If Edward remarked anything, though, he didn’t show it. “I surprised you this evening.”
“Yes.” There was no point in denying the obvious. “But happily,” she added, unable to keep a small smile from her face. And it was true. Whatever his reason for coming here tonight, she was wildly glad to see him—more so than she had expected to be, and far more so than she wished to admit just yet. There was plenty of time to contemplate the dangers of her actions. There was plenty of time to resurrect her defenses. Tonight still sparkled with the first thrill of fascination and discovery, too glorious and breathtaking to resist.
Edward’s expression grew more intense as she admitted she was pleased to see him. He shifted in his chair, turning to face her and leaning toward her as he laid his arm across the back of her chair. “I’m quite relieved to hear it.” His fingers brushed her bare shoulder. “I worried you would find it . . . unseemly.”
She had to laugh quietly at that. “You find things unseemly far sooner than I do, sir.”
His eyebrow went up. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” His fingers were tracing a delicately sensual circuit on her skin. Francesca’s mind leaped ahead to when he would be able to do that all over her body, not just the top of her shoulder, and a hot rush of longing went through her. “And yet,” he went on thoughtfully, as if touching her had no impact on him at all, “you’re back to calling me ‘sir.’ ”
She met his gaze evenly, even though her nipples had puckered into hard buds and she longed to arch her spine and beg his wicked, wonderful fingers to wander all over her back. “What should I call you, my lord?”
His posture tilted toward her again. She could see the striations of blue in his eyes, even in the dim theater light. “What do you want to call me, Francesca?” he asked softly. “I give you leave to do as you desire . . .” His fingertips swirled over the nape of her neck. “With my name.”
Darling. Lover. Mine. The words clogged in her throat, and she had to resort to a brilliant smile to cover the pause while she scrambled for a neutral answer. “ ‘Edward’ should do.”
He smiled slowly, as if he had seen her hesitation and suspected what caused it. “That will be a good start.”
The door of the box opened, and Francesca wrenched her eyes away from Edward’s. She was a fine one, wondering madly what it meant that he joined her so conspicuously tonight, then allowing herself to be seduced by nothing but the touch of his fingertips on her shoulder. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see Sally and Mr. Ludlow returned to take their seats, wondering if she should feel glad they had saved her from herself or annoyed that they had interrupted.
It was Alconbury. He carried a glass of champagne in each hand and wore a look of determination. The cloistered feel of the box vanished as she was abruptly reminded that what had seemed a deeply intimate moment in fact happened in broad view of a theater full of people. The vast majority most likely hadn’t even noticed what occurred in Box 26, second row, but someone would have. Someone had. And now he was here, looking girded for battle.
Edward withdrew his arm from the back of her chair and his hand from her neck before he rose. Alconbury saw it, though, and his eyes were grim even as he gave her a wide smile. “Good evening, Francesca dear. So sorry to be late joining you tonight.” He stepped forward and handed her one of the glasses, leaning down to press a light kiss on her cheek.
For the brief moment that her face was blocked from Edward’s sight, Francesca scowled at Alconbury. “Stop,” she hissed.
He just tipped his glass to his lips and swallowed half his champagne before turning to Edward. “How do you do, sir? Henry Alconbury, at your service.” He gave a brief bow.
“Lord Edward, may I present my friend, Baron Alconbury,” Francesca interjected, laying a slight edge on the word “friend” as she got to her feet. Lord, what to do? Edward’s face was inscrutable; he could be amused, vexed, or anything in between. Alconbury had been drinking, she could tell, which meant he would be overly exuberant and liable to say anything. She set down the glass he had handed her, annoyed enough not to drink it. “Alconbury, may I introduce to you Lord Edward de Lacey.”
“A pleasure, sir.” Edward bowed just as briefly as Alconbury had.
“Ah, the infamous de Laceys.” Alconbury grinned. He took another generous gulp of his wine. “I saw your brother Gresham lose two hundred guineas at White’s last month. Bought a round for everyone in the place afterward. Capital fellow.”
