Page 36 of Forgotten No More

“I do think thou dost protest too much.” With a chuckle, he scooted his seat back to its rightful place, which was still closer than Ruby wanted.

Did he not see she only sought to keep their names out of the gossip mill? Neither of them could afford their character being brought into question. Harold because he needed a wife, and Ruby because she was still unprepared for her mother to learn she was in London.

“My protests aren’t nearly as vehement as they should be,” she countered.

At that point, the gas lights dimmed and the crowd below sighed in wonder. “Shhhhh,” Harold hissed.

The English Opera House, used as both a theater and musical hall, was a luxury entertainment that many could not afford, but scraped together enough coin to attend anyways, sometimes at the expense of a meal—or seven.

Ruby was content to lose herself in the performance, the beauty of the costumes, and the dramatic flair of the actors. The words, filled with such emotion and conviction, washed over her. She understood the draw of the theater; it was almost hypnotic. The sensual temperament of the whole affair was much like the real-life affair her mother and father had briefly shared. Their own relationship played out much the same: a cosmic beginning, an overwhelming climax, and a sad, depressing end that neither could have seen coming—just as the audience sighed or shouted in dismay during the play. It was with a light heart she recalled this play did not end as her parents’ torrid affair had. Oberon, Titania, Hermia, and Demetrius were fated a much happier resolution.

“Are you unwell?”

Ruby hadn’t noticed the sob she’d let out until Harold mumbled the question and she looked up to see both Vi and Lord Haversham turned in their seats toward her.

“Why does everyone always fear I am ill? I am fine,” she said to cover her unintended emotional reaction. “The play is lovely, that’s all.”

Vi and her husband accepted her words and returned their gazes to the performance. Harold kept his attention on her, his hand coming to rest on her knee.

“Truly, I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the spoken word is all.”

He didn’t move his hand, nor retreat to his side of the box. Thankfully, the low lighting made it impossible for anyone outside their box to see his hand, or how close he leaned toward her. His hand was surprisingly comforting as the play went on, something she would never admit to a soul.

She made no move. Her breath held in anticipation.

He kept his eyes on the stage as his fingers began a gentle, kneading of her thigh. As the first act wore on, his touch became more demanding, dominating, as though under the spell the play had cast. With each increase in pressure, Ruby’s breathing also amplified.

Startled, she felt cool air on her leg. Harold’s gentle touch had drawn her skirt up her leg and was now bunched at her knee. She sucked in a large gulp of air and held it as his hand moved to touch her knee.

Skin-to-skin contact she’d never felt before.

Beside her, Harold’s breathing also sounded labored.

Frantic, Ruby looked to Vi in front of her. The couple was focused on the play before them.

Ruby relaxed into her seat, enjoying Harold’s warm touch, knowing it would not—could not—last…and she may never experience such pleasure again.

It took all Harold’s strength to hold himself back. Overwhelming Ruby with his touch would only drive a wedge between them he’d worked hard to remove, or at least dislodge. The walls she surrounded herself with were proving difficult to navigate, but he was determined to either climb them or tear them down, one by one.

Inch by painful inch, he raised her skirt, making sure to block the view from any wandering eyes with his own outstretched legs. Keeping his eyes on the performance, he gathered the material of her silken gown, lifting it higher and higher.

Finally his skin touched hers and he was ablaze, without the means to extinguish his need. If Brock and Lady Haversham were not mere feet away—and all of the ton not within sight—he would have her in his arms, pressed against the wall with his hand further lifting her skirt. His body pressed firmly against her trim form, her hands running through his hair. And most importantly, his mouth on her.

The kiss played through his mind, an extension of his thoughts during their last moment alone together. He imagined the taste of her lips, sweet as honeysuckle. The feel of her hands upon him, sure and filled with need. The press of their bodies together in wanton desire.

His only intelligible thought being how he could make exactly that happen—where they could find a moment of solitude amongst hundreds of London’s elite.

He stroked his hand ever higher on her thigh, gathering the material as he went.

Ruby kept her eyes trained on the stage, but he felt her tremble, her yearning as great as his own.

She was right to deny his assistance. He could not trust he wouldn’t take things too far, ask too much of her—more than she was willing to give.

Would she deny him now? Deny herself the pleasure she so needed?

He pulled his hand away and she whimpered, the sound at once erotic and heartbreakingly innocent. Her purity of body—and heart—was one of the things he admired most.

Harold slid his chair closer once more, to better attend her needs. Needs she most likely didn’t know she had or how to satisfy.