Bridget shook her head. “Oh no! She favors something more romantic. I would wager thatRomeo and Julietis her favorite.”
“And you know this by looking at her or because you know her?” Lewis asked, amused.
“I barely know her,” Bridget said. “She is one of Gerard’s acquaintances. I certainly do not know her well enough todetermine her favorite play. Fortunately, her appearance is sufficient enough to know.”
“I see.”
Sometimes, she left him utterly adrift, but this time, it was in a rather pleasant way.
“You have no choice but to concede to my expertise,” she said proudly.
“So I do.”
“Can you believesheis here?” the whisper came from behind.
Bridget did not seem to notice, for she had leaned over the railing of the box and was telling him about what plays she had surmised everyone loved. Lewis leaned forward, a prickling sensation creeping along his spine. Someone had halted outside of his box, and there was no mystery about whoshereferenced.
“It is disgraceful,” came another whisper. “To have that strumpet around such proper company.”
“I suppose there is no accounting for taste.”
A titter of feminine laughter followed.
Lewis clenched his jaw, his muscles growing taut. Bridget glanced over her shoulder. Seeing his expression, her face fell at once into one of concern. “Are you well? You look…distraught.”
He was beyond distraught. Bridget looked so beautiful standing by the railing. She had loved coming to the theater, and it struck him as a grave injustice that anyone would come here and diminish Bridget’s enjoyment, even in a little way. A fury unlike any Lewis had ever experienced before rose inside him, coursing like a wildfire through his veins.
“Be careful,” a man’s voice said. “She is probably trying to seduce another man as we speak!”
Bridget stiffened, and Lewis saw the exact moment that she heard the whispers, too. “Well,” Bridget said quietly. “I suppose I should have expected nothing less.”
“No,” Lewis said through clenched teeth.
She should have expected better. Shedeservedbetter.
Lewis’s body seemed to move without conscious thought, and he ripped aside the curtain leading into his box. Lady Susan stood there in the company of two gentlemen, one of whom was laughing.
Lewis’s fist collided with the man’s face a heartbeat before he realized what he had done. Lady Susan shrieked and leapedback. The gentleman who Lewis had punched stumbled back, swearing. “What is the matter with you?”
“Do not insult my wife’s honor,” Lewis said.
The other gentleman, who had pushed himself behind Lady Susan, merely gawked at him. “It—it was only a jest, Your Grace.”
“No, it was not,” Lewis said.
He had the wild thought that he might punch that man, too.
“Lewis?” Bridget’s soft voice summoned Lewis back to the reality of the situation.
He pulled himself up as straight as he could, his knuckles aching and his heart racing. What had he done? Lewis gave a curt nod. “My duchess and I are going home. Have a pleasant evening.”
Bridget followed him, uncharacteristically quiet. Lewis felt her eyes on him, though. She was assessing him with a sharp intensity. And why wouldn’t she? He had never behaved like that before.
It was exciting and horrifying all at once. Lewis did not know if he wanted to return to the injured man and apologize or punch him again, so he forced himself to keep walking until he reached the waiting coach and settled inside.
Bridget sat across from him. The coach jolted into motion.
Lewis ran his hands through his hair and scowled at his reflection. “I—I suppose I should explain myself,” he said.
