The Dutiful Rake (19 page)

Since he had paid for the box shortly before his visit to Yorkshire, Marcus could have told her exactly how much above five hundred pounds. He chose, however, to ignore the comment, looking sharply at Meg to see if she were panicked at the presence of Winterbourne.

Meg merely said innocently, ‘Perhaps it was a present. After all, if she likes music it would be a very good present.’ She must not, she told herself, make a cake of herself. Winterbourne could not possibly distress her from the other side of the theatre. And she supposed he had to have
some
relatives. But it was a dreadful shock to realise that he was connected to her family, however tenuously.

Jack was moved to comment, ‘It would, of course. But I fancy Lady Hartleigh finds the entertainment of her peers quite as fascinating as the stage.’

Marcus glared at him. Jack, damn his eyes, knew precisely which of her
peers,
as he had so delicately put it, had made Lady Hartleigh a present of her most expensive box.

A choke from behind them caught their attention. Sir Toby, finding all eyes upon him as he spluttered, waved his hand excusingly. ‘Just a crumb in my throat. Don’t mind me. I shall be better directly.’

Eyeing the very elegant pair of opera glasses in his wife’s hand, Marcus hoped devoutly that she would not think to turn them on some of the boxes opposite during the performance. Otherwise she would be bound to discover just why so many members of society, who could
not so much as carry a note in a bucket, let alone a tune, chose to patronise the opera with its convenient private boxes full of discreet shadows.

‘Now, what is it tonight?’ asked Lady Fellowes brightly.

Meg turned an enquiring gaze upon her. Surely she had mentioned on the note that it was La Cenerentola? She reminded her politely.

‘Oh, of course! Mozart! I dote on Mozart.’ She beamed at Jack. ‘Dear little Sophia is excessively musical, Mr Hamilton. She takes after me, you know.’

‘Er…I believe Signor Rossini to have written this opera, my dear.’ Sir Delian sounded a shade apologetic. He smiled deprecatingly at his wife as she glared at him.

‘Dear me,’ Marcus cut in smoothly. ‘How very inconsiderate these foreigners are. They can’t even manage to compose their own operas. It would never happen in England!’

‘True,’ said Lady Diana drily. ‘Since we import all our operas and don’t have any written by modern English composers. Ah, they’re starting!’

‘Di,’ said Sir Toby apologetically to Meg, ‘is most unfashionable in that she comes to the opera in order to enjoy the music.’

‘Why, whatever else would anyone come for?’ asked Meg innocently. Sir Toby’s jaw dropped ludicrously. A glare from his brother-in-law warned him that he had said quite enough and he muttered something incoherent, which was common enough not to have aroused Meg’s curiosity had not her cousin Sophia Fellowes looked so scornfully knowing. Realising that she had somehow made a fool of herself, she made a mental note not to ask any more questions unless it were possible to address them very quietly to Jack.

She sat expectantly in her seat as the orchestra swept into the overture. There had been so little opportunity to hear any music in Yorkshire. Uncle Samuel had never engaged any sort of governess for her so she had never learnt to sing or play the pianoforte. She heaved a sigh of pleasure as the music ebbed and flowed around her. By the end of the first act she was entranced. Despite not knowing a word of Italian she knew the tale of Cinderella well enough to follow the action, and the music, she found, told her exactly what the characters were feeling.

She had always thought that opera must be a silly sort of thing where people got up and sang in the most unlikely way. Now she discovered that on the contrary the music somehow took the story and added an extra level of emotion to it. That the music could somehow twist itself around her very soul. And she knew how poor little Cinderella felt, lost and vulnerable, dazed that anyone, let alone a prince, could possibly love her.

And sometimes, she thought sadly, Cinderella’s luck is quite out. How would she have felt if her Prince had only married her because he had to, because society and his own sense of honour demanded it? That, far from returning her love, he regretted his chivalrous action in marrying a poor little nobody? Meg bit her lower lip hard. She had wanted so much to be a good wife to Marc, even if he didn’t care for her. And now they could barely converse without trying to hurt one another. There was a hot pricking behind her eyes and quickly she raised her opera glasses in defence. The last thing she needed was to be caught crying in the middle of the King’s Theatre.

