by Connie Mason
“And this opera will last long past midnight if they keep repeating arias till the singers get them right.” Lysandra sighed. Then she leaned over to stage whisper into Serena’s ear, “He’s staring at you again.”
Serena lowered her opera glasses. “Who?”
“Sir Jonah Sharp, of course,” Lysandra said. “Who did you think? He’s been ogling you all night. I haven’t seen such an intense stare since my terrier treed a squirrel in the garden.”
“There’s a flattering comparison. Squirrels are merely rats with fluffy tails, you know.”
“Shh!” Amelia said from Serena’s other side. “You’ll miss the cadenza.”
“So will the singer, most likely.” Serena sent her governess an apologetic grimace. Amelia had always had a weakness for Italian tenors, whether they choked on their high notes or not.
Lysandra made a “hmph-ing” sound and sat back in her seat, arms crossed beneath her exquisitely displayed bosom.
Serena often envied her friend’s curves, but she allowed that a buxom figure might have its drawbacks. Binding her less than generous breasts to fit into the men’s clothing had been hard enough. It would have been impossible if Serena had been shaped like Lysandra. No one would ever mistake her friend for a man, no matter what she wore.
Of course, Sir Jonah hadn’t been fooled by Serena’s disguise one bit. She wondered what had given her away.
Serena glanced at the box directly across the theatre from her father’s exclusive seats. Sir Jonah Sharp wasn’t paying the least attention to the singers and dancers on the stage. He met her gaze without embarrassment at having been caught looking at her.
Throughout the overture, she’d felt eyes on her, heavy and knowing. She lifted her head, like a grazing doe that senses a watcher in the thicket, and met Sir Jonah’s green eyes. She looked away immediately, but while the soprano sang an aria about how desperately she missed the tenor who’d been called away to war, Serena was acutely aware of Sir Jonah’s steady gaze despite the dimness of the theatre.
Lysandra leaned in again and this time cupped her hand around Serena’s ear. “Honestly, what have you done to attract the man’s attention like that? Sir Jonah’s been dogging your steps for the last fortnight.”
“I doubt that. If we’ve crossed paths, it’s likely because London’s circle is a tad small before the Season starts.” After the near disaster at Boodles, Serena had hoped to avoid Sir Jonah completely. Unfortunately, she’d encountered him at several social venues since then—the piano recital at Lady Harrington’s, the Orphans of Veterans of Foreign Wars charity dinner, and she’d even spied him a few rows behind her at an Academy of the Arts lecture.
“The man seems to have forgotten he’s only a baronet,” Lysandra said waspishly, earning her another shushing from Amelia.
“His father, Viscount Topfield, is well regarded,” Serena said, not sure why she felt compelled to defend the man. Even though her friend was an earl’s daughter, Lysandra always put much more stock in titles than Serena did.
“I heard a rumor about a possible match between Sir Jonah’s brother Harold and the daughter of Lord Enderling, an earl, no less,” Lysandra said, careful to confine her whisper to a mere wisp only Serena could hear. “Even if Harold Sharp stands to become a viscount one day, no one can deny his reach is exceeding his grasp with that match.”
“A man cannot be held to account for his brother’s actions. What has that to do with Sir Jonah?”
Lysandra cocked a brow that suggested Serena was a dull-witted child. “Perhaps Sir Jonah has similarly high aspirations.”
Or low ones. His direct gaze suggested nothing remotely resembling honorable intentions. He made her feel hot and irritable and as if her stays had been laced too tightly. He looked at her as if he knew her.
Which was ridiculous. Just because he’d aided her in an indiscreet adventure, it did not give him leave to assume a familiarity between them that categorically did not exist.
Serena stewed through the rest of the collections of duets and ensembles. Tepid applause interrupted her musings, and the curtain mercifully fell on the opera’s first act. Liveried servants turned up the gas lamps for intermission and Serena blinked at the light.