“Yes,” said Edward with no apparent trace of concern. “That would be like Gresham.”
Francesca took a deep breath. “Are you enjoying the performance, Alconbury? I thought you declared you would never see this play again.”
“My mother wished to see it.” He gave a shrug and a guileless, self-deprecating smile that would have melted most female hearts. “You know I try to make my mother happy. Family is so important. However . . .” He lowered his voice and looked at her warmly. “I must confess the sight of you has been the only thing preventing me from running screaming from the theater. If I must suffer Hamlet’s madness yet again, at least I have had the pleasure of seeing you as well.”
She laughed in spite of herself. He was pouring it on rather thickly. “I’m not certain I appreciate the comparison. But it was so kind of you to visit me for a moment.” The door opened, and other occupants of the box returned, settling into their seats in the front row. “Perhaps it will improve on you this time,” she added, silently urging Alconbury to go.
He made an exaggerated face of disdain. “I doubt it, unless poor Yorick’s ghost would come back to slay the rest of the cast.”
“Likely not,” she said, and Alconbury laughed.
“Then I suppose I must resign myself, although you have extinguished my last hope for entertainment tonight.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Until tomorrow?” he asked, a fond smile on his lips.
“I think not,” she replied, tugging at her hand. “I daresay you will have a wretched headache tomorrow.”
“I’ll come to you for a cure.” He refused to let go of her.
“Good night, Alconbury,” she said firmly. Francesca gave one last pull, and he released her hand, but she had tugged too hard; her elbow flew back and she heard a clink. “Oh, dear,” she said on a sigh. “I believe that was the wine.” She picked up her skirt and brushed at the spilled champagne.
“Oh, let me . . .” Alconbury scrambled after the wineglass.
“I’ll fetch some more,” Edward said. “Pardon me, Lady Gordon. Alconbury.” And he was gone, slipping out the door before she could say she didn’t want any more wine.
But it was a moment she could use. “You must stop this,” she said as Alconbury used his handkerchief to dab the spilled champagne from her skirt hem. “Henry!” she snapped when he wouldn’t look at her. “Please!”
He stood much too close to her. “Francesca, I don’t think you realize what you’re doing,” he said with none of his earlier joviality. “Wait—you’ll see how much public censure this exposes you to by tomorrow.”
Her mouth compressed. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she would find herself in too deep and regret ignoring his advice. But right now all she could think of was how much she disliked being maneuvered and condescended to, and how infuriating it was that he wouldn’t listen to her. “Good night, Alconbury.”
A shadow crossed his face. “I don’t want this to divide us,” he pleaded, very quietly. “But . . . You don’t want my advice. I can see that. Somehow I shall try to keep it to myself.”
“Thank you,” she said through stiff lips.
His face fell. He nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Francesca.”
She swallowed. “No. Not tomorrow.” Not only did she need some space from Alconbury’s increasingly smothering attentions, there was a chance—she hoped a good one—that Edward would still be at her house in the morning. But either way, she didn’t want to see Alconbu
ry.
For a long moment he just stared at her with a bit of wounded surprise, as if trying to read her thoughts. Francesca raised her chin and met his gaze straight on. She didn’t have to explain herself. Let him make of it what he would. “Very well,” he said at last. “Another time, then.” She nodded once, and he left.
She stood looking down at her damp skirt and sighed. The door opened again a few moments later and Sally edged inside, her eyes darting around. When she saw the men were gone, she hurried to Francesca’s side. “Are you well?” she demanded. “I saw Alconbury leave, looking as if he’d been beaten. And where is . . . ?”
“Lord Edward went to fetch wine. And no one beat Alconbury but himself.” She dropped back into her chair.
