject to that age-old vice. Jealousy. “Perhaps not if it is a mere flirtation, but if I can induce her to fall in love with me, and perhaps make her preference for me clear, I believe he will be angry enough to not want involvement with her.”
“A bold supposition,” she mused. “But you may be right—Nathanial does have his pride.”
“And that is where you come in, my dear. Dig your claws in deep. You are more experienced than she could ever be, and you know him better.”
“And if he wishes for a child?”
Montague gave a thin, humourless smile. “We shall have to ensure he does not.”
Chapter Nine
Of all things that came with being a duchess, Theo’s favourite was the box at the theatre. Her father had never been able to afford one, and there was such ignominy in sitting in the stalls that they had never been.
Nathanial had a box.
And it was the grandest box she had ever seen, with an unparalleled view of the stage. For the first time in her life, she was able to sit at the front of her box and wave to her acquaintances, knowing that she—she—was a source of envy.
It was extremely satisfying.
Annabelle, her eyes equally wide, stared at the view. “You can see so much from up here,” she breathed.
Theo waved at Lady Tabitha and grinned, dispelling any impression of a great lady. “Isn’t it fun?” she asked, glancing at Nathanial who offered them both a quietly amused smile.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Sir Montague, sitting in the stalls with two gentlemen and a lady. The lady, with auburn hair coiled elegantly at the back of her head, was one of the most beautiful she’d seen. If she’d been sitting with anyonebut Sir Montague, Theo might have been tempted to ask her name. But although she and Nathanial were friends again, she suspected his opinion on Sir Montague hadn’t changed.
“And the stage,” Annabelle gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth. “Theo,look.”
Before Annabelle could comment on any more, the curtains rose, and a whispering silence fell across the crowd. The opera began, a beautiful lady taking centre stage, and Theo couldn’t resist leaning towards Nathanial, her voice concealed by the swell of music.
“Is your opera dancer performing tonight?” she whispered.
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Only, I know men have opera dancers, or perhaps an opera singer, and I wondered if one of those ladies was yours.” She placed a hand on his knee and his eyes flicked down to the contact. “Don’t worry—I don’t mind.”
“It’s not a question of whether you mind, Theo.” He stopped and glanced at the stage, and the beautiful ladies standing upon it. One in particular was especially striking, with a head full of blonde curls and red lips. Theo felt a pang at the idea Nathanial could be in love with her. “As it happens, I don’t have an opera dancer, and if I did have one—” He groaned and rubbed a hand across his face. “This is not something we should be discussing. Not here, and not like this.”
“Don’t worry, Annabelle is not attending to a word we’re saying.”
“That’s not the point.” He took the hand on his knee and gently removed it, as though its presence there bothered him. Theo glanced up at him, surprised to find a trace of redness across his cheekbones. “We are still in public. And this isn’t something well-bred ladies discuss.”
“I’m not a well-bred lady, I’m your wife.”
“Evenmorereason you shouldn’t be asking those sorts of questions.”
“But you would confess it, if she was?”
He groaned again. “Lord, Theo. Yes, you wretch.”
Satisfied, she turned back to the stage. The scene had changed now; a man and a woman stood opposite each other and sang, their voices soaring above the orchestra, winding and twisting together in harmony that spoke of loss and love and grief. The words were in Italian, but Theo didn’t need to understand them to feel the heart of the music. It tugged at her, beckoning emotions she didn’t know she was capable of feeling as the woman pressed a hand to her chest.
Unexpected tears stung her eyes, and she blinked, pressing her mouth together so her face didn’t betray her.
Wordlessly, Nathanial took her hand once more, his thumb smoothing circles across her skin. His fingers laced between hers, and she held on tight, letting him anchor her. There was something reassuring about the warmth of his hand; it lit something in her chest that the music drew out and cultivated.
He didn’t look at her, and she didn’t glance at him, either. Despite this, she was somehow aware of his proximity in a way she hadn’t been before. Perhaps it was the way the on-stage lovers embraced, but for the flicker of a moment, she wondered what it would feel like for a lover to embrace her in that way.