She resisted the urge to glance in Jonah’s direction. She knew without knowing how that he was still watching her. She’d felt partially hidden by the darkness. Now that Sir Jonah could see her by lamplight, she had the same odd sensation she experienced in dreams sometimes—the squirmish one where she appeared in public as bare as an egg.
Amelia stood. “I do so love Mozart, but he does tend to waffle on sometimes. It feels good to move about. Shall we take a turn around the lobby?”
Serena followed Amelia and Lysandra out of the box and down the corridor that curved around the mezzanine. Mr. Tunstall, her ubiquitous footman, followed. In the absence of another male escort, Tunstall always hovered in the shadows when Serena moved in public. He was tall and well-favored, in the manner of such servants, but he was her father’s creature. Any misstep Serena made would be summarily reported to the marquis.
Now is when it would be exceedingly handy to have a brother. Of course, Serena didn’t intend any activity her father would frown upon this evening, but if she did, she suspected a brother would have been much easier to bribe into silence than the footman.
By the time they reached the broad marble stairs leading to the lobby, it was choked with other theatre-goers and they had to thread their way through the crowd. Punch was being served off to one side of the lavish space and the other women gravitated toward it. Serena headed for the row of doors. The footman fell into step with her.
“No, Mr. Tunstall, you needn’t accompany me. I only wish a breath of fresh air. Please see to Lady Lysandra and Miss Braithwaite instead.”
His mouth tightened into a thin line, but he couldn’t very well countermand her direct order. “Very good, milady.” Tunstall turned on his heel and left.
Serena was free to squeeze past the knots of opera-goers, successfully avoiding being dragged into discussions on the relative merits of the mezzo as opposed to the saucy maid character, who was in danger of stealing every scene in which she appeared. Finally, Serena reached her destination, and the doorman opened the brass-studded portal so she could escape the press of people.
It was a fresh March night, not warm enough for the Thames to begin admitting its distinctive seasonal tarry fish smell, but cool enough to make her wish she’d brought her wrap.
“Good evening, Lady Serena.”
She realized that she’d been hoping all along to find him suddenly at her elbow. “Sir Jonah.”
He held out a cup of punch. “It’s not Boodles’ coffee, but it’s wet.”
She thanked him, took a sip, and made a face. It was as weak as she expected. “They must have borrowed the receipt from Almack’s.”
“Careful—one of the patronesses may hear you,” he said with a chuckle. “Those ladies aren’t ones to forgive a slight.”
“I rather doubt I’ll be blacklisted.”
“They did refuse to admit the Duke of Wellington once, but I suppose you’re right.”
He drained his own cup in one long gulp. Serena diverted her gaze. She wasn’t used to such raw appetites. Most gentlemen sipped their punch in a genteel, measured manner. Sir Jonah obviously wasn’t the type to do anything by halves.
“You’ll have people fawning on you right and left once you’re royal,” he said.
“So you thought you’d beat the rush and begin fawning on me now?”
“I never fawn. However, if it seems that I’ve been following you, you’re right. I have,” he admitted, “but only because you interest me, Serena.”
She’d been called many things—accomplished, well-connected, even beautiful once or twice by people who wished to curry favor with her powerful father—but never interesting. “Why do you find me interesting?”
“Frankly, because you’re different.”
&
nbsp; She made the sound Amelia scolded her for often. “Ladies never snort, Serena,” she’d say. Unfortunately, Serena did so with alarming frequency. “In case you hadn’t noticed, being different is not a quality which is highly prized by Society.”
“It is by me.” He fixed her with his almost hypnotic gaze. “In my experience, too many young ladies are as interchangeable as a matched set of andirons.”
Serena blinked, breaking the spell, and buried her nose in her punch cup for a moment. “Oh, you charmer, you. I wasn’t aware your experience included many young ladies. Most say you favor lonely widows and wayward wives.”
“You mustn’t believe everything you hear.”
