Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
The theatre was warm and crowded, the air thick with perfume and powder and the steady murmur of anticipation.
As a general rule, the dramas that played amongst the audience were more entertaining than those on stage.
Eleanor took her seat in Lord Marklynne’s box with the composure she had perfected over years of public scrutiny, though she could not ignore the faint tightening in her chest as she became aware of their company.
Lady Lyndehurst presided at the far end of the box with rigid authority, her lorgnette raised as though the audience existed solely for her inspection.
Beside her sat Miss Verity Langford, her goddaughter, a very young lady with glossy curls, bright blue eyes, and an expression of eager sweetness that did not quite conceal the sharpness beneath.
She greeted Eleanor with a smile that lingered just a moment too long.
“My dear Miss Harcourt,” Lady Lyndehurst said, inclining her head only slightly. “How fortunate that you were recovered sufficiently to attend this evening. As we age, one never knows how delicate one’s constitution may prove.”
“I am quite well, I thank you,” Eleanor replied evenly.
Miss Langford leaned forward with visible interest. “Mama always says a lady must guard her strength most carefully as she advances in years. One requires greater prudence and wisdom, does one not? Though of course,” she added with sudden brightness, turning directly to Eleanor, “I beg you will forgive me if that sounds indelicate. I spoke only in generalities.”
Her eyes were wide with false concern.
Eleanor inclined her head. “You are very kind to think of my sensibilities.”
Lady Lyndehurst made a small approving sound. “Verity has a thoughtful nature. She is very attentive to the proprieties.”
“Thank you, my lady,” the girl said modestly.
“Mama says it is most important for young ladies to understand the realities of society. One must marry at the proper time, or else one risks becoming… well.” She hesitated delicately, then turned again to Eleanor.
“Forgive me. I should not speak so freely before those who possess greater experience and perspective.”
The apology landed with all the grace of a slap.
Lord Marklynne shifted beside Eleanor. “Miss Harcourt suffered from excessive heat in an overcrowded room. Nothing more.”
“Indeed,” Lady Lyndehurst murmured. “Still, society can be exhausting for ladies who carry many responsibilities.”
Eleanor folded her hands in her lap and turned her attention to the stage.
The orchestra began its overture, though the music did little to soften the steady prickle of scrutiny she felt from across the box.
Miss Langford’s occasional whispers to Lady Lyndehurst were accompanied by soft laughter that suggested Eleanor herself was the subject.
Lord Marklynne appeared oblivious. Or perhaps simply unconcerned.
He spoke to her in low tones regarding the performers, the improvements to the theatre since its last renovation, and the playwright’s recent success in Bath. His manner was attentive and composed. If he perceived the veiled barbs offered by his aunt and her goddaughter, he gave no sign.
By the time the curtain fell for the interval, Eleanor found she had followed very little of the performance.
“I confess being seated for so long is difficult—given my advanced years,” Eleanor said, not quite hiding the bite in her tone. “I will be in the corridor.”
Lord Marklynne inclined his head. “Of course.”
Lady Lyndehurst’s brows lifted. “Do take care the corridors are not overcrowded. It would be a pity for you to be ‘overcome’ again.”
Eleanor offered a polite smile and withdrew before any further commentary could detain her.
The corridor beyond the boxes was dim and comparatively cool.
Footmen moved discreetly along the walls while patrons drifted in small clusters, conversing in low tones as they awaited the second act.
Eleanor walked farther than was strictly necessary, grateful for the brief illusion of solitude, and turned into the narrow curtained recess between two boxes—a shadowed space meant more for servants than guests.
She needed the solitude. And the shelter from Lady Lyndehurst’s pointed barbs.
She had scarcely taken a full breath when the curtain shifted behind her.
“Do not be alarmed.”
She turned sharply, hand rising to her chest. “Adrian,” she whispered. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
He stood half in shadow, close enough that she could see the faint roughness of evening beard along his jaw and the intent steadiness in his eyes.
The space was so narrow that scarcely a foot separated them.
She could feel the warmth of him even without contact, could feel the heat of his body displacing the cooler corridor air.
“I have been awaiting for an opportunity to speak with you privately,” he said.
“You cannot lurk in dark corners of the theatre like a highwayman and expect me to be calm about it,” she returned under her breath. “If anyone sees us—”
“We are well shielded from view,” he insisted.
“We are wedged between two boxes behind a curtain—a very thin curtain,” she countered. “This is the very definition of impropriety and recklessness.”
A faint glimmer of humor touched his mouth. “Then I shall endeavor to be brief.”
