Page 69 of The Duke Undone

But he would talk to Mabeldon. This was simply the preparatory stage. How to explain that to a woman who squeezed what she could from every minute?

He cleared his throat. “I’m biding my time. As I mentioned, Lord Mabeldon and I aren’t on firm footing. I need to approach our meeting strategically.”

The inadequacy—the sheer inanity—of this must have struck her as it struck him. Her face blurred with emotion. He distinguished hurt, disgust, anger, and then, something worse, resignation. When he took her arm again, it felt limp in his own.

Reassurances rose to his lips. He’d call on Mabeldon first thing in the morning. He’d get there even if he had to pass by rainspouts pouring pink gin, even if he had to pass by Lord Lyon, escaped from the stud farm at Shepherd’s Bush. But her head was turned away, her attention elsewhere.

As they settled into their seats and the performance began, he felt her restlessness. Each twitch of her body passed into his. He hadn’t fidgeted as much studying for his trials at Eton. Her elbow bumped him repeatedly as she twisted a strand of hair with her fingers. Finally, he caught the elbow, held it still, cupped it in his hand between their bodies. She froze at his touch. The easiness between them—the natural physical sympathy—not gone, but muffled. He had spoiled the mood. Maybe he could charm her by describing Snap, the old thoroughbred.

Funny story, he’d say. And he’d tell her how he recognized him by the white sock on his pastern. Chased down the cab. He’d present it as a tale of rescue. Leave off the part about turning around en route to Mabeldon’s, neglecting his side of the bargain.

Christ but he was useless.

Cymbals crashed below. A group of home soldiers at the end of the row laughed uproariously, calling out to a pretty barmaid.

She turned to him, said something inaudible.

“What?” He tipped his head. Her lips brushed his ear. Her husky voice whispered as though inside him.

“Do you see her?”

“No.” He shook his head, felt her chin against his jaw, her mouth skimming the outer edge of his ear. Air puffed from her lips, tickling.

The theater manufactured sensation on a large scale. But there was also this other, less spectacular excitement, the excitement to be found in the heated darkness.

Surely, the Albion had its private boxes, its velvet couches. Places where he might lay Miss Coover down, stroke away the nervous motion of her limbs, spend her, make her languid. Win her back with kisses.

He focused on the main stage, where scenes from Antony and Cleopatra continued to unfold. The barge was gone and a Roman festival was underway. Fantastical flowers of every color were strewn over the stage and goddesses in golden togas processed upon them. In her thin dress, Miss Coover wouldn’t have looked out of place among them. She adjusted her head.

“Not the one on the right?”

He didn’t bother with the glasses. The black-haired goddess was too slight. Effie was short, but she inclined to plumpness. Or had these recent months harrowed her, whittled her down? His jaw clenched at the thought. He squinted. No, it wasn’t her. Miss Coover felt the negation in his movement.

When Cleopatra’s maids presented the baskets of figs, and their round, unfamiliar faces, he sighed.

“Time to go,” he said. He wouldn’t keep her out all night on what had proved to be a fool’s errand.

• • •

Lucy’s knees complained as she rose. Good. A reminder of Aunt Marian. She needed it, to strengthen her resolve. She’d spent the show sweating, attention divided between the stage and the galleries. Who in the audience had been sent by Yardley to witness Weston’s undoing?

Weston had risen too. She felt him at her elbow. Risked a glance. It was difficult to read his expression. She saw disappointment, certainly. But also solicitude, an unexpected gentleness. He worried that she was disappointed too, that she felt culpable.

She did feel culpable, but not for the reason he assumed.

God help her, she liked this man. She didn’t want to deceive him, even though he hadn’t talked to Mabeldon. Even though he was proving himself blatantly unreliable, the selfish pup Yardley described. But protecting him would leave her vulnerable. He was his own worst enemy. She would not allow him to become hers. Her knees twinged as she turned.

Nor her Aunt Marian’s.

Two men, shabby, mouths hidden by drooping mustaches, stood at the end of the row, staring. Stomach leaping, she stared back. One nodded, almost imperceptibly. Well then. The thing was already set into motion. Weston touched her shoulder.

“Care for a drink?” he asked. She sipped the air, its sweet smokiness. He did this. The fault was not hers, come what may.

“If you do,” she murmured and started edging toward the aisle without looking back at him.

It took some time to maneuver along the promenade to the canteen below the main stage. Weston kept her in the protective circle of his arm, and she held her body rigid, tried not to brush against him as they pushed through the crowd.

Theatergoers packed the canteen, which was lurid in its luxuriance, crystal chandeliers overhead, red silk wall coverings. They sat in red velvet chairs pulled close together, Weston draping an arm casually across his chair’s curved back.