Chapter Nineteen
“And I said that I never wanted to come in the first place,” muttered Irene, smiling brilliantly at the crowds of people who were clearly staring. Aren’t they? How do they know? “So why don’t I return to the carriage with Michael and—”
“Firstly, because Michael has clearly decided he has somewhere else better to be,” said her father stiffly. “Of course.”
Irene turned around wildly, surveying the growing crowd in the concert hall then sighing heavily. “Of course.”
Honestly, they were going to have to do something about Michael. He had always been—well, not necessarily the best brother in the world, but he hadn’t been in the habit of summarily dropping his family and wandering off.
As he had clearly done now.
“It doesn’t matter. I invited a friend in the certain knowledge that Michael would not wish to sit through a full concert of Mozart,” said Irene’s mother with a sigh. “Though honestly, he could do with the musical education. That school of his—”
“They were very good to me, dear,” said Irene’s father as the trio pushed through the crowd toward their allotted seats. “I never suffered there.”
“My point is, music is a balm to the soul, as I was telling my friend whom I invited to join us,” the Viscountess Pernrith said tartly. “Something Michael could do with.”
Perhaps that’s why my parents have dragged me out this evening, Irene could not help but think as she picked at the lace at her collar and wished to goodness she was home, carefully tucked away in bed. A balm for the soul.
Her soul hadn’t been much balmed recently.
The last few days had passed in a haze of tears—mostly hers—and anger…
also mostly hers. Her parents had attempted their best, and Michael had put his hands up and said he wasn’t going to get involved any longer, which confirmed all her suspicions about her brother’s meddling, and her sisters…
Well, Jessica had sent a lovely letter, but she hadn’t heard when she had written it, so it had been all about Reginald, her husband, and how wonderful he was… which had been a tad galling.
And as for Teddy and Gwen…they had kept themselves to themselves.
Which was precisely what Irene wished to do. She tugged her father’s arm. “Papa—”
“No, your mother is most insistent that we attend this concert,” her father said with a twinkling smile, somehow able to guess precisely what she had been about to ask. “And I am not the sort of man who can say no to your mother.”
Irene could not help but smile at that. “I suppose not.”
The trouble was, the whole place was stifling. Far too many people—she would be surprised if those gathered would find enough seats—and someone near her was wearing far too much scent. It was hot, and muggy, and her stays were somehow too tight.
The music had better be good—though whether it would be a sufficient balm for her wracked soul, she did not know.
“Now, there was a bit of trouble with the tickets,” came a voice near her.
Irene glanced at her mother, whose cheeks were pink. “‘Trouble’?”
“Was it anything to do with…?” began her father.
The Viscountess Pernrith tapped her husband in a very intimate manner and smiled even as her cheeks flushed a darker pink. “Now don’t be silly, dear. No one cares about that anymore.”
Irene did not need further explanation. She knew her father. He was concerned his parentage was the reason—and she could not understand why. Indeed, her father had been legitimized long before she had even been born. Why would anyone in Society have an issue with him now?
Her father was scowling. “You know what people say.”
“Well, they don’t say it to us, dear, so I wouldn’t worry about it,” said the Viscountess Pernrith smoothly. “No, I meant to say that I booked four tickets, but it appears that they are in two pairs, across the aisle.”
Irene groaned.
She knew precisely what her mother was going to say. She had undoubtedly invited some old biddy, some crone of her mother’s friendship circle who had no one else to attend concerts with, and Irene had been brought along to sit with her.
Well, she would make the best of it. Hopefully, the other woman wouldn’t bore her to tears with a running commentary through the music.
“Now, Irene,” said the Viscountess Pernrith brightly. “I wondered if you could do me a small favor.”
“Yes, Mama,” Irene said dully, opening her fan and fluttering some stale air toward herself. “I will sit with your friend.”
“Throughout the whole concert?” For some reason, her mother was looking at her most pointedly with a sharpness in her gaze that Irene did not like. “I can’t have you wandering off like Michael. My friend would be most aggrieved.”
Irene sighed. Naturally, she would. The woman would probably pick holes at Irene’s gown, too, and complain that the seats were insufficiently near the front. “Yes, Mama.”
Her mother did not appear mollified. “You promise?”
“My love,” intervened the Viscount Pernrith quietly. “Surely, you don’t—”
“I asked for your word, Irene Chance,” said the Viscountess Pernrith, raising an eyebrow.
