If she married Marklynne, he would never be able to stand idly by and watch her wither in that cold, shallow prison. Whatever it took, whatever had to be raized and rebuilt, hewould do it. With certainty, he knew one thing to be irrefutably true. As simultaneously terrifying and liberating as it was, he would not retreat.
Chapter
Eleven
The theatre was warm and crowded, the air thick with perfume and powder and the steady murmur of anticipation. As a general rule, the dramas that played amongst the audience were more entertaining than those on stage. Eleanor took her seat in Lord Marklynne’s box with the composure she had perfected over years of public scrutiny, though she could not ignore the faint tightening in her chest as she became aware of their company.
Lady Lyndehurst presided at the far end of the box with rigid authority, her lorgnette raised as though the audience existed solely for her inspection. Beside her sat Miss Verity Langford, her goddaughter, a very young lady with glossy curls, bright blue eyes, and an expression of eager sweetness that did not quite conceal the sharpness beneath. She greeted Eleanor with a smile that lingered just a moment too long.
“My dear Miss Harcourt,” Lady Lyndehurst said, inclining her head only slightly. “How fortunate that you were recovered sufficiently to attend this evening. As we age, one never knows how delicate one’s constitution may prove.”
“I am quite well, I thank you,” Eleanor replied evenly.
Miss Langford leaned forward with visible interest. “Mama always says a lady must guard her strength most carefully as she advances in years. One requires greater prudence and wisdom, does one not? Though of course,” she added with sudden brightness, turning directly to Eleanor, “I beg you will forgive me if that sounds indelicate. I spoke only in generalities.”
Her eyes were wide with false concern.
Eleanor inclined her head. “You are very kind to think of my sensibilities.”
Lady Lyndehurst made a small approving sound. “Verity has a thoughtful nature. She is very attentive to the proprieties.”
“Thank you, my lady,” the girl said modestly. “Mama says it is most important for young ladies to understand the realities of society. One must marry at the proper time, or else one risks becoming… well.” She hesitated delicately, then turned again to Eleanor. “Forgive me. I should not speak so freely before those who possess greater experience and perspective.”
The apology landed with all the grace of a slap.
Lord Marklynne shifted beside Eleanor. “Miss Harcourt suffered from excessive heat in an overcrowded room. Nothing more.”
“Indeed,” Lady Lyndehurst murmured. “Still, society can be exhausting for ladies who carry many responsibilities.”
Eleanor folded her hands in her lap and turned her attention to the stage. The orchestra began its overture, though the music did little to soften the steady prickle of scrutiny she felt from across the box. Miss Langford’s occasional whispers to Lady Lyndehurst were accompanied by soft laughter that suggested Eleanor herself was the subject.
Lord Marklynne appeared oblivious. Or perhaps simply unconcerned.
He spoke to her in low tones regarding the performers, the improvements to the theatre since its last renovation, and theplaywright’s recent success in Bath. His manner was attentive and composed. If he perceived the veiled barbs offered by his aunt and her goddaughter, he gave no sign.
By the time the curtain fell for the interval, Eleanor found she had followed very little of the performance.
“I confess being seated for so long is difficult—given my advanced years,” Eleanor said, not quite hiding the bite in her tone. “I will be in the corridor.”
Lord Marklynne inclined his head. “Of course.”
Lady Lyndehurst’s brows lifted. “Do take care the corridors are not overcrowded. It would be a pity for you to be ‘overcome’ again.”
Eleanor offered a polite smile and withdrew before any further commentary could detain her.
The corridor beyond the boxes was dim and comparatively cool. Footmen moved discreetly along the walls while patrons drifted in small clusters, conversing in low tones as they awaited the second act. Eleanor walked farther than was strictly necessary, grateful for the brief illusion of solitude, and turned into the narrow curtained recess between two boxes—a shadowed space meant more for servants than guests. She needed the solitude. And the shelter from Lady Lyndehurst’s pointed barbs.
She had scarcely taken a full breath when the curtain shifted behind her.
“Do not be alarmed.”
She turned sharply, hand rising to her chest. “Adrian,” she whispered. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
He stood half in shadow, close enough that she could see the faint roughness of evening beard along his jaw and the intent steadiness in his eyes. The space was so narrow that scarcely a foot separated them. She could feel the warmth of him evenwithout contact, could feel the heat of his body displacing the cooler corridor air.
“I have been awaiting for an opportunity to speak with you privately,” he said.
“You cannot lurk in dark corners of the theatre like a highwayman and expect me to be calm about it,” she returned under her breath. “If anyone sees us?—”
