‘What theatre are we going to?’ she said instead, not wishing to think about his effortless good looks for a moment longer.
‘The Gaiety Theatre.’
Margaret’s head tilted slightly as if she had not heard correctly. She’d expected the Theatre Royal perhaps, or maybe St James’s Theatre, but the Gaiety? ‘I’ve never been there. It’s not a theatre Father entirely approves of for young ladies.’
‘Well, your father’s not here tonight, so it’s a chance for us to be a bit wild and reckless.’
‘Perhaps,’ Margaret answered, her nerves not soothed by the thought of doing anything that could be classed as either wild or reckless.
The carriage came to a halt in front of the well-lit building. The footman quickly lowered the steps and the Duke jumped out then held out his hand to help her down. Margaret looked up at the ornate façade of the three-storey building, topped with a domed roof. It certainly did not look like a den of iniquity, not that she actually knew what a den of iniquity looked like.
His carriage moved off and was quickly replaced by the next in the jostling line. Margaret and the Duke joined the other elegantly dressed men and women shuffling through the doors towards the foyer. They entered the building and the hubbub of countless voices greeted them. Excitement replaced nervousness as Margaret found herself caught up in the crowd’s anticipation of the night’s entertainment.
On the Duke’s arm, she walked up the sweeping staircase and he led her to a private box. She stood at the entrance and couldn’t stop herself from smiling with delight. It really was like being a princess. On the few occasions she had attended the theatre with her parents they had always sat in the ground floor seats. She had never for a moment imagined she would ever be one of the people sitting high above the crowd in a private box.
Like a queen, she took her seat on the plush velvet chair and, leaning forward, her gloved hands on the gilded balustrade, she looked out at the auditorium. The stalls below were filling up with women in beautiful gowns and men in evening suits. She looked up to the gallery, which was packed full of people one rarely saw at the more exclusive theatres, presumably also dressed in their finest clothing, even if they were rather shabby compared to the wealthy patrons below them.
But one thing they all had in common was that they were all abuzz, eagerly awaiting tonight’s performance.
The gas lights lowered. The multitude of voices silenced and the red velvet curtain lifted to reveal a row of young women standing on the stage dressed in scandalously short skirts, showing not just their ankles but most of their calves, their tight bodices cut so low that Margaret wondered how they avoided falling out of them.
The audience erupted into thunderous applause, seemingly not as shocked by their appearance as Margaret. She joined in with polite clapping as the dancers began their routine by kicking their legs high in the air, exposing more than just their calves. Despite her discomfort, Margaret did have to admire the precision of their footwork, their energy and artistry. But still, she hated to think what her father would say if he knew the Duke had taken her to such a place.
When the energetic dance came to an end, the theatre once again filled with riotous clapping and even some whistling and stamping of feet. Several men in the stalls stood up, their hands raised above their heads as they clapped enthusiastically. Margaret was aware that some aristocratic men took young ladies from the theatre as their mistresses and had to wonder if that was what she was witnessing, men showing approval for their mistress’s performance. She took a quick sideways look at the Duke. He too was a man known to associate with actresses and chorus girls. Had any of those young women she had just witnessed performing that risqué dance been, or still was, his lover?
He was clapping politely, rather than standing up, whistling or stamping his feet, but he was hardly likely to show his enthusiasm for his lover when he was supposed to be passing himself off as a respectable engaged man.
Margaret grimaced as a band tightly gripped her chest, and her sudden shortness of breath could not be attributed entirely to her constricting corset.
What she was experiencing was jealousy, that much was clear. What she didn’t know was why. It was a ridiculous and inappropriate emotion. It mattered not whether he was or had ever been involved with any of those beautiful and decidedly athletic young women.
She had always known he was a rake. She, along with most of Society, had read the scandalous reports on what he and his friends got up to. He’d been linked to numerous well-known actresses and was presumably on intimate terms with many of those dancers as well. She knew this. Had always known this. But such knowledge had no effect on what she was feeling, as irrational as it might be.
Damn it all, she wasn’t just jealous of the Duke, but also of those beautiful young women. They were women who were not restrained by the rigid rules of Society. They were not trussed up in tightly fitted whalebone corsets that made their movements stiff and rigid. They could dance freely and take lovers should they choose.
And worse than that, she was jealous of any of those young women who had discovered what it was like to be held by the Duke, to be kissed by him, to be caressed by him, to know what it was like to be made love to by such a devastatingly handsome man. That was something she would never experience. That was what was making her miserable, and angry with herself for feeling destructive emotions.
The last of the applause finally settled and the curtain raised once more. This time the actors on stage performed a light-hearted musical comedy that had the audience reeling with laughter. Margaret forced herself to keep smiling as if she too was amused by their antics so she would not reveal her sudden despondency.
When the play came to an end, and after several curtain calls, the lights rose for the intermission.
‘Is everything all right?’ the Duke asked, and Margaret mentally castigated herself. She did not want him to think she cared one single fig for the way he lived his life or was affected in the slightest that he regularly took women to his bed. Or even worse, that he might realise she was pathetically burning with jealousy over what those women had shared with him—something they would never share.
‘Yes, perfectly,’ she said, sending him a fake smile.
His raised eyebrows suggested he did not believe her, so she smiled even brighter, which did not cause those eyebrows to lower.
‘Shall we take a walk during the intermission?’ she said in a deliberately cheerful voice. ‘That is the point of this excursion, is it not? To be seen by Society as a respectable engaged couple.’
‘If you wish,’ he said, looking at her sideways as if she was showing signs of derangement.
He led her out into the corridor, which had filled up with well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, talking together in small groups, while liveried servants rushed around providing glasses of wine.
The Duke removed two glasses from a footman’s silver tray and handed one to Margaret. She took a sip, then another one, then a quick third, hoping the crisp bubbles of the champagne would wash away all her ridiculous notions, drive out her embarrassing emotions and soothe her rioting nerves.
They didn’t.
A group of young men swaggered over to them, and the Duke gave a low groan.