Slowly she became aware of the oddest sensation of being watched. Puzzled, she lowered her opera glasses
and stole a glance around the box. Sir Toby looked as though he were sound asleep…yes…that was definitely a snore! Diana was watching the stage and Marcus was trying to, albeit distracted by Cousin Henrietta’s arch comments. Jack was leaning on the rail, his attention on the performance, seemingly unaware of the languishing glances being cast in his direction by Cousin Sophia, and Cousin Delian looked to be in a fair way to joining Sir Toby in the arms of Morpheus.

She must be imagining it. Then, as she swung her gaze back to the stage, a movement in the box opposite caught her eye. Startled, she looked more closely. And felt a rising wave of sickness.

Sir Blaise Winterbourne had his opera glasses trained directly on her. Suddenly Meg was appallingly aware of the low-cut gown she was wearing…Fear flooded her as the music receded, giving way to nightmare panic that surged up from the darkness to choke her, drag her down into the yawning pit…A simpering giggle from Sophia dragged her back from the brink of the abyss.

She still felt cold and sick, but at least she was in control of herself again, able to think and quell the terror. Casually she reached for the Norwich silk shawl on her lap and slipped it around her shoulders. At least she didn’t feel naked to that lecherous gaze.

Jack turned to her. ‘Cold?’ he murmured.

‘A…a little,’ she returned, aware that her voice was shaking.

Meg had managed to regain control of herself before the interval, but she sat rather quietly during all the chatter. Marcus had ordered champagne to be served and she sipped hers dubiously, not entirely certain she liked it.

Jack leaned over and said softly, ‘Now, whatever you do, don’t pour it over the edge.’

‘Pour it over the edge?’ Meg tried not to giggle. ‘Why on earth should I do that?’

He chuckled at her near slip. ‘Well, that’s what my sister tells me she did here once! Caused quite a commotion down below. Roars of protest about the decadent aristocracy, threats of insurgency. If you ask me, it was a miracle Barraclough was induced to offer for her after that.’ He changed the subject. ‘Are you enjoying yourself on your first visit to the opera?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Her enthusiasm was thoroughly unfashionable. ‘But I don’t know anything about music. I…I wish I did. My Cousins Sophia and Henrietta sound so knowledgeable.’

‘But you must have learned to sing and to play the pianoforte.’ He sounded amazed and she shook her head, blushing slightly.

‘No. My guardian did not engage a governess for me.’ She blushed. ‘I…I have no accomplishments at all. I fear I’m not much of a bargain for my lord.’

It was said with a gallant attempt at humour, but Jack could hear the underlying pain in her voice. Several things clicked into focus for him at that point. Lady Rutherford was scared, scared that she would betray her ignorance and shame to Marc, scared that she would not be able to hold her own in the strange new world into which she had been pitchforked. None of which would matter very much if things were all right between her and Marc. But they weren’t. And Meg’s lack of confidence in herself would not help. He had the queerest notion that some other fear was making it all worse, undermining her natural courage and gallantry.

He cocked his head and said gently, ‘Then we must do something about that.’

Her eyes flew to his in startled query.

He smiled back. ‘First, engage a singing master. You have a lovely speaking voice. Learn to sing. As for the other accomplishments, talk to Di. You can learn to draw, paint in water colours, embroider, whatever you like. I’m sure if you wished you could go and join her daughters and their governess.’

‘Jack,’ she breathed. ‘That’s a wonderful idea! I feel such an ignoramus at times and I don’t wish my lord to…to feel—’ She broke off in embarrassment.

He nodded sympathetically. ‘May I give you more advice, Meg? Or, rather, a clue about the admittedly base propensities of the male sex.’

She nodded.

‘Most of us don’t really give a damn about a woman being able to embroider prettily or draw or paint. Some don’t even care if she’s intelligent or not. Marc, I can safely assure you, will not be concerned if you have all the feminine accomplishments or none of them. On the other hand, I know he appreciates your intelligence. So, if you decide to acquire a few accomplishments, choose the ones that really appeal to you. You enjoy reading, so learn French and Italian. Learn to sing. For your own pleasure and satisfaction.’

Their soft exchange was interrupted at this point by Sophia Fellowes, who had watched Jack’s attentions to Meg with ill-concealed annoyance.

She fluttered her lashes at Jack and said, ‘Are you enjoying the performance, sir? I vow I have never seen so many modish gowns!’

