Ordinarily, that was where she would be: in the pit with all the other gentlemen and ladies of thetonwho did not have a box for the Season. That was, if she attended the opera alone at all, which was rare.
But Comerford, she knew,hadpurchased a box for the Season, so she could think of no reason he would not be in it.
There was a young lady by his side, a dark-haired beauty who had bewitched many of the Season’s bachelors. She was pixie-thin, and her neckline daringly low. Some gentlemen preferred waifs they could easily pick up, whose stomachs were flat, whose thighs were slim and easily spread.
George Comerford, who had explored every inch of Caroline’s body with his tongue, did not.
He still had not looked away. There was the darkness of possession in his gaze. The low throb of jealousy.
She was immediately back in the library at Worthington House, her front pressed against the books, his hand at her neck,and his mouth whispering filthy secrets into her ear. The way he’d held her against him had made her toes curl.
“We should be sensible about this,” she’d told him as they’d dressed after a late-night rendezvous.
“In what way?”
“When we return to London.”
“Oh?”
She’d kept her voice light as she’d looked at him, biting her lip in a way she knew he found irresistible. He’d said so against her stomach, murmuring his appreciation into the soft rise and fall of her flesh. “You are on the hunt for a wife.”
“So?”
“So it would do you no good to be seen in my company.”
His smile was especially roguish, and reminded her a little of Byron when he had been the height of fashion. “The purpose of being in your company, my dear, is not to be seen.”
“Yes,” she said wryly. “But word gets out. And I am not what one might consider reputable.”
He kissed her neck, interrupting her as she laced up her stays. “Why, what is your reputation?”
“You know very well.”
“I know that you have had your fair share of lovers,” he mused, teeth grazing the tender skin below her ears. “And I know I am fortunate enough to benefit from your experience.”
“Yes, but, George.” She twisted in his arms so he would meet her gaze. “We both know that you have worked long and hard to establish yourself, and you are under obligation to marry. You admitted as much to me yourself. I will not get in the way of that.”
He pulled back, and she wondered if he saw her excuse for what it was: a reason not to allow herself to become too invested. He was to marry, and she could not lose her head or her heartagain. Her arguments over his reputation were flimsy, and they both knew it.
Still, there was resignation in his eyes, and she knew she had won. “Then let us waste no time,” he said, and he had undone all her work in dressing.
Now he was watching her with something hard and fixed in his expression. The sort of expression she might have seen in a vengeful Greek statue, all marble and hard, uncompromising features.
How odd that she had once thought him soft.
He finally looked away and tossed a comment to Miss Browning, who laughed, showing perfect white teeth. They were too far away for Caroline to hear the sound, but she knew it would be softly tinkling. A girl like that never laughed with her belly.
Once, Caroline had been taught to be that way, too.
“Do you know that gentleman?” Sir Percy asked, nodding at Comerford. She could feel her heartbeat in her ears, and she cursed George Comerford from the bottom of her heart.
“Somewhat,” she said.
“A past lover?”
“Yes. He is looking for a wife now.”
Sir Percy gave her a sympathetic look. “And you do not consider yourself a candidate for his hand?”
