“What else could anyone be doing?” Her laugh grated on her own ears. Heavens, she wanted nothing more than to go home to bed. The only reason she had put in an appearance here had been because Percy had smothered her in unwanted attention when she’d been trying to go elsewhere, implying that she needed his escort. As though any lady wanted a husband pestering her at all hours of the day.
Thus, she had punished him.
But instead of showing some chagrin, he’d taken the opportunity to showcase his mistress to the world.
“Would you not rather pay what’s inside your box more attention than what’s out there?” she asked finally, desperate for Lord Featherstone to look at her. “I would have thought that might prove more interesting.”
He sent her a quick, scared glance. “My mother is here somewhere.”
“Oh to be a boy tied to his mother’s apron strings,” she muttered, quietly enough that he didn’t hear her over the crescendoing screech of the violins. Her head throbbed, and her temper threatened to soar out of control.
Biting back her frustration, she continued to flirt outrageously until the intermission, during which time she spoke to a variety of acquaintances, and pretended she didn’t notice their pitying looks.
Of course, it was not so very unusual for a gentleman to have a lover—or for him to flaunt her to the world. But Percyhad been so very constant, had given every impression of a devoted husband—to the extent that it had been stifling. So to see him here meant people would draw their own conclusions. No doubt that Cecily’s first blush of youth had faded, her beauty diminishing after four years of marriage, and he had lost interest. Bored, he’d turned his gaze elsewhere.
Perhaps the assumption wasright. After all, he looked cosy enough with Caroline, and he hadn’t spared a single glance for Cecily. Perhaps he had tired of her.Good riddance. But he should not have behaved so publicly. People would talk—were already talking, whispering behind their fans and painted smiles.
Poor Lady Cecily.
They always do turn, in the end, even the good ones.
I’d thought he adored the girl. Pity!
She hated every one of their poisoned words. But instead of going home, as she wanted, she returned to Lord Featherstone’s box, even though they both knew he would rather she didn’t. And there, for the first time, she saw the empty box opposite where Percy and Caroline had sat. They had gone. No doubt they were having a delightful tryst together somewhere.
Delightful, strictly, for them. Cecily did not feel delightful at all.
In fact, she felt positively murderous.
Ignoring the pounding in her head and the sickening twist in her stomach, she turned her attention to the stage and allowed Lord Featherstone to lapse into silence beside her. And although she knew there were whispers aimed at her from all directions, she smiled and put on the best performance of her life to persuade them that she cared about nothing and no one but her own transient, fleeting pleasures.
Sir Percy Somerville strolled along the quiet, empty road towards his home on Harley Street, his cane in one hand and an armful of regret in the other. The night was still, mist gathering by the lamps in soft tendrils, and damp gathered on his fine woollen coat. Really, he ought to have called for his carriage. The walk had been to clear his head, but he wasn’t drunk, just a fool.
And, if he was honest, he was dreading the confrontation that would arise when he finally arrived home. He estimated the opera would be reaching its zenith; soon after, she would be following him, in the carriage. Then he would have all the leisure in the world in which to regret his decisions. There were plenty. In no particular order he had: pretending to the world and his wife that he had a mistress; attending the opera with said mistress—a notorious lady he had no feelings for; marrying his wife.
Perhaps there was an order.
Perhaps his marriage was at the top of the list.
Of course, that operated under the assumption that she would return home that night at all. He kept no tabs on her, mostly because he knew how much of her freedom he’d taken away—or at least, had appeared to—when he’d arranged for their marriage. And that meant that he truly did not know how many lovers she had, if she had any at all. Her disinclination to lie with him could be attributed to dislike of him rather than inexperience or chastity.
Impossible to know. Impossible to tell.
Utterly impossible to ignore or forget.
His house came into view. With a sigh, half wishing he was drunk, he ascended the steps and rapped on the door with thehead of his cane. His valet hurried to open it, and not for the first time, Percy wondered what the poor man must think.
“Would you like to retire for the night, sir?” he asked as Percy entered and relinquished his cane.
Why not?If he and Cecily were going to argue, perhaps it was less dignified to do so in a dressing gown, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. At least he would be comfortable.
“Very well,” he said. “I’m anticipating Lady Cecily will be home shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Percy made his way to the dressing room he shared with Cecily—althoughsharedwas an optimistic term for a couple who shared very little in their lives, and certainly not their bed—and undressed, wrapping a robe around his shoulders as he sat by the fire. He picked up a book to pass the time, turning the pages idly.
Less than an hour later, Cecily flounced in, her curls dishevelled but her dress perfectly in place. He skimmed over her appearance, noting all the ways in which he considered it unlikely that she had been even remotely ravished.