Jack and Meg exchanged a speaking glance, full of
laughter, even as he responded politely to this revealing exclamation.

This, then, thought Meg, striving to control her incipient choke of laughter, was why people came to the opera whether they were musical or not. To see and to be seen. Very well. She would conform. And in the meantime she would allow the music to ravish her senses and comfort some of her loneliness. No one need know. To the world it would appear as though Lady Rutherford was obeying the dictates of fashion.

Still chuckling inwardly, she turned away from Jack and Sophia. And found her husband’s cold grey eyes resting on her enigmatically. A faintly sardonic smile played at the corner of his beautifully cut mouth. Meg felt her throat close up and her mouth go dry as she imagined, remembered the skill of those firm lips and the long fingers, negligently holding the stem of his wine glass. Determined not to betray herself, she bit her underlip hard to stop its trembling and then gave him her most brilliant social smile. The grey eyes, that had once held tenderness, hardened slightly as he inclined his head in acknowledgement. And then turned away.

Marcus felt devastated. Adrift. He had seen Meg in action for over a month now and knew that she was playing a part for the benefit of society. Even for him. He thought he could have accepted that. But to see her lower her guard for Jack hurt unbearably. The way she had looked at him! Friendly, relaxed. Damn it! She was his! Or she had been, before he drove her away.

The music began again but Marcus heard little of it, lost as he was in his own worries. What the hell had he got himself into? He had never expected to suffer agonies of jealousy over the inevitable infidelities of his countess! Infidelity…the very word grated on him. It
was the last word he would have associated with Meg, he realised. It just didn’t fit. But he had set the terms of their marriage himself, and he would have to acquiesce…

A faint movement caught his eye. Sophia Fellowes leaning over to address some coy remark to Jack. Fury welled up in him. It was no more than Jack deserved if Meg did foist that simpering woman on to him, but he was damned if he’d let her get away with it! As soon as they got home he was going to have a long overdue chat with his wife.

‘I should like to speak with you privately, madam,’ said Marcus ominously as Meg started up the stairs towards her bedchamber with her candle.

She turned, concealing a yawn. The late nights were beginning to exhaust her and she had been feeling rather unwell recently. ‘Could it not wait until morning, my lord? I am rather—’

‘Now.’ His voice was coldly inflexible.

Fury blazed in Meg’s eyes. How dare he address her thus! ‘Since you ask so charmingly, my lord, naturally I am delighted to comply.’ The dulcet tones were strangely at odds with the simmering rage in her eyes. ‘I shall await your pleasure in the drawing room.

She did not have long to wait. Marcus joined her almost immediately.

He stated his grievance with disastrous promptitude. ‘I must demand, madam, that you do not subject my friends to such obvious matchmaking efforts. In particular, I object to Mr Hamilton being a victim of such schemes! Especially in connection with Sophia Fellowes.’

Meg thought it entirely likely that she might explode,
but she held on to the edges of her temper with difficulty. ‘Pray, tell me, my lord, have you some specific objection to my cousin?’

‘She is a mercenary little bitch!’ said Marcus, not mincing words. ‘On the catch for a husband and with not the slightest shred of feeling for anyone save herself! Besides which, I do not like her family!’

Meg felt as though he had stabbed her. Hurt mingled with rage. ‘And what is left for her if she does not marry?’ she stormed. ‘A life of dependency! Poverty, perhaps! Do you think any woman wishes to marry for those reasons? Because she must?’

Belatedly Marcus realised that he had been tactless in the extreme. Furious with himself, he lashed out, ‘She would be marrying for money alone! Do you think any man wishes to be married for his money and social position? If she cared in the least for Jack…’

Cared? Her own pain exploded inside her into coruscating fury. ‘Care? Why should she care? What man looks for that in his marriage? I was under the distinct impression that
love
was to be sought outside marriage! That marrying for money, position and social security was all one could expect!’

Marcus’s brows snapped together. ‘Meg, I am well aware that your position and Miss Fellowes are vastly different. You had no one to care for you—’

‘Damn you!’ The words burst from her uncontrollably. ‘I don’t want your pity! Do you think I
wished
to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua? I…I should never have accepted your offer!’ She whirled and fairly ran from the room, slamming the door behind her.