by Shana Galen
At first she caught her breath, fearful it was Battersea. But no, she knew where his box was, and he was in it, leering at the courtesan seated beside him. She glanced at her siblings and their husbands, but they were all either watching the stage or the others in the audience. She saw her two brothers-in-law exchange coins and glanced at Lady Isabella, who was indeed tucking her bosom back into its meager confines.
Slowly, she turned her head and looked into the gaze of Colin FitzRoy. He was watching her, not the stage, not Lady Isabella’s chest. Her.
Her first impulse was to ask what he was doing there, to stand up and demand how long he had been sitting there, but she was aware that she, like every other person in a box, was on full display. People were watching her and hoping for the scandal broth her mother so wanted to avoid.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Watching the opera, what else?” he replied, his voice low but not quite low enough. One of her sisters turned and looked at her. Her eyes widened as she noticed Colin. Daphne gritted her teeth.
“You know want I am asking. What are you doing in my box?”
“Would you like to come to mine? The view is not quite as good, and my sisters will assuredly shush you.”
As if to underscore the differences between their families, Lady Cora, one of Daphne’s sisters leaned over. “Do speak up so we can hear, dear. It strains my ears, all this whispering.”
“That’s it.” Daphne rose and exited the box, the red velvet curtains swishing in her wake. For a moment she stood in the deserted corridor behind the box, wondering if Colin would follow her, then the curtains parted and he emerged, looking amused. He propped one shoulder against the wall separating the Warcliffe box from the one adjacent and looked down at her.
“Now,” she said quietly, “why are you here? You are never at the opera.”
He shrugged. “You are here, wife.”
It seemed as though he mocked her with the words. “Don’t call me that. I’m no more your wife than...” She looked about and watched a woman re-enter a box far down the corridor. “Than she is.”
“Not true. You and I exchanged vows.”
“As though that means anything.”
“Your father thinks it means something, else he wouldn’t have summoned me to a dinner where, no doubt, he intends to take me to task for neglecting my husbandly duties.” He looked at her, his green eyes on her face. “Does he know about the trouble you are in?”
“No. I mean, I am not in any sort of trouble.” Dratted man! When he looked at her with those eyes, she practically forgot how to speak.
Colin smiled. “Right.”
“Go away.” She started back through the curtain, but Colin caught her by the waist and pulled her gently back. She tensed until his lips brushed her ear.
“I’m not going away.”
She shivered at the way his warm breath caressed her ear. But she was all too familiar with this unfulfilled promise. “We’ll see,” she said, loosing his fingers and stepping out of his hold. She pushed aside the curtain and re-entered the box. But Colin was right behind her, and he cut off her path to the chair she’d occupied. Instead, he directed her to a seat in the third row of chairs, pulling it out for her then taking the one beside it.
She sat, back stiff and straight, and concentrated on ignoring him. She’d almost succeeded too when he took her hand. She jumped at the warm contact as his gloved hand covered hers. She tried to pull hers away, but he held on. She glanced across the theater and saw Lady Isabella watching her, brows raised. Daphne pretended to watch the opera again. She would have had to make a large gesture to free herself, and that would have only set tongues wagging.
She could allow him to hold her hand. It wasn’t as though they were actually touching. She kept her attention on the opera, not able to fully enjoy it with him so close. Finally, after a few moments of the soprano’s aria, he leaned over. “My Italian is a bit out of use. What is she singing about?”
Daphne didn’t believe him for a moment. She’d heard he was able to speak several languages. She couldn’t imagine Italian wasn’t one of them. But if he wanted to play this game, she would show him who was the master. “She is singing about the night she spent with her lover,” she murmured, turning her head slightly in his direction. “His kisses set her heart on fire. She longs for his touch. She is lost without him.”
“Bereft,” he said, leaning close. “That’s stronger than lost.”
She cut a look at him. “I thought you didn’t understand Italian.”
His eyes, dark in the dimly lit rear of the box, looked into her own. She felt her heart speed up.
“I understand a little.” He looked back at the stage, and she was thankful for the break in eye contact. But just as she was able to breathe again, he tilted his head until his lips were close to her ear. “I don’t suppose you understand what she is singing about.”
Daphne stiffened. “What sort of question is that?”
He shrugged. “The sort a husband might ask. After all, I didn’t make you feel any of that fire on our wedding night. I have wondered if some other man has managed to enlighten you.”
Daphne’s jaw dropped, and she turned her head to stare at him outright. Colin looked at her, his gaze unwavering. “What shocked you more? That I admit I was a poor lover or that I ask if you have a paramour?”
She opened her mouth then closed it again. “You weren’t—”
He smiled and shook his head. “Don’t. I had no idea what I was doing.” The hand holding hers dropped to her knee, resting there lightly. “But if we tried again, I’d make sure you enjoyed it.”
Her chest felt tight and when she tried to breathe, her hardened nipples were so sensitive that they chafed when they brushed against the soft fabric of her chemise. Her body betrayed her, but her mind cleared. “Because now you have had so much practice,” she said stiffly. “All of those French girls, I imagine.”