What about the other things whispered about him? Like the mysterious way he came by his knighthood. Usually, the commoner who was honored with the elevation to baronet had performed some service to the Crown and that service was trumpeted about by said commoner until his listeners were tempted to box their own ears.
Sir Jonah had never uttered a word in public about how he’d earned his baronetcy.
But that didn’t stop the rumor mill from grinding out possibilities, some of them quite unsavory. By the light of the gas lamp, she noticed a small scar bisecting one of his eyebrows. Instead of spoiling his appearance, it gave him a rather dashing air, as if he were a pirate king or a gypsy lord.
A dangerous man to know.
She burned to ask him how he came by the scar, but if she did it would seem as if she were interested in him as well. And she wasn’t. Not a bit. He was too rough, too direct, too…taking off his tailcoat.
There, in front of God and everybody who cared to glance their way, Jonah Sharp was peeling off his jacket. Gentlemen never did such a thing. To be seen in public in only his waistcoat and shirt was more than a little scandalous.
And made her breath catch strangely in the back of her throat.
She glanced around at the other opera-goers who were taking the air. Anyone might see her with this half-dressed fellow.
He draped the tailcoat over her shoulders. “You were shivering.”
This surprisingly thoughtful half-dressed fellow. The fine merino was infused with the warmth of his body along with his distinctive scent—musky and rich as a deep forest with an undertone of leather.
“Thank you. The air is a bit brisk this evening.” She hoped he didn’t think her shiver had anything to do with standing so closely to him. She handed him her empty punch cup and pulled the lapels together in front. It was almost as if he were holding her close.
She’d always had a vivid imagination, but no good could come from that sort of fancy.
“Why did you sneak into Boodles in the first place?” He set the cups down on the brickwork railing leading to the door.
She took a step back and found her spine pressed against the brick facade of the opera house. “I don’t have to answer to you for my actions.”
He braced a hand on the wall next to her head and leaned toward her. “Since I risked a bit to get you out of there, I think I deserve to know why you were in the club in the first place. Never say it was for the coffee. I could plainly see that you didn’t care for it.”
“You’re right. It was as bad as that punch.”
“Then why masquerade as your cousin and invade Boodles? And may I remind you that you owe me?”
His face was only a hand’s breath from hers. “If I tell you why I was there, will it cancel the debt?”
He nodded.
“Very well.” She straightened so he could see she wasn’t intimidated by his nearness. “I did it so I could cross it off the list.”
“What list?”
This was trickier ground. “You’ll laugh.”
“Perhaps, but tell me in any case.”
“It’s my list of forbidden pleasures. Things I wish to do simply to revel in having done them,” Serena said. “Haven’t you ever wished to do some secret thing?”
“I don’t consider pleasures forbidden.” His smile was wickedness itself. “And if I want something, I make no secret of it.”
She blinked hard at that. “Well,”—she swallowed back the strange tightness in her throat—“in the case of my exploits in Boodles, the pleasure was overrated. Men’s clothes are not nearly as comfortable as I’d imagined they would be, and as you said, the coffee is not as high a quality as I can find in my father’s dining room.”
“Maybe so, but you have to admit the company was pleasurable.” The wickedness was gone from his smile, but it was no less engaging.
She couldn’t resist smiling back. “I’ll allow the company was tolerable.”
“Only tolerable? Hmph. I can do better than that. Perhaps you’ll concede that a man cannot be at his best when he finds himself awash in Orange Fool.”
She laughed, despite her determination not to encourage him in his interest in her. He liked her because she was different, he said. He too was very different from other men of her acquaintance. The viscounts and earls and foreign dignitaries that graced her father’s home were polished and poised.
And patently false, she realized.
Whatever else Jonah Sharp was, she sensed he was letting her see a side of him he normally hid from the rest of the world. Known for gruffness and being taciturn to the point of rudeness, this Sir Jonah was…unconventionally charming.
“What else is on that list of yours?” he asked.
She bit her lip, wondering if she should tell him.
