Obviously, he couldn’t rail at her now. After shooting her a smile, tinged with his irritation, he took a seat at the back of the box, blithely aware of the many field glasses shifting in his direction from other patrons lining the large hall. One could expect no privacy when one attended the theater.
Twenty minutes later, the crowd burst into applause and stirred as the actors exited the stage, indicating the end of the act. James’s brothers-in-law stood to stretch their legs. Stanford addressed the women. “Lemonade, ladies?” His wife was Rose, the eldest of Gabriella’s sisters.
“Please,” Rose answered for all of them. There was an outright doggedness about her that set James’s teeth on edge.
The tension appeared too much for Stanford, and he hurried out. It wasn’t that James believed Stanford feared his wife. It just struck him that the man didn’t really care for her—not such an unusual union in the upper classes where a man negotiated for land and dowry, rather than preferring one’s spouse. Stanford likely liked being attached to his wife’s brother because he was one of the most powerful men in England.
James leaned against the rail with his hands planted on either side of his hip as he eyed his wife. Curiously, she didn’t look in his direction once. He couldn’t shake the image of her skulking back into their box from a direction of the theater that ultimately led to backstage and certain scandal if she’d been caught. His wife didn’t have a shy bone in her body—not when it came to taking risks, it appeared. He’d heard one or two of the stories of her youth. Nothing that was too scandalous. Having been confined with her friend made him wonder at the mildness of the very tales he had been privy to.
What worried James most was the common knowledge that men kept opera dancers, singers, actors, and others of the lower classes, with no questions. But his wife? Was she willing to put her entire reputation at risk? She hadn’t made a secret of her anger with him at leaving their wedding bed. Mayhap he was confusing hurt and concern with the anger. Regardless, his insides tightened at the preposterous, yet real, possibility of his countess lying with another man. The very idea sent a murderous rage through his blood.
He pushed away from the rail. They would have this matter resolved if he had to toss her over his shoulder and carry her out of the theater without a care of the disgrace it would create.
Within two steps of her, the curtain parted, and a young man appeared. “Lord Huntley?” he directed at Gabriella.
Her eyes met James’s and her lips tightened. She waved a graceful hand in his direction.
James recognized him, of course. His name was Reg, and he was a courier for the prime minister. That didn’t bode well.
“Ah, my lord.” Reg’s heels clicked whilst he bowed. It wasn’t low, but it was respectful. “A note for you, sir.” He whipped a sealed missive from inside his coat and held it out.
Swallowing his groan, James accepted the offering and broke the seal. Short and sweet. And demanding. His presence. He turned to his company. “I regret, I must leave. Lady Stanford, perhaps you and your husband would kindly see my wife home?”
“Of course, my lord,” Rose said sharply, her eyes narrowed on him.
James stepped forward and, bending low, brushed Gabriella’s lush lips with his own. The move ignited a fire in his blood. “I shall likely be home late, my dear.” He spoke softly for her ears alone. “But rest assured, we will talk. Tonight.” He slipped out before she could mount a response, and whom did he see stealing furtively from the same forbidden hall he’d seen his wife with not a single lemonade in sight?
Stanford.
~~~
Although James’s touch sent sparks of current rippling through Gabriella, she pressed her lips together and restrained the urge to brush her fingers where they tingled, her gaze following his departure.
Her husband was as secretive now as the day they’d met, and she didn’t like it. Not in the least. There wasn’t a single person in attendance this evening who’d been surprised at his tardiness. Truth be told, Gabby had been shocked to see him at all. Relief had knocked the breath out of her when he’d appeared. If he’d shown five minutes earlier—
But he hadn’t. She didn’t think so, leastways. That was the important thing.
“Gabriella.”
Gabby blinked, reclaiming her focus. She collected herself and planted a smile on her face before turning to Rose.
“Is something going on?” Rose asked. Her eyes dropped to Gabby’s midsection. She gasped. “You’re with child.”
A flush of heat crawled—no, not crawled, barraged—her, covering her bosom. One likely couldn’t tell where her bosom ended, and her dress began. The burn climbed up her neck into her face, into her hairline.
“Are you certain, Gabriella? You look feverish.”
Gabby smoothed a hand over her dark red skirts. She couldn’t very well tell her sister that Gabby and Huntley hadn’t been in the same bed since the morning after their disastrous wedding night.
Rose’s piercing stare bore through Gabby. “Where did Huntley disappear?”
“A, um, small crisis required his attention.” She shifted her attention to the uproarious crowd below.
Rose snorted. “That seems unlikely, my dear.” She laid her hand over Gabby’s and squeezed. “I know men can be quite difficult. Some fail to see marriage as a requirement in relinquishing their mistresses. I fear the responsibility falls on us women to hold up our heads and turn the other cheek to deal with such mundane matters.” Her pomposity, her audacity sent the blood rushing to Gabby’s ears.
Mundane?
“My husband is not keeping a mistress,” she bit out through clenched teeth. “How dare you suggest such a thing.” Is that why Huntley hadn’t returned to her bed?