“You imagine wrong.” His gaze shifted back to the stage, and he seemed utterly transfixed by the singer. Daphne watched her too, but she couldn’t stop wondering what he meant.
You imagine wrong.
I’d make sure you enjoyed it.
Finally, she could not take it anymore. She turned her head to look at him. “What do you mean, I imagine wrong?”
She saw the ghost of a smile play on his lips. “Watch the opera or people will talk.”
“People will talk anyway,” she said, but she turned her head to the stage again. After a moment, he leaned toward her. To anyone who watched them, it would appear as though he was enraptured by the singers.
“We spoke before of our mutual friend.”
She closed her eyes briefly, attempting to ignore the warmth of his body beside hers and the low timbre of his voice resonating through her, and to focus on his words. “Mr. Beaumont?” she asked, finally.
“Rafe, yes. Do you know what he was called during the war?” Colin asked.
She shook her head.
Colin leaned closer, so close she felt his lips on her jaw, just below her ear. “The Seducer,” he murmured.
She exhaled a slow, shaky breath. The way Colin’s voice sounded on that word, seducer, made her belly tighten.
“We often worked together. I would be in disguise, and he as well. But I would stand in the corner, unobtrusive, observing and gathering intelligence by seeming to become one with the men of the town or the French officers, depending on where we were. But Rafe would sit down at a table and within minutes, he’d have three or four women at his side. He’d charm them until they told him practically everything he wanted to know.
“If he needed more information, he’d take them to bed. Sometimes even when he didn’t need more information. It was my task to gather the information the women didn’t know. We worked in tandem for month after month. I couldn’t help but learn a few things about what pleases a woman. What gives her pleasure.” The hand on her knee moved slightly, one of his fi
ngers tracing a slow circle on her gown.
That circle seemed to be made of fire. Her skin, under her brightly-colored gown, felt itchy and uncomfortable. She wanted him to stop. And yet, she wanted him to move his hand higher.
And then, as though she’d spoken her wish aloud, his hand did move slightly higher, the heat of his touch radiating through her body like a newly lit fire on a cold winter evening. She should tell him to stop. She should put her hand over his and force him to stop, but her hand stayed on the arm of the chair, and her eyes were on the stage, though her entire being was compressed into that one location on her body.
“These are just observations,” he said, tearing her mind away from the mesmerizing feel of his hand on her thigh. “Perhaps you could confirm.” His hand slid higher. “Being that you are”—and higher—“most definitely”—and higher—“a woman.”
His hand slid over the V between her thighs and she all but jumped out of her seat. One of her sisters turned to peer at her curiously, and Daphne kept her eyes on the stage while surreptitiously sliding Colin’s hand back down her leg.
She held his gloved hand tightly in hers for several minutes then leaned over and whispered, “Don’t toy with me.”
“And here I thought I was seducing you.”
“Why? What do you hope to gain?”
He was silent for a long time, and she finally turned to look at him. His expression was, as ever, unreadable, but she thought she saw sadness. “You’ve been in London too long,” he answered. “You think everything is about winning or losing. I am on your side, Daphne. You don’t lose if you admit you need help.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to claim she didn’t need help, but she feared that would amount to protesting too much. And as she considered other retorts, her gaze drifted to Battersea. His courtesan was whispering in his ear, but his gaze was on her, hungry and knowing. He knew he had her right where he wanted her, and nothing except acquiescing to his whims would save her from ruin.
Except giving in was its own sort of ruin.
“Fine,” she said quietly, her gaze still on Battersea. “I’ll tell you everything at the dinner party.”
“We aren’t likely to have a moment alone.”
“I can arrange it.”
“No doubt you can. And you will tell me everything?”
“Yes.” Her gaze went back to the stage again. She couldn’t tell him everything. She couldn’t tell him even half of it, but if pressed, she would tell him something. It would buy her some time, time she needed to work out the details of her plan.
“Then I will speak to you more tomorrow.” He moved his hand out of hers, and she’d almost forgotten she was still holding it. The sudden loss made her feel very alone.
He rose then, quietly and without seeming to draw the attention of the others in the box. But before he departed, he leaned over her chair and whispered into her hair. “I have ways of finding out the truth. I want to give you the courtesy of confiding in me first. If you haven’t after tomorrow, I will use my skills.”
She turned to glare at him, to offer a rejoinder. But he was already gone. Daphne turned back to the stage, but the soprano sounded too high and shrill, and though she was surrounded by people and the air in the box a bit stale and warm, she shivered with a sudden chill.
Six
Colin adjusted his neckcloth once last time, ignoring the noise of the household around him. His sisters were arguing over lace or gloves, Pugsly was barking, and one of his nieces or nephews was crying.
It was a contrast to the usual quiet calm of the FitzRoy town house, but it presaged what was to come. The Duke of Warcliffe’s dinner party would be anything but calm and quiet. Colin found that he was ready for the dressing down Warcliffe was likely to give him for his inattention to Lady Daphne. Colin realized he deserved it. He supposed he’d been waiting for someone to say something to him for a long time and was only surprised that it had taken this long.