“Very well, don’t tell me the whole thing. Just the next one.” He leaned in and whispered, “What forbidden pleasure will you try?”
His breath washed over her neck, but even though it was warm, it left a shiver in its wake. She pulled his tailcoat tighter around her. “You’ll laugh.”
“I didn’t laugh before, did I? Besides, your secrets are safe with me. I won’t tell a soul.”
The man had helped her out of a deucedly awkward scrape. She decided to trust him. “I’d like to smoke a cigar.”
This time he did laugh. Then when she didn’t join him, he sobered immediately. “You’re serious.”
“As an apoplectic fit.”
“Why?”
“Because after a formal dinner, smoking cigars is something men retreat into their secret enclave to do while the women are relegated to tea and cordials in the parlor. I’d just like to know what’s so appealing about it and why it’s forbidden to my gender.”
“A good cigar is a fine thing, but I suspect you’d find it as overrated as Boodle’s coffee.”
“But unless I try one for myself, I’ll never know for sure,” she argued. “It’s one thing to be told what it’s like to do something. It’s quite another to do it.”
“Truer words were never spoken.” He frowned at the tips of his polished Hessians for a moment. It made Serena wonder what sort of experiences he’d had that hadn’t turned out as expected. Then he lifted his head and smiled at her again, but this time the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “What if I could help you cross this particular pleasure off your list?”
Her heart tripped along a bit faster. “How?”
“My town house is only a short distance from here. I have recently received a shipment of cigars fresh from Havana, one of which I’d be pleased to share with you.”
Serena’s breath hissed in over her teeth. “Will you bring it to me secretly?”
“No.” He chuckled, a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate in her chest as well. “You wouldn’t know what to do with it. And besides, don’t you think your father would know if you invaded his smoking room to try to light up?”
That was true enough. Her father would notice if a single grape were out of place in a fruit bowl. “You can’t mean to simply tease me with this. What do you propose?”
“Tell your companions you feel ill and need to go home early,” he suggested, “but that they should stay to see the end of the opera.”
“My footman will insist upon accompanying me.”
“Have him
put you into a hansom. It will ensure you arrive at your destination and he can stay to squire the other ladies home later. Besides, I have it on good authority that your Mr. Tunstall considers himself quite the Mozart aficionado. He’ll stay readily enough.”
Serena sighed. “Probably even for this less than stellar production. Wait. How do you know about Mr. Tunstall’s musical tastes?”
“When I’m interested in someone, I make it my business to know as much as I can about them, including the people with whom they surround themselves.”
“That sounds vaguely military. Have you been reconnoitering me?”
His mouth twitched in a half-smile. “I’ve learned the hard way that it doesn’t pay not to.” Then his smile faded as he returned to business. “Once you’ve gone a block or two in the hansom, signal for a stop and I’ll be right behind you with my gig. We’ll go to my town house. You can smoke your wicked cigar. And when you’re ready, I’ll drive you home, long before the end of the last ovation here at the opera.”
“There are any number of things wrong with that plan. For one, someone might see us together.” For another, she’d be unchaperoned with a man. In his home. Alone.
“Doubtful. Everyone who is anyone, or even thinks they are, is here at the opera. You know how lengthy Mozart is. You’ll be home in your own bed before the applause ends. No one will see us together.”
The plan seemed made to order for knocking another item off the list. And it had the dubious benefit of providing a few more forbidden elements. She hadn’t even had the courage to add “Spend time alone with a man who is not a relative” to her list, but she’d considered it. Amelia would be scandalized by the idea, so it was yet another secret pleasure she’d held only in her mind.
“What do you say, Serena?”
“Did I give you leave to use my Christian name?”
“You did.” When she looked askance at him, he added, “When you followed me through that Orange Fool.”
If his aim was to see her embarrassed, he’d have left her in Boodles. And she didn’t see how she’d ever fulfill her wish to try a cigar in any other way.
“Well?” he asked.
