A Wallflower Demands Satisfaction (Revenge of the Wallflowers #55)

8. April 20, 1830

8

APRIL 20, 1830

DIE ZAUBERFLOTE

* * *

C ovent Garden Theatre

Olivia settled into one of the cushioned chairs in the Chelmsford private box, her eyes watering from the scent of the gaslight sconces and the glittering grandeur of the theatre assaulting all her senses. She’d never experienced anything so entrancing in her life. The gaslight’s reflection off the gilding on all of the intricate wood fronts of the boxes and the stage gave a surreal glow to both the theater and the audience.

The most fascinating part was the audience: hundreds of people crowded the area below in front of the orchestra, which was making trilling, tuning noises whilst readying for the curtain to rise on the overture. The levels of finery would tax anyone’s powers of description.

And then there was the reflected twinkle of countless be-jeweled women crowding the boxes all along the second level. She knew instinctively that many of those women were not the wives of the wealthy men at their sides. How many of them would one day, or perhaps already had abandoned children to the streets of the rookeries?

She hadn’t expected the level of raucous noise from the crowd, both on the ground floor and from the small balcony near the ceiling. Under all was a constant buzz of conversation.

Of course, she could have afforded to attend the opera before, but the idea had never occurred to her. She and Dickie had attended some circus acts at Astley’s, but those performances and that venue had been nothing compared to the opulence of the Covent Garden Theatre.

She’d worn the mask because the unwritten law of the ton specified a young woman was not supposed to appear in public venues until she’d had her coming-out event. Olivia had chosen a peacock blue satin gown for that night’s excursion which revealed a great deal of her shoulders with a deep décolletage as well. A sapphire broach, courtesy of Her Grace, secured a thin white lace cape covering her shoulders. When the lights were turned up just before darkening for the performance, she observed a theater full of people from the highest to the lower levels of society…and it seemed they were all staring at her. Maybe wearing a mask hadn’t been such a good idea.

One of Aunt Camilla’s footmen had brought up the rear with a basket of food prepared by Nathaniel’s kitchen and several bottles of sparkling wine.

When she gave out a heavy sigh, the footman placed a flute of wine in her hand and offered a small tray of puffed pastry. At the first sip, she relaxed back into the thickly cushioned seat and vowed to ignore all the rude stares from the audience. She popped two of the small treats into her mouth in fast succession before downing the remaining wine and extending her empty glass toward the footman for a refill. Soon, her fears of the crowd’s attention faded.

Behind her, Will stood guard at the entrance to the box. Dickie sat close by her side, squeezing her hand. “Be careful of that stuff,” he warned, pointing at her glass. “It goes down too easy. I’d hate to see Will have to carry you out of here back to the carriage. If you think people are staring now…”

She cut him off. “Dickie Jones, don’t you dare let Will Beckford carry me anywhere or you’ll regret the day you were born.”

Dickie leaned close to his sister and whispered low. “Oh, so now that he’s back, you’re going to pretend you’re enemies?” He ignored her return glare and shook his head. “Women. Can’t please ‘em, can’t shut ‘em up.”

“Shut yer gob,” she spat back, not caring who heard. The mask might come in handy after all. But then again, she was in the Chelmsford private box. She crossed her fingers behind her back, praying Captain El didn’t find out she’d behaved like a hoyden at the opera.

Some time later when the woman who might be her mother began her aria as the Queen of the Night, Olivia’s mouth dropped open. In the context of the plot, the character treated her stage daughter badly in the scene. How appropriate.

But even she could not fail to be overwhelmed by the strength, talent, and skill required of the part. In the scene where the singer produced a musical series of shrieks meant to chastise her daughter, the notes produced were so high whilst still so forceful that Olivia marveled the woman could stand and deliver such a performance night after night.

No wonder this strange woman was famous in London. But as far as Olivia was concerned, aside from her dark hair and striking sapphire eyes, she could not see any resemblance. However, when she sneaked a glance at her fellow listeners, the looks on their faces revealed what she’d dreaded. Apparently, she was the only one unable to see the similarities. Even Lady Camilla’s footman let slip a sympathetic stare which he quickly hid by turning to fetch another chilled bottle of wine.

When she could no longer hide the flood of tears threatening to pour out from under her mask, she jumped up from her chair and fled out of the box and down toward the lower level of throngs of people moving to and fro and conversing raucously. She regretted the mask but knew it would be the end of her reputation if she took it off, so she plunged wildly into the mob of opera revelers.