He’d been given his share of reprimands in the army. He’d neither been the perfect husband or the perfect soldier. He’d disobeyed commands, he’d countermanded orders, he’d failed at times in his missions. But when he’d gone against authority, he always had a good reason.
And he had reasons for keeping his distance from his wife. They were not reasons he wanted to look at too closely, but he’d been forced to do so the past few days, and the undeniable truth was that Lady Daphne was a threat. It wasn’t her beauty or her cleverness or even her strength that kept Colin at arm’s length. There were other women who possessed those same qualities, though not in the same measures, of course. Colin didn’t find those women threatening. He didn’t want to slide his hand up their skirts at operas or whisper seductive promises in their ears or find every opportunity to spend more time with them.
But Lady Daphne made him do things he wouldn’t otherwise do. She made him feel things he wouldn’t otherwise feel. Things he did not want to feel. Things he did not want to do—oh, very well, he did want to do them. He just didn’t want to face the consequences of what came after.
Because he wasn’t like Rafe Beaumont. He couldn’t take a woman to bed and then forget her the next day. A night with Lady Daphne would change everything. Though for Rafe as well there had finally been a woman he couldn’t easily forget. And look what had happened to him—depending on the story one believed, Rafe was either dead, turned traitor, or languishing in America.
Colin didn’t know what was worse.
He wanted to tell himself that if he solved Lady Daphne’s problem, all would go back to the way it had been. But he’d been a fool to tell himself that lie. He’d been telling himself another lie as well. He’d let himself believe he was devoid of emotions, of feelings, but the few interactions he’d had with Daphne had shown him that was a falsehood. He had plenty of feelings, and the truth was, the depth of those he felt for her frightened him. It wasn’t something he wanted to admit, not even to himself. And the problem was that he couldn’t escape dealing with his fears. It was time for his life—for their lives—to change. He had to begin to behave as a husband when they were together. Perhaps if he could limit his interactions with her to a few days out of every year, he could keep his feelings from rising to the surface.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
Colin turned to see James, his eldest brother, standing in the doorway that connected their rooms.
“I don’t believe in spirits.”
“Of course not,” James said with a smile. “You’ve never been fanciful. I have the feeling you are not eager to attend this dinner.”
“An evening with the Duke of Warcliffe is hardly my idea of entertainment.”
James shrugged. “I rather like the man, though he is loud and a bit pompous, but what do you expect from a duke?”
Colin made a sound of agreement and gave his neckcloth one last tug.
“You could have avoided this, you know.”
“Tell me this isn’t the part where you give me brotherly advice on how to be a perfect husband.”
“Hardly. Let George do that. He is the perfect husband. I’m no example. Why do you think my wife prefers to stay in the country while I spend so much time here? We can barely speak two civil words to each other.”
Colin lifted the glass of brandy he’d poured earlier and then forgotten. “I feel so much better now.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel better. I’m saying marriage isn’t the end of the world. But you have to stop running and do your duty.”
Stop sniveling and act like a man.
Colin sipped his brandy, aware his facial expression was calm while inwardly he fumed. His brother was forever telling him truths he had already deduced himself.
“But at least you’ve finally secured us an invitation to the duke’s house. Anne, Louisa, and Mary can’t praise you enough.”
“We’ll see if they’re still enthusiastic after they spend the evening with the Warcliffes.”
&nb
sp; “Truer words, Colin.” He took Colin’s unfinished brandy and drank the rest of it. As the eldest, he was used to taking what he wanted. Colin had never before minded very much. But he found at this moment he would have liked to hit his brother hard in the jaw.
He refrained and instead followed him out of the room and into the drawing room where his father and sisters had assembled. A nanny was reading quietly to the children, and his sisters seemed to have solved their disagreements. They all wore gowns in shades of blue or green. Mary held a Catarina lace handkerchief in one hand, and Colin realized that must have been the item the ladies fought over. He had surmised from all the discussions he had been subjected to that Catarina lace was the latest fashion.
“There you are,” the viscount said. “The carriages should arrive in just a moment. I thought we should take two. No point in trying to fit seven in one.”
“Seven?” James looked about the room. “Is one of the children coming?”
Colin closed his eyes, already knowing what his father had in mind. “He means the dog,” Colin said quietly.
“Oh, no, my lord.” Louisa shook her head. “You can’t take Pugsly.”
“Of course, I shall take Pugsly. He is well-behaved. Why should I leave him behind?”
“What if the duke does not like dogs?” Mary asked.
“Not like dogs?” The viscount sounded appalled. “What sort of man does not like dogs?”
“Not the sort I wish to know,” Anne said. She wore a turban wrapped about her cropped hair. The shade of green matched her gown.
The viscount pointed at her. “Precisely.” He bent and scooped up Pugsly. “Let us go down.”
At the bottom of the stairs, the servants helped the ladies into wraps and the gentlemen into greatcoats. Then everyone stood shuffling about, waiting for the carriages. His father moved close to Colin and murmured, “You would do well to not make a muddle of this.”
