The Perfect Waltz (31 page)

“Trust me, dear boy, they will. I know it may strike you as a touch immodest, but where a Bemerton leads, others will follow.”

“Sounds daft to me. I can’t see any of the ton beaux in hot pursuit of a dowdy little gray bluestocking. Besides, there’s an enormous hole in this plan of yours: Lady Elinore doesn’t even like you.”

Giles looked affronted. “Doesn’t like me? Me? What nonsense! Of course she likes me. Everybody likes me!”

Sebastian grinned. “Ah yes, but she’s a woman who goes her own way, Lady Elinore. I seem to recall she once danced with you—you! And according to your own account, made it abundantly clear she found you repugnant! And later she didn’t even recognize you—you!”

Giles waved a hand. “Pah! She recognized me. She was just indulging in female stratagems.”

“Didn’t look like it to me. She doesn’t seem the type to use female stratagems. Not very Rational.”

Giles snorted and said darkly, “Believe me, Bas, all females use female stratagems. From three-year-old girl children to hundred-year-old nuns, mark my words.”

“Snubbed you again, several times that I know of,” Sebastian reminded him. “Didn’t seem too happy with your comments at the orphan institution the other day. Practically snapped your nose off at least three times.”

“Nonsense! It would take more than that little creature to damage the Bemerton Nose,” Giles said with a grin, rubbing the nose in question.

“Nose, self-consequence, both enormous,” murmured Sebastian.

Giles declared loftily. “You may scoff, but jealousy is the sign of a small, mean spirit, Reyne. Bemertons prevail—it’s the family motto. You may be without rival in business affairs, but I am a nonpareil in affairs of the heart, and I—I understand women.”

Sebastian arched his eyebrows. “Famous last words.”

“Bah! Doubting Thomas! Now, you go off and try to make Miss Merridew fall for your dubious charms. Leave Lady Elinore to me!”

 
“Don’t worry, Mr. Reyne. We are not late,” Lady Elinore assured him as she came down the stairs in a gray velvet cloak. “Nobody goes to the opera on time.”

Why? It was foolish in his view, since the hire of a box for the evening was not cheap. Why pay to go to something and not watch all of it? He did not understand the ton.

“In fact, we shall be unfashionably early.” She pulled on a pair of long gray gloves. “But I approve of that, because I hate missing the beginning of a story, don’t you?”

Sebastian nodded, feeling marginally more cheerful. If opera was a story as well as singing, it might not be so bad.

In the carriage Lady Elinore said, “Dear Mother did not approve of the opera. She considered the excessive passions inherent in the art form vulgar. And they are, of course, but I find the music quite spiritually uplifting. And Cosi is a delight. Do you find it so, Mr. Reyne?”

Having no idea who Cosi was, Sebastian decided to make a clean breast of it. “I’m afraid I know almost nothing about opera, Lady Elinore. This will be my first experience.”

The confession proved an error in judgment. His ignorance apparently thrilled her. She spent the entire carriage ride describing the history of the art form—what she unnervingly called a brief sketch.

When they arrived at their box, the pit was in relative darkness, the limelights across the stage were blazing, and the curtain rose just as they seated themselves.

Sebastian looked around him with interest. He’d attended plays in Manchester theaters, but nothing so elaborate or fine as this. A number of other boxes were set around the walls of the theater, most of them empty.

The orchestra struck up a tune, and the singers began to sing. He liked the music, but it was hard to pick up the words.

He glanced at Lady Elinore. She seemed totally absorbed. There was a faint smile on her face.

Sebastian leaned forward and stared at the figures striding about onstage. They sang and sang, and no matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn’t work out what the devil they were singing about and what the story was supposed to be. There were two women and two men. He thought they might be lovers. And then there was this other fellow . . .

He sneaked another sideways look at Lady Elinore. She was swaying and inclining her head along with the music, apparently completely caught up in it.

Eventually he gave it up and entertained himself observing the other theatergoers. Some of the other boxes were slowly filling up. He saw several persons he recognized from various balls and routs he’d attended. Lord and Lady Thorn entered a box directly opposite, with a party of friends. He spied Count Rimavska among them, a glossy black fur cloak lined with red silk flung carelessly around his shoulders.