For goodness’s sake—it was bad enough to be treated like a child at the best of times, but now, after she had experienced… Well, what it was to be an adult, it was most galling.
“Yes, yes, I promise,” she said with a false, bright smile. “I will sit beside your friend for the entirety of the concert and put up with anything she says. Are you happy now?”
“Very,” said her mother sweetly. “Here he is—good evening, Wilfred.”
Irene’s stomach did not drop out of her torso; it fled, taking with it all her strength and poise.
Her mouth fell open.
There, in a moderately dashing evening suit that she had never seen the man wear before, was Wilfred.
Wilfred.
Here. At the concert that she and her parents were…
Irene groaned. “This—This is your friend?”
“I am sorry. Is a lady not permitted to have friends?” asked her mother innocently, fluttering her eyelashes. “Thank you, by the way, for promising”—and there was just a hint of emphasis on that last word—“to sit all evening and converse with my friend.”
Irene groaned again. This was an ambush! A trap, that was what it was. Her parents were clearly in cahoots with Wilfred, and—
And he looked most astonished in turn, his breath hitching, his jaw slackened, his eyes darting wildly to Irene and her mother and back.
“My lady?” Wilfred was saying in a hurried tone. “You said I was to sit with Michael.”
“Yes, well, Michael seems unable to attend the concert tonight and I thought there was no point in missing out on such a wonderful evening,” said the Viscountess Pernrith blithely, as though she frequently orchestrated matters in such a way.
Irene almost laughed. For all she knew, perhaps her mother did.
Her father was looking at his wife with admiration. “I never stood a chance against you, did I?”
“Not a whit,” said the Viscountess Pernrith with a smile. “Shall we take our seats?”
Irene was in half a mind to storm out of the place entirely. Surely, she could not be kept to a promise she had made without fully understanding the consequences? Why, she could march out of here right now and…
Her wandering attention fell upon Wilfred.
He looked uncomfortable. More than that, he looked mortified. Evidently, the man had no idea what cleverness her mother would wreak, and he was most unhappy about it.
A strange sort of delight filled her. Well—good. He deserved to feel unhappy. Now he knows a modicum of what I felt when he—
Irene pushed the thought away. No, she did not want to return to that way of thinking. She might have had her heart broken, but she was not cruel.
She didn’t think she was.
“Fine!” she snapped with very bad grace. “Where are the seats?”
After being directed mutely by an only slightly abashed Viscountess Pernrith, Irene stormed over to the seats on the end of the row, sat on the very end—perfect for an escape, should the need arise—and glared at the man who had followed her.
Wilfred shuffled from one foot to the other. “Erm. I need to get past… My seat.”
Irene glared. Then she rose, stepped into the aisle, continued to glare as the man stepped awkwardly past her, making a great deal of effort not to touch her in any way, then sat down in her seat once that man had done the same.
That man. Was she truly unable to think the name ‘Wilfred’?
It was most disconcerting, being so close to a person at whom you had been shouting the last time you’d been together, and the time before that, his fingers had been… Well.
The trouble was, the seats were not wide. Her hips pressed up against his, try as she could to avoid the sensation. His elbow bumped against hers.
“I am sorry,” Wilfred muttered as the conductor stepped out and accepted the rapturous applause.
Irene folded her arms—anything to keep her away from him. “It’s fine.”
“It—It is?”
Why the man sounded so astonished, she could not tell.
Which was odd in and of itself. Why, she knew Wilfred better than…better than herself. She could predict the man’s movements, speech, decisions in a way that felt almost like an extension of herself. How had she never noticed that?
And yet now Irene sat beside a stranger.
“Yes,” she said curtly, tightening her arms across her chest as the conductor tapped on his music stand. “It’s fine.”
It had only been an elbow bump, after all.
Wilfred, however, looked amazed, his shoulders softening, his small smile widening. Not that I am looking at him, Irene told herself firmly as she forced her attention back to the musicians, who had just started to play a beautiful concerto. Not looking at him at all.
“I…I did not think you would accept my apology,” whispered Wilfred, gaining him the ireful glare of a woman who turned to frown at them.
“I’ve been agonizing over the—the right words, and so I have been slow, slower than I would have liked to approach you with them.
If not for your mother’s assistance this evening, I can’t say when I would have felt… felt ready.”