Sally rushed to resume her own seat. “Francesca, what’s going on? I thought you were nearly engaged to Alconbury—”
“I was not,” she said sharply. “Just because he let people assume—”
“You’re right.” Sally squeezed her hand. “I assumed. But you said Lord Edward was merely helping you find Georgina; what is he doing here tonight?”
Francesca took a deep breath but couldn’t stop the flutter of joy the thought caused. “I don’t know, Sally. But I do know . . . I am very happy he is.”
Chapter 21
Edward strolled toward the saloon, intending to allow Francesca plenty of time to speak to Baron Alconbury. It was clear to see Alconbury was half mad in love with her, and growing frustrated by her lack of reciprocal feeling. Edward couldn’t quite admire the man for invading her theater box and making a show of his affection, but he had a fair amount of sympathy for someone who was discovering his love was doomed to end badly. He suspected Alconbury had just begun to grasp that fact, and wasn’t taking it in stride. That was understandable.
If Alconbury didn’t accept it soon, however, he would make him. Even Edward’s patience was not endless.
The crowd began to thin as people filtered back into the galleries and boxes for the rest of the performance. He so rarely came to town, let alone to the theater, that it took Edward several minutes to realize what was happening. A pair of women, some years older than he, put their heads together and nearly turned their backs to him. He overheard a rush of whispers, and then they both peeped over their shoulders with sharp eyes as he passed. A couple strolling along stopped short and became very interested in a painting on the wall when he walked by them. A woman averted her eyes when he looked her way.
Only when he saw a man he knew quite well, and nodded politely, did it become clear that he was being snubbed. The man, Lord Danvers, didn’t look away from him, but his face flushed and his answering nod was barely noticeable. Edward’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t pause. It was unavoidable that some gossip would accrue to his name, retraction or not. He hadn’t heard any of it yet, but that was most likely because he hadn’t gone out in society out of respect for his father’s death.
He took another turn of the room, on watch for it now, and saw subtle signs everywhere as people moved past him returning to their seats. And most of these patrons weren’t even of his class, which he knew would be even colder to someone about to lose his elevated status. This was why he didn’t like London. He wondered what Charlie had seen and heard of the gossip, and for once envied his older brother the ability to laugh off everything. Forgetting all about the wine he had ostensibly come to get, Edward turned on his heel and walked back toward the box. At least Francesca seemed indifferent to the scandal.
“Edward.”
He paused, not certain if he had heard his name or not. The corridor was almost empty now, and he could hear the applause beginning for the opening of the next play.
“Edward!” whispered the voice again, and this time he placed it.
Louisa Halston was standing in one of the curtained alcoves off the corridor. Her face was pinched up pleadingly as she stared at him. When he faced her, she made a small beckoning motion with one hand. He didn’t move. What could she want now?
“Please, Edward,” she said, her voice breaking on his name. “I just—I just want a moment, to explain . . .”
Slowly he crossed the corridor. She stepped back into her hiding place, making space for him. He leaned one shoulder against the corner, blocking her from view without stepping into the alcove himself. “Good evening, Lady Louisa.”
She flinched. Her soft blue eyes were red at the edges, and her skin looked almost transparent. She was still beautiful, but now she looked like she was made of glass, about to shatter. “What must you think of me?” she said quietly. “I’m so very sorry, Edward.”
A gentleman would have made it easier for her; a better man would have acknowledged, at least to himself, that he was glad she had jilted him. But enough residual hurt remained that Edward asked levelly, “Sorry for what?”
Louisa swallowed. “For—For what happened between us.”
He tried to remind himself she was only twenty-one years old, and had nothing like Francesca’s bold spirit. “Why did you tell your father?”
“I had no choice,” she said in a quavering voice. “He asked me what you had come about that day—I had to tell him the wedding was postponed, and then he questioned me about it for almost an hour until I broke down and told him what you said. I didn’t know he would act as he did, but . . . but I did suspect he would want to call off our engagement. You must know—you must understand . . . We are in dire straits, about to lose everything!”