Suddenly, a large hand of iron gripped her by the waist and slammed her back up against a solid, immoveable chest. She stiffened in terror and cursed herself as a ninnyhammer.

“Where in the name of all that’s holy do you think you’re going?” The voice was scolding and stern, but familiar.

Will .

She was still so frightened, she could barely speak, but managed a small squeak of protest. “Why should you care?”

“Because I’m the one who’s been watching over you for as long as either of us can remember.”

She’d turned in his arms by then. “Then where have you been? I thought you’d abandoned me.”

“Never,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “Not now, not ever.”

When he marched her back to the staircase leading up to the level of the private boxes, she turned and swiped at the tears that had escaped below the mask and down her cheek. “From where I stand, you certainly don’t act like someone who’s devoted to me.”

He turned ominously silent until they reached the staircase landing.

She started to complain again, but before she could, he pulled her toward a darkened corner, leaned down and claimed her lips in a short, rough kiss. When he pulled away quickly, as if contact with her mouth had scorched his skin, she pulled him back for a deeper kiss. He didn’t pull away this time.

After a tentative exploration of his lips, Olivia opened her mouth to him and he probed her depths with his tongue, until they sank into a final kiss so deep and long, that they didn’t hear Dickie glide up.

“St. Swithin’s elbow…where in Hades have the two of you been? I was about ready to call in Obadiah and his outriders to find you. I thought you might be floatin’ in the Thames, but nooo, here you are in a dark corner carryin’ on like a couple of shriekin’ cats in an alley.”

Olivia could barely breathe for aching with want, and she was pretty sure Will was grateful at that moment for the roomy trousers of the Peelers’ uniform, which they were forced to wear everywhere.

Her head spun with questions. What had just happened? Why had Will been pretending to be nothing more than a friend all this time? More importantly, how could she go through with the silly charade of finding a gentleman of the ton to marry when the man she wanted in her bed, and in her life, stood before her, shifting from one booted foot to the other, his face a scarlet shade of shame?

April 23, 1830

Duke of Chelmsford’s Mansion

Berkley Square, Mayfair

Olivia cocked her head to the side and walked slowly around her bedchamber, trailing the fingers of one hand along the many ensembles laid out on the top of the counterpane of her bed. Madame Clarot and her assistant stood in the corner awaiting her verdict. Each ensemble had been carefully wrapped and padded with tissue paper to discourage wrinkling. Empty boxes the dressmakers had brought full of their frantic week’s worth of work were piled high in the hallway outside.

She was having a hard time concentrating on her wardrobe for the Season after what had happened at the opera earlier that week.

In all her daydreams where she’d imagined a first kiss with Will, the reality of how he’d stolen one the night of the opera had taken her breath away.

She’d pictured a scene where, similar to a farce on a Covent Garden stage, the dialogue would be something along the lines of: “A kiss?” he’d say. “What’s this?” he’d say. “You’re just a child…you’re my best friend’s sister.”

The reality of his passionate seizing of her lips had taken her totally by surprise. Even now, the memory was like something that had never entered her wildest imaginings.

She ended her reveries abruptly and gave her lady’s maid a mischievous look. “What shall we try on first?”

“Miss Whitcombe, please…” Madame Clarot interrupted, “let’s see you in your ballgown first so that we can start the alterations as soon as possible.”

Olivia frowned.

“The ball is happening next Tuesday no matter what you do. You do realize that?” Her maid, Louisa, gave out a small huff of exasperation.

“All right. Let’s get this over with.” She raised her arms so that Louisa could lower the gown over her stays, shift, and petticoat. The elaborate dress settled over her body like the whisper of a white linen cloud. When she joined the modistes in front of the full-length mirror, she caught a glimpse of a virginal young woman cloaked in a fragile mist of icy white innocence. The thought caused her stomach to turn in disgust.

She didn’t feel virginal, although in fact, she was. The reason she was still virginal had nothing to do with virtue. A sudden realization slammed into her. The only man with whom she’d ever have considered sharing her body was also the only man who’d always been too proud and stubborn to accept what she had to give.

Why did he have to be so damned noble?

Madame Clarot snapped her fingers and ordered in a garbled tone through a mouth full of pins, “We’re done with this one, Miss Whitcombe. Let’s move on to one of the carriage dresses, for heaven’s sake. Otherwise, you’ll need to start making reciprocal calls after your coming-out…with nothing to wear.”

Olivia jerked back to reality and obediently raised her arms again. Agreeing to Dickie’s cork-brained idea of her becoming a lady of the ton had been one of the most colossal bad ideas in her short life.