Christ. He was to spend the evening beneath the frigid eye of the Duke of Morleigh, a gentleman who spoke with all the warmth of a court summons! They exchanged civilities at White’s, certainly, but always beneath the civilising influence of port, and never while Jasper entertained ambitions better suited to shadowed alcoves and absent chaperones. Any prospect of mischief was therefore extinguished at once.
It was, of course, far too late to retreat. The usher had already bowed him onwards, the footman had drawn aside the velvet curtain, and Jasper—cursed with generations of excellent breeding—could hardly bolt for the street. With the resignation of a man proceeding to the gallows, he stepped into the Morleigh box.
Below, the audience murmured and shifted, cloaked and gloved and glinting with diamonds. Above, the chandeliers burnt with all the fire of Olympus, pouring golden light across crimson drapery and tiers of gilded ornament. It might have appeared magical, transporting even, had it not been for the unavoidable fact that the duke would be seated within arm’s reach.
The Duke of Morleigh glanced up from his programme. “Deverell,” he said curtly.
“Your Grace.” Jasper bowed first to the duke, and then more deeply to the duchess seated beside him.
“Mr Deverell,” Her Grace replied smoothly. She bore little resemblance to her younger sister; where Miss Tolliver was tall and dark, the duchess was fair and softly rounded, yet no less handsome for the difference. “What an unexpected honour.”
“I find I am often accused of being unexpected,” Jasper returned. “Though seldom with such kindness.”
The duchess smiled.
The duke turned a page with evident disinterest. “You are early. The play does not begin for another half hour.”
Jasper glanced toward the stage, where footmen were still lighting the lamps along the orchestra rail. “I have always considered punctuality an excellent quality in others.”
“Indeed,” the duke returned, with a coolness that did not invite elaboration.
Jasper inclined his head and took a seat. “I must confess,” he added, allowing his gaze to travel appreciatively about the box, “I had expected rather less distinguished company this evening.”
“And rather less illumination, no doubt.”
Jasper bit the inside of his cheek. For a moment, he had the uncomfortable sensation of being seventeen again, standing before his father while the older man measured every inch of him and found it wanting. Charming, but shallow. Elegant, but useless. A dandy, said as though the word were something diseased. Jasper had laughed it off, as he laughed off most things, but he had understood the warning perfectly well: his father allowed for only one sort of manhood, and Jasper had never quite fit inside it.
The duchess’s voice cut neatly across his reflections. “I daresay Lord Langley will be relieved not to shepherd my sister unaccompanied this evening. I have heard the Derby proved rather less than harmonious. Charlotte can be somewhat… spirited.”
Jasper smiled. “I have heard that particular term employed in description of Miss Tolliver. As well as unruly, incorrigible, and, on one memorable occasion, positively dangerous when bored.”
Her Grace gave a hum of amusement. “You must be well acquainted.”
“I could not presume,” Jasper replied with polite ambiguity, just as Lord Langley entered the box looking foreworn.
“Langley,” Jasper greeted. “What a pleasure.”
“Ah, Deverell. You are early.”
“To secure the most advantageous seat, of course.”
“I did caution you,” Theo said under his breath, not troubling to look at him, “that it would not bethatsort of evening.”
“Evidently, I misunderstood your meaning.”
A silence ensued, during which Jasper made three distinct attempts at conversation within the first five minutes, each of which met with only the most meagre success. The duke replied once with a courteous syllable; the duchess answered kindly enough, though with the distant air of royalty; and Theo said nothing at all.
Jasper took up the programme. He read the title of the evening’s performance four times and could not have repeated a word of it. By the half-hour, he began to suspect Miss Tolliver might not appear at all.
Good God, he thought, what is the matter with me?
It had been a kiss. Or two. Two remarkably agreeable kisses, certainly—but still no more than that. He had just begun to contemplate the mortifying possibility that he might, in fact, be very nearly in love with her, when the velvet curtain stirred.
Miss Charlotte Tolliver swept into the box like a spring breeze.
She sank into a graceful curtsey before the duke, then bent to kiss her sister lightly upon the cheek. “Georgie, how divine you look. Positively radiant. How fares young Henry this evening? Not in attendance, I trust?”
“At home,” the duchess replied, permitting a smile. “Biting the staff and refusing to be put to bed.”