Edward took a deep breath. The Halstons didn’t live as though they were on the brink of ruin. The colder, ruthless part of him thought the earl might have taken steps to economize before finding himself in dire straits. “Then why did you give me your word?”
“I wanted to,” she cried. “I wanted you to trust me, and I wanted to be worthy of that trust. When I gave my word, I did mean to keep it. Please believe I did. But you of all people must know that family comes before any promises to others!”
Edward remembered his brothers telling him not to confide in Louisa. He had rejected their arguments because he cared for her enough to expose his family’s ugly secret, to inoculate her against it. And yet . . . he had acted out of a sense of obligation, really. He had trusted her, yes, but he told her because he thought it would be unfair to keep it from her. He hadn’t rushed to tell her because he needed her comfort or wanted her advice. It had been his duty as a fiancé, and so he’d done it, just as he would have fulfilled any other duty to her when she was his wife.
Duty and obligation. He had been taught to revere both and never would have considered flouting either. How very odd that a terrible family scandal and losing his future wife would have shown him how confining duty and obligation could be, and how free one could feel without them.
“Why did you wish to marry me, Louisa?” he asked softly. “Was it just the money, to save your family?”
Her lips parted in dismay. “No! Of course not! I cared very much for you, Edward. We’re so alike, you and I, both so dutiful and sensible. We always got on so well together, with no discord or even disagreement between us. I always imagined us leading quiet, peaceful lives together. And it was easy to think so, since it was such an ideal match in every other way as well. Our families agreed.”
Perhaps she was just like him. Those were exactly the reasons he had chosen her, after all. She had come to care for him because everything indicated she should, much the same way he had cared for her. And those were all the reasons why he would never have really loved her.
It was a revelation. He had cared for her, he truly had, but it couldn’t have been love. He felt betrayed when Louisa broke his confidence, rudely shocked at the form of his dismissal, and furious over the gossip it stirred up. But for the loss of Louisa herself, he felt nothing of heartbreak or anguish. He was like Romeo, despairing of fair Rosalind’s affections only until he saw Juliet and discovered what he really wanted.
“I do understand,” he told her. He took her hand and raised it to his lips for
a light kiss. “I wish you every happiness, Louisa.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Edward,” she whispered. “I do feel we would have been so happy together, if only . . .”
A thin smile crossed his face. He was quite sure it would have been a shadow of real happiness, even if neither of them ever realized it. Louisa had unintentionally done him a great favor by stripping that away from him before he discovered how shallow “contentment” could feel. “Do you? Perhaps. But we’re both sensible, as you say. We must each find our happiness elsewhere now.”
She nodded, despite a rather tragic expression. Edward felt a flash of pity for her, knowing she wasn’t nearly as able to pursue her own happiness as he was. He was free to return to Francesca, while Louisa’s father would undoubtedly marry her to Calverton or some other peer wealthy enough to save the Halstons from destitution. There was nothing he could do about it, though. Louisa was the only one who could, and she had most likely chosen her course already. Duty and obligation. He pressed her hand once more. “Good-bye, my dear.”
“Good-bye,” she whispered. “Thank you for understanding.”
Edward bowed his head, and then she was gone, slipping past him to hurry back to her family. He watched her vanish around the corner, and silently wished her true happiness, perhaps as much as he himself was in the process of discovering. He turned back toward Box 26, and his heart sped up in anticipation.
Edward was gone so long Francesca began to wonder. Perhaps Alconbury’s visit had put him off somehow. Perhaps he had encountered someone in the saloon outside who made him reconsider his public appearance at her side. She knew she should be discreet and patient, but she couldn’t bear it. She sat through the first two scenes of Hamlet without hearing a word of them, and was just about to cast all dignity and restraint out the window and go see what had happened when the door at the back of the box opened. He slipped into the chair beside her, and she expelled a long, silent breath of relief.
One Night in London Page 23
