Something in him tightened immediately. “No?”
“My parents brought me to the theatre and the opera from a young age,” she said. “I remember very little of the first times, only that I was entranced.”
Lord Weston smiled at that. “You were. We nearly lost you beneath a row of seats at Drury Lane once, because you insisted you must get closer to the stage.”
Emmeline laughed softly. “I was six.”
“And stubborn,” her father said fondly.
Rowan found himself watching her too closely, imagining her as a child—curious, bright-eyed, reckless enough to crawl toward beauty if she thought it worth the risk—and the thought stirred something unexpectedly tender in him before he shut it down.
“Aaron is not you,” he said.
Her gaze shifted back to him at once. “No. But perhaps he might still enjoy more than you allow.”
“You know him very well, then.”
The edge in his voice was slight, but it landed. He saw it in the stillness that came over her mouth before she answered.
“I know what it is to be a child treated as though feeling deeply is a weakness to be corrected.”
Lord Weston went very quiet beside Frederick.
The orchestra below struck the opening notes before Rowan could answer. It was fortunate they did, because whatever he might have said would not have improved the evening.
The theatre fell into attentive hush. Curtains shifted. The performance began.
The silence in the box was a trap. Rowan stared at the stage, his mind recording the plot while his body focused entirely on the woman inches away. The space was too small. When she leaned forward, the pale curve of her throat caught the light, and her warmth radiated across the narrow gap—a distance he could no longer tolerate.
Her fingertips brushed his knuckles.
It was a ghost of a touch, yet it scorched him. His blood turned to liquid lead, heavy and hot in his veins. He felt the sudden, violent narrowing of the world until there was nothing but the scent of roses on her skin and the thud of his own pulse.
Onstage, an actor shouted a confession of love. It sounded hollow.
Rowan forced his eyes toward the actors, but his discipline had failed. The phantom heat of her touch burned in his nerves. A darker, more vicious curiosity took hold: how her bare skin would feel under his palms, and how quickly her polished composure would shatter if he stopped being a gentleman. He wondered if she would go soft first, or fierce.
When the applause broke, it sounded like it was happening in another world.
They descended with the rest of the crowd in a tide of silk and conversation. Outside, carriages were already being called.
“Thank you for the evening, Your Grace,” Lord Weston said, his voice bright with the relief of a successful evening. “A masterful performance.”
Rowan barely heard him. He was looking at Emmeline as they reached the pavement. The streetlamps caught the sharp, high line of her cheekbones.
“Lady Emmeline,” Rowan said.
She turned to him.
“It was an enlightening evening,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake, but it carried a ragged edge.
Rowan stepped closer, his coat brushing her sleeve. “Was it?”
“Exhausting,” she corrected softly. She didn’t look away, but her cheeks had flushed pink. “I find I am quite ready for the evening to end.”
“As am I,” Rowan replied, his voice dropping into a low, rough register.
He handed her into the carriage. As his fingers gripped hers, the heat from the theatre flared between them again, freezing him in place.
