Chapter 19
The Royal Opera House
Covent Garden, London
Everything else in the room faded to watercolor and muffled voices the moment Edward spotted Calliope across the foyer.
Her skin glittered like sunlight upon freshly fallen snow, the starburst of crystals swirling over her sapphire gown catching the warm chandelier glow.
The sight made him stop, frozen in awe of the sheer beauty of her as he experienced an overwhelming urge to run his hands along that dewy skin, to slide the beaded silk through his fingers, to tilt her face once more to his and feel the soft rush of her breath against his lips.
The problem was, he was not the only man in the room noticing her.
Lord Wellesby in particular was giving her a most unusual appraisal, as if he did not want to notice her beauty but could not help himself.
Edward’s hands clenched as a wave of jealousy overtook him, and it concerned him, the sudden realization that he no longer wanted to marry Calliope out of necessity or pride, but because he could not imagine another man holding her in his arms, or kissing her good morning, or having the pleasure of seeing her smile across the breakfast table every day.
Was that love? And if so, what was he signing himself up for, to love a woman who’d made it so clear she could never love him in return?
It was in the midst of this inner battle that her friend pointed in his direction, causing Calliope to turn. Her eyes met his. Suddenly, all fear and doubt fell away, and all he could think was:
Magnificent.
Everything about her tonight was magnificent.
And if another man had any thoughts about her, he would silence them by making his intentions known to the gentleman in question.
And if she had any thoughts about another man, he would silence them as soon as he could find a moment alone with her, away from prying eyes.
Get ahold of yourself, he’d inwardly berated. She isn’t interested in you in that way. You must keep your composure. For Whitefawn.
Now, with Calliope’s hand wrapped around his arm, they ascended the staircase toward the opera boxes.
Mrs. Hart, having spotted them, met them halfway in order to inform them—shouting over the blaring trumpets calling everyone to their seats to do so—that she had invited herself to sit in the Duchess of Tanley’s box.
“Does she have room for the earl, as well?” Calliope asked.
“Oh no! I don’t think she does,” her mother remarked, as if this thought hadn’t occurred to her. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you and His Lordship sit in our regular box?”
Calliope’s eyes widened. “Just the two of us?”
Her mother laughed. “You hardly need a chaperone with all of London surrounding you.”
And then, with a decided nod of her head and a twinkle in her eye, Mrs. Hart swept away from them.
Calliope lowered her voice. “I really am sorry about her. She means well, but—”
He waved off her concern. “It’s not worth worrying yourself over it.”
“But I do worry,” she told him. “This wasn’t my intention, and I don’t want you thinking you were right about me the night we met. I don’t scheme, and I don’t manipulate people to get what I want.”
He winced. If he could take away the pain he’d caused her that night, he would.
He should never have spoken to her the way he did, without tact or propriety, just because he’d been angry at the position he’d found himself in and thought approaching her in the most businesslike manner possible would solve his problems.
“Did it ever occur to you, Miss Hart,” he whispered so no one would hear, “that perhaps I want to be alone with you?”
She froze on the staircase.
“Besides,” he continued as if she hadn’t stopped, his forward momentum gently tugging her along, “we’ve gallivanted all over London without a chaperone. This will be no different.”
“Right,” she said, her fingers gripping his sleeve as she pulled even with his gait. “Of course you’re right.”
He noticed the goosebumps on her arms then, although he couldn’t tell if they were the result of a chill in the air or the prospect of being alone with him in a darkened room.
A greedy, wild, untamed part of him—a part he hadn’t even known he’d possessed prior to meeting Calliope, for no woman had ever left him feeling so out of sorts in his life—hoped it was the latter.
Calliope led him to her mother’s box, in which three rows of empty seats were lined up, one behind the other. “Do you prefer to sit in the front or the back?”
“The back,” he replied.
“Afraid of heights, my lord?”
“Edward,” he corrected. “And no, I don’t mind heights. It is only that I feel like a fish in a bowl when I sit in the front row, where everyone can see me. I prefer to sit in the shadows, where I can watch the performance in peace.”
It was the truth, or at least half of it.
He’d never much enjoyed the opera. The music was fine enough, but he detested the fact that everyone who attended did so under the pretense that they were cultured; that they enjoyed listening to the crescendo of the music; that there were nuances to the plot that only they, in their unmitigated genius, could appreciate.
They discussed each performance afterward as if they were doctors dissecting a body, uncovering various themes and subtleties, always trying to outdo their peers in appearing especially philosophical.
But the truth was that they all attended the opera to spy on everyone else.
Their lorgnettes, made of delicate filigree and embedded with jewels, were rarely, if ever, trained on the stage, but rather on the boxes surrounding them.
It made him uncomfortable and fidgety, much like Calliope’s friend Miss North.
He preferred to sit as far back from the edge of his family’s box as possible whenever attending the opera, so that he might actually enjoy the performance without feeling so many eyes upon him (or to take a nap where his mother couldn’t see him, depending on his level of interest).
But he would be lying if he said he didn’t have an ulterior motive tonight.
He wanted Calliope all to himself, tucked away where no other man could see her, lorgnette or no, and if that made him a selfish cad, so be it. It wasn’t as if he was planning on ruining her reputation in the Royal Opera House, of all places.
Or so he’d believed, until the lights went down and Calliope leaned close, the fabric of her glove brushing his sleeve. “I must admit, I am not the greatest fan of the opera.”
Her perfume wrapped around him, an intoxicating blend of jasmine and gardenias. “Oh?”
“Call me old-fashioned,” she said, “but I like to understand exactly what it is the actors are saying.”
“Do you not speak French or Italian, Miss Hart?”
“Of course I do. In theory.”
An unexpected laugh escaped him. “Do tell.”
“I received instruction from various governesses in all of the prominent languages of the Continent, but I’ve never had a gift for any of them, much to my mother’s chagrin.
I could get around major cities well enough, but understand those languages when they are sung at breakneck speeds and earsplitting volumes? Definitely not.”
He smirked. “Perhaps I could be your guide, then? Let you know what’s happening in the story?”
She’d been looking away, sneaking glances at her friends in a separate box, so that she did not realize he had leaned closer, breathing in her scent. When she turned back, their noses almost brushed. It was the height of impropriety, he knew, for them to be so close, but he did not pull away.
And neither did she.
“I would like that,” she whispered. “Very much.”
The stage lights came up, soft and centered on a woman in Grecian robes.
Edward knew this because he’d seen this opera before, several years ago.
But he wasn’t looking at the woman on the stage now.
He was watching Calliope, her ivory gloves gilded in the golden glow of the stage lights, the rest of her hidden in shadow.
And she was watching him.