Few of the people slowly filling the boxes took notice of the stage. They waved to friends, scanned the crowds with their opera glasses, and talked and laughed in quite audible tones. The ladies were dressed very finely, and most sat at the very front of their box so that their gowns and jewels and coiffures could be admired.

Lady Elinore also sat at the very front, but it was so she could see all that was happening onstage, not because anyone would be admiring her shapeless, gray silk dress, her lack of jewels, and her scraped-back hair. Sebastian rather admired her stubborn adherence to her principles. There was something very classy in her refusal to bow to society’s dictates, he decided. He admired strength of mind.

On the other hand, strength of mind could also be stubborn rigidity. Where did one end and the other begin? he pondered.

“Here you are.” Giles poked his head around the door of the box. “You must have got here devilish early.” He spoke in a normal voice.

“Shush,” hissed Lady Elinore.

Giles grinned and withdrew his head. “After you, ladies.”

“How do you do, Mr. Reyne,” whispered Miss Faith Merridew. “Have we missed the start?” She hurried to the front of the box, seated herself one seat along from Lady Elinore, leaving an empty seat between them, and glued her gaze to the stage.

“Mr. Reyne.” The chaperone stepped in, offered him two limp, disdainful fingers to shake, and went to collect Miss Faith’s sky-blue cloak, which she’d tossed onto a seat. She hung it and her own on some hooks at the back of the box. She looked as sour as ever.

Sebastian swallowed. He knew who would follow.

Miss Merridew entered, wrapped enticingly in a ruched cloak of wine-colored velvet. The rich, dark color enhanced her golden loveliness, framing her like a jewel. She gave him a dazzling smile and murmured, “Good evening, Mr. Reyne.”

Sebastian managed to say in a gruff voice, “May I take your cloak, Miss Merridew?”

She inclined her head, turned, and shrugged slowly, allowing the sumptuous dark crimson material to slide off her smooth, bare shoulders into his waiting hands.

Sebastian swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

Her dress was green silk, with wine-red lace panels and satin insets. High-waisted and low-cut, it clung to her slender curves lovingly.

Her skin was silken soft, creamy against the rich green color of her gown. Golden, silky curls clustered high around her head, leaving her soft nape exposed, vulnerable and enticing. If he just bent his head a little, he could kiss her just there. The faint scent of her perfume teased his senses. He longed to press his mouth to that sweet curve, to bury his face in that faint, creamy hollow, to taste her skin and know her . . .

He swallowed again.

“Oh, do take care! You’re crushing that cloak, and it’s new!” The chaperone’s voice grated into his consciousness. She twitched the cloak from his nerveless grasp and pushed past him to hang it up.

Giles gave him a wicked grin over Miss Merridew’s alabaster shoulder. “Knew you’d enjoy the opera, Bas.” He strolled to the front of the box and peered out into the audience. “How’s it going? Many arrived yet? Anyone interesting here?”

“Shush,” hissed Lady Elinore again. “Some of us come here for the music!” She barely turned her head as she said it. She’d nodded briefly at the others as they entered the box, but had made it clear that she would not talk until the intermission. Miss Faith seemed to approve of this.

Giles winked at Sebastian and said in a perfectly normal voice, “I think the lady is inviting us to sit down and enjoy the show, Bastian, so by all means, let us find a seat. Where would you like to sit, Miss Merridew? Mrs. Jenner?”

Lady Elinore turned and glared at him. “Mr. Bemerton!” she hissed crossly.

“Evening, Lady Elinore. My word, that color suits you. You should wear it more often,” said Sebastian’s irrepressible friend. As her glare intensified, he added in a soothing voice, “Yes, yes, we’ll find a seat. Never fret, dear lady. There’s plenty of room for everyone.”

Lady Elinore turned back to the stage with a sniff and what in a less serious lady might even be called a flounce.

The chaperone, Mrs. Jenner, took the seat next to Miss Faith. She gave Sebastian a repellent look, indicated the empty seat between Faith and Lady Elinore, and said, “Hope, dear” in a compelling voice. Clearly Miss Hope was to sit as far away from Sebastian as possible.

