by Anne Gracie
Two of them were leaning over the balcony. “There she is, the little one third from the left,” said one, pointing. He was making no attempt to lower his voice or be discreet in any way.
“The one with yellow hair? In pink?” asked another.
“Yes, that’s her.”
“Pretty—oh, look, she’s seen us.” They leaned forward, waving.
George refused to look. She knew what the men were talking about. Picking out opera dancers—they had a reputation as notorious light-skirts—as if they were going shopping. She didn’t care what the men did, she just wished they would do it silently. Preferably somewhere else.
Beside her, Aunt Dottie sighed and shifted restlessly. The men’s conversation was disturbing her too.
George tried to fix her eyes and ears on the stage and the glorious music coming from the singers and musicians, but the men’s discussion—loud and annoying—continued until she was almost at screaming point. She turned to face the men over the low wall that divided the boxes. “Hush!” she said in a low, vehement voice. “Some of us want to listen to the music!”
“Well, who’s stopping you?” one man said. He’d clearly been drinking. “That fat woman is loud enough to wake the dead. Can’t hear myself think.”
“You and your friends are ruining our evening with your inane conversation,” she hissed. “So be quiet or leave.”
“Inane? Well, I like that. I’ll have you know that—”
“Leave? This box belongs to my mother.”
“Georgiana,” Aunt Agatha said in a quelling tone.
George didn’t bother to answer. It would only be some kind of reprimand, something like Young ladies don’t talk to gentlemen in the next box, or Young ladies don’t tell gentlemen to be quiet. She snorted. Gentlemen indeed. Young ladies should only insult gentlemen to whom they have been introduced.
Besides, she never answered to Georgiana. She turned back to the stage. The aria began, and, oh, it was glorious. For about half a minute.
“Oh, I say, it’s Lady George.” It was one of the men in the next box. A different one. “Evenin’, Lady George.”
She refused to look. The aria had started.
“Lady George,” the voice continued, louder. Another one who’d drunk too much. “Doncha remember me?”
“Shush!” she hissed.
“But we danced together last week, at the—dash it all—forgotten which ball it was.”
George clenched her fist around her fan, wishing it were a pistol. Or a club.
“Sinc, do you recall whose ball we went to last week? It was the one where—ouch!” He blinked at George in shock and rubbed his shoulder. “You hit me. With your fan.” He glanced down, where the fan had fallen onto the floor in his box. “Broke it too. Pity. Looks like a pretty thing.”
“I’ll break something else if you and your friends don’t shut your mouths!”
“Georgiana!” Aunt Agatha snapped.
George sat down again, but Aunt Agatha persisted. “Georgiana, I’m speaking to you.”
George gritted her teeth, waited pointedly until the soprano had finished and then turned to her great-aunt. “Yes, Great-aunt Agatha?” Aunt Agatha hated being called Great-aunt Agatha, especially in public. Great-aunt was the correct form of address for George to use, but it was oh, so aging.
Aunt Agatha glared through her lorgnette, her lips thinned almost to invisibility, then jerked her head in a subtle sideways direction. George frowned, unsure of what she was signaling. Aunt Agatha rolled her eyes, then with a palpable effort, she forced them into a smile, turned and bowed graciously in the direction of the next box. “Good evening, your grace.”
George followed her gaze. A dark shadow leaned forward, picked up her fan from the floor and stepped forward into the light.
She stiffened and swore under her breath. The Duke of blasted Everingham. She hadn’t noticed him, lurking there in the background. He was dressed, as usual, in severe black evening clothes, the only gleam of color about him an emerald tie pin. The candlelight threw half his face into shadow and gilded the rest: the proud nose, the chiseled lips, the stubborn jaw. He stood there, all born-to-command and superior, looking down his nose at her.
His eyes glinted, dark and unreadable tonight, but she’d noticed them before, when he was betrothed to Rose, and she thought them the coldest eyes she’d ever seen.
