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“Gentlemen either go starchy and tight-lipped, or they look as if they’ve taken a blow to the head,” she said, deciding that she didn’t have to pretend to be docile, maidenly, and the rest, since he was marrying into the family. “I suppose that will change once she’s married.”
He appeared to be struck by that idea, so Ella kept talking.
“You mustn’t think that Fulvia is fast. She’s never shown much interest in the men who’ve fallen in love with her. Of course, we live deep in the country, so it’s rare to have a swain who is literate.”
“Something in my favor,” Lord Peregrine murmured.
“You’ve already declared victory by rights of owning a theater box,” Ella told him. “Do you have any idea how many people attend the Theater Royal in a single night?”
He shrugged. “One thousand? Three thousand?”
“I suggest you simulate enthusiasm when talking to Fulvia,” Ella advised. “I still remember how excited she was when the Theater Royal reopened with Hamlet in 1812, after the fire. She demanded her father bring home newspaper accounts from London. He brought them to the country months after the fact, but she memorized every word.”
“Thank you for the advice.”
Ella didn’t roll her eyes, but she did allow herself Unkind Thought #2 for the day. Fulvia was on the verge of marrying a moody, arrogant man who likely thought that his wife would pay attention to his emotions.
Her uncle had offered a great training ground for that. Lord Peregrine would quickly learn that his wife had no interest.
“Why are you smiling?” he asked now.
“Oh, nothing,” Ella said airily. “So, what do you do?”
“What do I do?”
“During the day,” she supplied. “Not that you have to do something, but I understand that even gentlemen occupy themselves. Certainly, my uncle spends a great deal of time at the racetrack, when not in attendance on the Prince Regent.”
“Would you like a glass of champagne?” he asked, opening a door. “This private parlor is reserved for guests seated in the boxes.”
“Yes, I would,” Ella said bluntly. “Since I wasn’t offered one earlier.”
He frowned at her. “Miss Fulvia asked that my attendant be sent backstage with an urgent message.”
Ella didn’t point out that he had offered her aunt a beverage. Unfortunately, it was too late to suppress UT #3.
“Why do you keep smiling like that?” the gentleman said, taking a glass of champagne from a footman holding a tray and giving it to her.
“Like what?”
“As if you know a secret.”
“Nonsense,” Ella said. “I don’t know any secrets—though perhaps I should, because in novels a poor relation is always hovering around the edges of the room and overhearing interesting secrets about lost wills.”
“No lost wills in the St. Trevelyon household?”
He showed no surprise on learning she was a poor relation, which was somewhat irritating given that her gown was as lovely as Fulvia’s, if not more so. Mrs. Quimby had called it “celestial blue, with gossamer net.”
Ella had never looked better, not that she offered competition to Fulvia at the best of times. Her hair was the wrong color, and her chin was—to put it delicately—too strong. Plus, she had no dimples and likely a forbidding expression, thanks to frequent arguments with bill collectors.
“So,” Lord Peregrine continued, when she didn’t answer, “you haven’t heard any secrets worth putting in a novel?”
Ella sipped her champagne and shook her head. “None. Although there is a lost—”
She caught herself.
Lord Peregrine took a drink of champagne. His eyes were fixed on hers. There was something wildly attractive about the way he gave her his full attention. It made Ella feel silly and unlike herself. Like the kind of girl who would toss her head and giggle.
“What did you say?” he asked.
