“Prostitutes?”
Fletcher recoiled. “What? No! Just not women of theton.”
“I don’t know how these things work. I’d like to go into my marriage informed.”
“Then talk to your mother or your fiancé. My personal history has no bearing on your marriage. But I do not pay women like that. Just for posterity.”
Louisa huffed. She was surprised Fletcher was being so prudish. “I’m just trying to establish that what I’ve heard is true. That men tend to come to their marriages with experience.”
“Yes. As I said, most do.”
She leaned close to Fletcher, who flinched. “Why are you so uncomfortable?”
“Because this is not proper conversation.”
“That has never stopped you before.” Louisa found herself intrigued by whatever Fletcher was keeping with her, and even though she knew this was not proper, she enjoyed pushing him, and now her mind was at work imagining what he must do or be like in bed, and that was a wholly improper thing to think aboutFletcherof all people, but now her mind was racing.
But before she could say anything further, Fletcher said, “Oh, look, we’ve arrived at the opera house.” He broke land-speed records getting out of the carriage.
Once Fletcher’s driver had helped Louisa alight from the carriage, Fletcher was already halfway toward the entrance to the theater. Louisa raced—as well as she could in her delicate shoes—to catch up.
He looked at her warily when she hooked her hand around his arm.
“You need not be embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“Then why won’t you talk about this with me? And don’t tell me it’s inappropriate.”
Fletcher stopped walking and wheeled on her. He lowered his voice so as not to be overheard and said, “Because it’s intimate. Because this is a topic you discuss with your spouse and not your friends. Feel free to discuss this with whoever will listen, but you and I are not having this conversation anymore.”
That certainly surprised Louisa. She took a step back from him and they stared at each other.
Fletcher let out a breath. They were surrounded by wealthy opera attendees, so they couldn’t have this out here. He offered his arm to Louisa again and said, “I’m sorry. I’m not cross with you.” They began walking toward the theater. “You, my dear Louisa, are this remarkable combination of bold and naive, and I love that about you, but I cannot be your tutor, especially when that is the role your husband is supposed to fill. And I will not do anything to disrupt your wedding.”
Louisa suspected she deserved that. “All right.”
Fletcher patted her hand where it rested on his arm. “All right.La…what are we seeing?”
“La Cenerentola. It’s the story of Cinderella. A comedy. The French soprano is supposed to be very good.”
“Then let us focus on that, shall we?”
* * *
As the first act ended, a few things crystallized in Fletcher’s mind.
First, Louisa looked lovely tonight. He’d thought that the moment he walked into her house.Lovelywas perhaps too soft a word, in fact, because she’d looked…beautiful. Splendid. Alluring. She wore an emerald green evening gown that hugged her bosom with a delicate gold necklace with some purple jewels—quartz? sapphire? Fletcher knew nothing about gems—thatseemed to point right toward said bosom, and thus Fletcher had been helpless not to look at it, and he felt lecherous for doing so. Louisa was his friend. He should not be admiring her bosom.
But Louisawasa beautiful woman. Fletcher had eyes. Tonight, her brown curly hair was piled atop her hair with tendrils dangling artfully around her face. She had big eyes and pink lips, and he loved looking at her face. Louisa was one of his favorite people in all of England, and her face was his favorite to gaze upon.
And now she sat primly next to him, her hands folded in her lap, clearly trying to avoid giving the gossip hounds anything to talk about.
Second, he hadn’t been paying attention to the opera at all. He knew the rough outlines of the Cinderella story, so he hoped to be able to improvise when Louisa inevitably asked for his thoughts during the intermission. But he had no idea what had happened because he’d spent the entire time replaying their conversation from the carriage in his mind.
He was ashamed to say that he found talking about sex with her arousing. The problem, though, was that he shouldn’t have had that conversation with her at all. He should have shut it down earlier. He understood that Louisa was curious about sex, and that he was hardly a virgin himself. He liked sex a lot, in fact, and most of his partners had been actresses or widows or women whose reputations did not rely on staying pure. Lady Richelieu was one of his fondest memories, and though their affair had been short, she’d known her way around his body as few of his lovers had. But there’d been no emotion there. Lady Richelieu—Diane was her given name—was among the sexiest women Fletcher had ever seen, and he liked her company and her lively conversation, but he’d known from the start that she’ddiscard him when she was through, which indeed she did, and there were no hurt feelings.
He generally did not become aroused around Louisa, but he had tonight, and he didn’t know what to do with that information. It was just the topic, he told himself. So he’d ended the discussion.