She folded her arms, though the movement brought her gloved hands closer to his chest, making her acutely aware of the breadth of his shoulders and the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The air between them felt charged, as though something unseen vibrated there.
“You had best.”
His voice lowered. “Did you receive the book I sent?”
Her breath caught despite herself. “Yes.”
“And?”
“It was unnecessary,” she said rather abruptly. The whole thing had charmed her and being charmed by him was dangerous.
“It most assuredly was not. It felt very necessary to me,” he protested. “Because I need you to understand, Eleanor, that not only do I see you, I know you.”
She hesitated, remembering the weight of the book in her hands that morning — the fine binding, the delicate gilt, the familiarity of a story they had once debated with absurd seriousness. And the note, the tempting, lovely and hope inducing note. “It was… thoughtful,” she admitted.
His expression softened. “I thought you might remember the first time we quarreled over the ending.”
Her spine stiffened at the very thought of that long ago argument. “You declared Elizabeth Bennet insufferable.”
“And you did not speak to me for an entire day,” he said quietly. “A punishment I have never forgotten.”
Despite herself, her mouth threatened to curve, and she quickly suppressed it. “This is not the time for literary reminiscence. I am here with Lord Marklynne.”
“I am well aware. Painfully so.”
Something in his tone made her study him more closely. She became acutely conscious of how little space separated them — of the faint scent of starch and sandalwood that clung to his coat, of the warmth radiating from him, of the memory of his hand at her waist only hours before.
It would take so little to lean forward.
The thought startled her.
“He escorted you in,” Adrian continued. “And appears very satisfied with the arrangement.”
Her spine straightened. “And why should he not be?”
“It is presumptuous of him… he assumes that because he has called on you, because he has escorted you here that you are his to ignore at his whim.”
A swell of laughter drifted down the corridor as patrons began returning to their seats, the sound pressing in around them and reminding her how fragile their privacy truly was.
“Adrian, you cannot waylay me in shadowed corridors to voice vague objections,” she said, though her voice was softer now. “If you have something to say, say it plainly.”
He held her gaze for a long moment.
“I do not like the way he looks at you,” he said at last.
Her heart gave an unwelcome lurch. “He looks at me with respect.”
“He looks at you as though the matter is already settled. As if he need expend no more effort to win you than he already is.”
“And perhaps it is settled,” she countered. “Regardless, I am not a prize to be won. Is that what has prompted your actions? Some ridiculous need to win?”
“You know me better than that,” he said softly. “I would never have taken this step without their being truth behind it.”
Silence gathered between them. She could hear his breathing now, could feel the warmth of it against her cheek when he exhaled.
The memory of his kiss beneath the trees rose with startling clarity — the careful pressure of his mouth, the gentleness that had undone her far more thoroughly than boldness ever could.
She wanted that gentleness again.
The realization was so sudden and so dangerous that she curled her fingers into her palms to steady herself.
From within, the bell sounded, summoning patrons back to their seats.
“Eleanor,” he said quietly, “this is not settled. Not between the two of you and certainly not between the two of us.”
Her pulse hammered. The narrow space felt smaller, the air warmer, the world beyond the curtain impossibly distant.
“You must go,” she whispered. “If we are discovered—”
His hand brushed the curtain behind her, not touching her and yet near enough that she felt the warmth of him at her side. For one reckless instant she thought he might kiss her again — here, hidden between velvet and shadow. No, she admitted to herself. She hoped he would.
He did not.
“One more question,” he murmured. “Will you come to regret choosing certainty over possibility?”
She swallowed. “I do not have the luxury of indulging in possibilities.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, his gaze lingering with such intensity it was almost like a caress, before then returning to her eyes. “That has never stopped you from hoping. From dreaming. Beneath your practically minded exterior, inside you beats the heart of a romantic.”
The orchestra began to tune. Voices quieted. The moment contracted around them.
“Go, Adrian.”
He inclined his head and stepped back into shadow.
Eleanor drew a steadying breath and returned to the box, willing calm back into her limbs before she resumed her seat.
Lord Marklynne glanced toward her with mild inquiry before returning his attention to the stage.
Lady Lyndehurst resumed her whispered commentary, Miss Langford eager to agree, and the play began again.
Eleanor fixed her gaze upon the stage with an intensity that would have surprised anyone who knew how little she cared for the performance.
She did not notice the faint tightening at the corner of Lord Marklynne’s mouth, nor the way his lips settled into a firm, disapproving line before his expression smoothed once more into polite composure.
Had she looked, she might have wondered what he had seen.
She did not look.
And so the play resumed, though Eleanor could not have be bothered later to recall a single word of it.