“Georgiana,” Aunt Agatha prompted.
George knew she wouldn’t stop, so she gave the duke a reluctant nod.
He inclined his head at her. His lips twitched slightly as if he found something amusing. Found her amusing.
No doubt he was amused by the little provincial’s insistence on an audience actually listening. Not to mention her inappropriate behavior in addressing people in the next box—gentlemen in the next box.
Or perhaps the amusement came from Aunt Agatha’s offer of George as a potential bride. And his rejection of her. An ill-trained, boyish, impertinent hoyden.
She put up her chin. She didn’t care what he thought.
Well, actually she did—she wanted him to know she wasn’t the slightest bit interested in him, never had been, and that the idea of offering her to him as a potential bride was nothing to do with her and wholly Aunt Agatha’s preposterous and insane idea. Made entirely without George’s knowledge or permission.
But she couldn’t exactly explain that, not here, not now, especially in this company. She crossed her arms and eyed him coldly, fuming at the thought that he might assume she was angry with him because he’d refused her. She was not a woman scorned! He was a man scorned—only he didn’t know it.
So infuriating.
“Good evening, Lady Salter, Lady Dorothea, Lady Georgiana,” Hart said smoothly. “Enjoying the evening, I hope?”
He’d decided to accompany Sinc and his friends at the last minute. His mother’s less-than-subtle queries the day before had convinced him that Lady Georgiana would be attending the opera tonight, and though he had no interest either in the opera or in courting her, he was very interested in obtaining her horse.
Her note of curt refusal had annoyed him, but he’d taken it as the opening salvo of a negotiation, female-style. Or some kind of blasted flirtation.
Lord, but he was fed up with women and their tricks. From his mother, to his first and subsequent mistresses—even the first girl he thought he might love—it had been nothing but deception, lies and devious female stratagems.
He’d planned to step into her box at the next interval, bringing champagne for the ladies, and then sit down and discuss the sale of her horse. Monty and his friends had probably spoiled any chance of a civilized conversation tonight, at least, but Hart might be able to salvage something from the evening.
He’d watched her from his shadowed corner and been intrigued by her rapt expression as she gazed down at the stage. Had she been feigning interest in order to attract some musical gentleman?
Women did that, he knew. He’d lost track of the various interests females he’d known had claimed, only to learn that they were almost invariably false. One young lady who’d declared she had a passion for hunting—because he was known to be a bruising rider to hounds—hadn’t even been able to ride. Unless to bounce along on the back of a horse like a sack of potatoes was to ride.
But he hadn’t been able to spot whoever Lady Georgiana was aiming to impress at the opera this evening. He’d observed with fascination the various expressions that crossed her vivid little face as she watched the stage, following the story, seemingly as open as a child in her responses. She gave every indication of being wholly enraptured by the opera.
Her profile was limned by the light from the lantern behind her, a golden halo, outlining a firm little nose, a determined chin and the soft curve of her cheek. She was dressed in pale amber, the scooped neckline subtly enhancing the shadow bet
ween her breasts.
The more he’d watched her, the less he understood. This was the “boy” who’d taken him on a wild, exhilarating chase? The boy who rode as well as any jockey? This seemingly demure young lady watching the opera with her two elderly aunts?
And then she’d turned on Monty and his friends and ripped into them like an angry little governess, seeming not to care in the slightest what anyone thought. A slender, entrancing firebrand.
She glared at him now, her lips pursed. Her skin was smooth, like rich cream or satin, not pale like most of the women he knew, but warm and faintly sun-kissed. Or was that the effect of the theater lights?
Her face had a slight elfin suggestion, with high cheekbones and a delicately pointed chin, but her nose was small and straight and imperious. And her mouth—oh, lord, her mouth—plump and lush and altogether enticing. Hart stared at her mouth and swallowed.