Hope gave Sebastian a faintly comical look of regret and was about to step forward and sit where she was bidden when Giles said, “By George! There’s my old friend Bertie Glossington! Hey, Bertie! Bertie!” He stepped right up to the balcony and leaned over it, waving a handkerchief, then paused and said, “Nope, not Glossington at all. Pity.”

“Mr. Bemerton!” snapped Lady Elinore. “Will you sit down and be quiet!”

“Delighted to oblige you, ma’am,” said Giles and plonked himself down in the vacant chair beside Lady Elinore, then added in a hoarse, loud whisper. “Shame about Glossington. You would have liked him, Lady Elinore. A delightful chap, Bertie. Barrel o’laughs.”

Lady Elinore sniffed and glued her eyes firmly to the stage, her chin jutting militantly in a manner that boded ill for the next interruption. Giles sat back, grinning. He turned and winked at Sebastian.

Sebastian might have laughed at his impudence, had he not been so distracted. He took his place in the only vacant seat left—the one beside Miss Hope Merridew.

He could smell her perfume. It filled his senses. He was unprepared. He had no idea of what to do. He couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Her shoulders were silken smooth and creamy in the light reflected from the stage. Her dress of green silk clung to her in vales and shadows of emerald.

Make conversation? How could any man possibly do such a thing with Miss Hope so near? He couldn’t concentrate on a thing. Not the music, not the incomprehensible plot, not even Mrs. Jenner’s attempts to change places with Hope, which Hope refused, citing Lady Elinore’s further disturbance as her reason.

Her gown was cut low over her breasts, cupping them tenderly. He could hardly take his eyes off her. He was turning into a rake. She was a guest in his opera box. He was the host for the evening. He should not even notice her breasts, let alone imagine his own hands cupping them, his own mouth . . .

Sebastian closed his eyes. Removing temptation from sight.

A mistake. In the darkness he could hear her breathing softly beside him. How he could hear such a tiny, intimate thing with all the racket of the opera was a mystery, but he heard her every breath, felt the small movements of her body as she moved her limbs or altered her position in her seat. The delicate feminine scent of her wreathed about his brain, and in the intimacy of the darkness his imagination ran riot . . .

He opened his eyes and sat up straight.
Concentrate on the opera,
he told himself.
Look at the people in the audience. Stare at that irritating blasted Hungarian. Anything except think about Miss Hope Merridew!

She turned her head and smiled at him, a smile of warm intimacy in the shadows.

The effect was instantaneous. The very thing he’d been fighting for the last few minutes happened. He tried not to groan. He was sitting beside Miss Hope Merridew, in public, almost fully aroused. He hoped the dim lighting would disguise his condition. He wished he hadn’t hung up his greatcoat.

He stared out across the cavern of the auditorium, willing his problem away with all the self-discipline at his command.

There was not a lot. It was as if, having given himself permission to court Hope Merridew, his body had decided the courting was done and the honeymoon begun.

But he had to be seen to gradually transfer his attentions from Lady Elinore to Miss Hope. Gradually, he told his body fiercely, did not mean carrying her out of the opera and galloping off with her into the night. His body ignored him.

JOHN MILTON

 
 
 
 
 
MR. REYNE DIDN’T SEEM TO BE TAKING MUCH NOTICE OF THE opera, Hope thought. He sat beside her, stiff and uncomfortable, radiating waves of tension.

It occurred to her that a man who’d spent most of his life in factories would know very little about opera. She and her sisters had never even heard music performed until they came to London, but with Faith as a twin, even a tone-deaf person would soon learn practically everything there was to know about opera, and Hope was far from tone deaf. Maybe Mr. Reyne had no one to explain it to him.

She leaned across and, in deference to Lady Elinore’s peculiarity in wanting silence, whispered in his ear, “Did anyone tell you the story?”

He jumped about a foot. “Story? Oh, the opera. No.”

“Well then . . .” She leaned toward him, her hand on his shoulder for balance, and began to whisper the story in his ear.

“In
Italian
!” he exclaimed.

“Shush!” hissed Lady Elinore and Faith in unison.

He fell silent but stared at Hope in amazement and not a little indignation. “Italian!” he muttered. “No wonder I couldn’t understand a word!”