To think he had the gall to tell her off for dancing and flirting with Sir Montague.
“This Mrs Stanton does not appear to be someone of whom my husband disapproves,” she said, the lightness of her tone failing her. “In fact, it seems quite the opposite.”
Annabelle sent her a helpless look that she ignored; instead, she turned back to Sir Montague. He was handsome, all right, with that thin mouth and hard jaw—and eyes that spoke of danger and hardship and something else she couldn’t identify. Perhaps it was agoodthing Nathanial was currently preoccupied with another woman; it gave her the luxury of more time with Sir Montague.
And if her husband was so taken with red-headed beauties that he forgot to get his wife a drink? Well then, perhaps his wife would be so preoccupied with Sir Montague that she forgot her thirst.
To her disappointment, there was very little time left in the interval, and Sir Montague only stayed a few more minutes, offering a teasing commentary on their mutual acquaintances—many of whom he had known for far longer than she—before departing. Annabelle only had time to splutter “Thatwas Sir Montague?” before Nathanial arrived in their box with two glasses of lemonade.
“You took longer than I expected,” Theo could not help saying as she accepted her drink.
“My apologies.” It may have been her imagination, but he did not seem as easy-going as he had been before he left. “I met an acquaintance in the stalls.”
Annabelle watched the conversation unfold with equal parts horror and dread, but Theo ignored her. “Which acquaintance?” she asked.
“Merely an old friend. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”
An oldfriend, was it? Theo didn’t believe that for a second. Aside from the fact the lady in question was distressingly beautiful, she had seen the way this Mrs Stanton had laid her hand on Nathanial’s arm, andthatspoke of proprietorial intent.
Knowing she was behaving irrationally, but with the irrepressible urge to exact some sort of revenge, Theo tossed her head. “No matter,” she said as the curtains rose. “Sir Montague was good enough to come and entertain us in your absence, and I can assure you we had an excellent time. Did we not, Annabelle?”
Annabelle made an inarticulate comment.
“Did he, indeed?” Nathanial asked quietly.
“Oh, yes—and he was excessively charming. I do not think I’ve met a man as charming in my life. But you can be assured, Nathanial, we were perfectly discreet.”
“In a box where everyone can see you?” His nostrils flared. “Yes, perfectly discreet.”
Though she smiled, Theo was aware of an urge to cry. “At least I did not whisper in his ear before everyone,” she said, and he glanced at her sharply. She didn’t dare look at him. “I would not gothatfar, I assure you.”
“Theo—”
“It’s beginning.” She leant forward, holding her opera glasses before her eyes though she saw nothing through them. For the entirety of the second half, she watched the performance with every appearance of avid interest. But even though when the on-stage lover died, she allowed a tear or two to slip down her cheek, Nathanial did not take her hand again.
To Nathanial’s surprise, when he went downstairs the next morning at eleven, it was to see Theo hadn’t yet risen. After waiting for some time, and having read the morning paper in unusual detail, he made his way to her dressing room. He found her there as he’d predicted, dabbing perfume on her wrists and for all intents and purposes perfectly ready to go down.
She glanced up and saw him in the mirror as he entered without knocking, and he noted with chagrin that the expression on her face was momentarily stricken.
“You may go, Betsy,” she said coolly.
“Yes, ma’am.” Betsy glanced at him before she left, her rather round face betraying a hint of anger.
“You have loyal servants,” he commented, brushing an invisible fleck of dust from his cuffs. “I congratulate you.”
She turned back to her reflection in the mirror and the two red spots that gathered there. The dress she’d chosen today was a frothy concoction in pale green that dipped daringly low.
“If you came here to congratulate me, you could have done so downstairs,” she said.
“I might have done if you’d deigned to appear. But I believe one of the privileges of having a wife is the liberty of entering her dressing room without condemnation.”
Her eyes—eyes he now noticed looked a little red-rimmed—flashed to him. “And are you much in the habit of entering dressing rooms?”
“There are certain questions ladies ought not to ask,” he said, strolling forwards and examining the jewellery that lay on her dressing table. “And before you protest that you are no lady, you are my wife and a duchess.”
“I shall take that as a yes.”
“You may take it any way you please.” He brushed his fingers across a familiar diamond-encrusted necklace. “You haven’t worn this since our wedding day. I’m surprised—it looked well on you.”