Soft, plump, satiny-looking lips, dark against the purity of her skin. They didn’t seem to go with the rest of her, all lissome and leggy and . . . well, he wasn’t able to think of her as boyish, not dressed like this in an amber gown that clung to her slender curves and subtly enhanced them.
Short, glossy dark locks clustered and curled around her face. In this light he couldn’t quite make out the color of her eyes—something light, possibly blue or gray. He would have to see her in daylight to be sure. Fringed with long dark lashes, they were beautiful, even when narrowed at him as they were now.
He tried to put this Lady Georgiana with that other one: mud-spattered and dressed as a boy—in breeches and boots, no less!—in the middle of nowhere, riding a magnificent stallion that was—that should have been—far too strong for a lady.
She glared at him and folded her arms beneath her bosom. He tried not to drop his gaze to take in the gentle curves, and failed.
However had he imagined that the rider he’d pursued across the heath was a boy? There was nothing boyish about her. It was more than a little disturbing. Why had he never noticed her before?
He’d met her, what—half a dozen times? Exchanged no more than perfunctory greetings with her. He vaguely recalled a couple of comments she’d made—erring on the cheeky side as he recalled—but certainly there had been no actual conversation.
But he’d never really looked at her, not really. His attention had always been elsewhere, on the other people in the room. Or the church. And who noticed other women when you were betrothed and in the process of being jilted? Still . . .
Blind. He’d been utterly blind. But now . . . now he saw her.
“Enjoying the evening?” Lady Georgiana repeated. She glanced pointedly at his companions. “Trying to—and failing.”
“Ah,” Hart said, adding with deliberate provocation, “so, you have no interest in fat men and women caterwauling in public?”
She gasped and her slight bosom swelled with indignation. “How dare you!”
He ostentatiously fingered her broken fan—two of the ivory ribs had snapped. It was no mere flirtatious tap she’d given to Monty’s friend—and raised a brow. “How dare I?”
Her eyes sparked. She flushed but held out her hand in an imperious gesture. Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he slipped the fan into his pocket.
She lifted her chin. “Thieving now?”
“I say, miss,” one of Monty’s friends interjected. “Don’t you know who this is?”
“Of course she does, lackwit,” Sinc said in a low voice. “Lady George was one of the bridesmaids at his wedd—the canceled er—the Unfortunate Event.” His words carried across to the other box.
His friend sniffed. “Gel lacks respect.”
Her eyes flashed. “Respect? What have you—any of you—ever done to deserve respect? Nothing except be born into a life where you’ve been pampered and petted until you think you are tremendously important.” Hart had no illusions about who her little speech was addressed to; she might have waved a scornful hand at all of them, but she hadn’t taken her eyes off him.
Sinc, Monty and friends were shocked to silence.
“Georgiana!” Lady Salter hissed something else Hart couldn’t catch.
“And am I not?” Hart said, all ice and silk. Women rarely challenged him. Not like this—head-on. He wasn’t sure whether he was aroused or annoyed. Perhaps a little of both.
“No, like your friends, you’re an arrogant, ignorant boor.” Ignoring the gasps all around her, she gestured angrily toward the stage. “These people have talent, serious God-given talent, and they’ve devoted their lives to honing it. And when they make music, people should listen and be grateful that they’re alive and privileged to hear it. Not blunder in with their drunken friends, responding to . . . to glory with crass jokes and mindless, mocking, suggestive bibble-babble.”
“Georgiana!” her aunt snapped. Lady Georgiana lifted her chin, but otherwise ignored her.
Hart raised his brow. “I see.” Was she serious? Taking him to task in public? An arrogant, ignorant boor, was he? He was no longer intrigued. He was seriously annoyed.
She snorted. “I doubt it. I doubt whether you—”
“Georgiana! That’s quite enough!” Lady Salter said with freezing authority. “Come, Georgiana, Dorothea, we’re leaving.” She rose and, gripping the girl by the arm, turned to Hart. “I apologize for my niece’s outrageous incivility, your grace—”
“I don’t,” the niece interjected. “I meant every word.”
“Hush, you appalling gel!” Her aunt hustled her out. Plump little Lady Dorothea, gathering up shawls and various bits and pieces, lingered a moment and threw him a mischievous smile over the division between the boxes. “Will we see you at our ball, your grace? Next Wednesday, Berkeley Square?”
Cheek must run in the family. She was old enough to be his grandmother. As if he would honor the blasted Rutherfords by attending their blasted ball.
“Dorothea!” Lady Salter snapped from the door. The little aunt winked at him and hurried out. The door closed behind her. The box was empty.
Monty and his friends eyed Hart surreptitiously as he resumed his seat without comment. Aghast, outraged and secretly thrilled by the exchange that had taken place, they discussed it nonstop in ironically low voices until the final act was drawing to a close and Monty was recalled to the purpose of the evening: his opera dancer.
Hart sat brooding. He did not look at the stage. He did not participate in the discussion. The music and the talk passed over him unnoticed. And when Sinc and his friends went to the stage door to meet Monty’s opera dancer, Hart made his excuses and went home.
It was a fine night and he decided to walk. He had his sword stick with him, and frankly, if he encountered any robbers, he would welcome the exercise.
But no robbers obliged him.
No one had ever spoken to him like that.
Certainly no female ever had. Was she hoping to pique his interest by acting the opposite of almost every female he’d ever met? Throwing insults instead of gushing with compliments? Risky tactics, if so.
But they had worked, dammit. To a degree.
Arrogant? He was well aware of it. Nothing wrong with arrogance, as long as it was well placed—and in his case it was. Was he to creep around feigning humility? Pretending to be less than he was? Such disingenuousness was beneath him.
He marched on, brooding.
Ignorant? Of opera perhaps—he’d never cared much for music. As a boy he’d been dragged to the opera by his mother, supposedly for his education, but it hadn’t taken him long to realize her true purpose was otherwise. The presence of her young son was intended to keep the behavior of her various escorts in check. Mama craved masculine admiration, but didn’t care to follow through on the expectations she aroused in the breasts of her ardent admirers. Mama liked to keep men dangling.
Just as she did her son; the maternal tenderness she lav
ished on him in public was never in evidence at home or in private. Unless she was playacting for the sake of one of her schemes. They worked on Papa, but by the time he was fourteen, Hart knew better.
Lady Georgiana though . . . He’d watched her from the shadows, her face well lit by the chandeliers overhead. She’d shown no interest in the young men in the next box, nor in the rest of the glittering, overdressed audience. Her attention had been wholly given to the music—until Sinc’s friends had distracted her with their drunken comments.
Her anger seemed genuine.
Then again, she was a woman, and in his experience, women had a tendency to playact and fake things.
Her aunt had offered her to him as a bride. But if that little tirade was meant as some kind of enticement . . . He thought about it. No. She wasn’t flirting. She’d meant every word.
Who was she, really? Boyish equestrienne? Demure opera lover. Bold virago?
And why had he never noticed her before?
Her broken fan was in his pocket. He wasn’t sure why he’d picked it up, nor why he’d kept it. A completely useless item.
He reached Mayfair, and turned in to Brook Street.
A boor, was he? Daisies poked through some railings, spilling onto the footpath, bright in the gaslight. He slashed their heads off with his stick and strode on.
Dammit, he never let a woman have the last word.
He hadn’t even had the chance to talk about buying her blasted horse.
And somehow, infuriatingly, he was aroused.
* * *
* * *
“Never in all my life have I been so mortified by a young gel’s behavior, Georgiana, especially one in my charge! And in such a public place!”
George sat in the carriage and let Aunt Agatha’s tirade roll over her. She had no regrets for what she’d said . . . well, perhaps a few. She really hadn’t meant to upbraid the duke in quite such a manner. All she’d really wanted was for people to be quiet so she could listen to the music.
