Chapter 20
“Allow me,” Alexander said as he stepped down from the carriage and turned at once to offer Diana his hand, his gaze lingering on her a fraction longer than necessary.
“I would not have it said that I escorted my wife into the theatre only to abandon her to the mercy of London steps and inattentive footmen.”
Diana’s laugh reached him before her gloved fingers did, soft and warm in the crisp evening air, and the sound struck him with the same force it always did.
“How very noble of you, Your Grace,” she said as she placed her hand in his. “Though I suspect the steps are far less dangerous than you imply.”
“On the contrary,” he replied, closing his hand around hers as he steadied her descent, his voice lowering slightly, “I have seen ladies undone by far less.”
“Have you?” she asked, arching a brow as her slipper touched the ground. “And here I believed you a man of restraint.”
“I am,” he said, his hand settling briefly at her waist, the contact entirely proper and yet not without intention. “Which is precisely why I intervene before disaster occurs.”
Diana tilted her head, her gaze flicking up to meet his. “How fortunate for me, then, that you are so vigilant.”
“I find I am particularly vigilant where you are concerned.”
He felt her breath catch, just slightly.
The street before the theatre was alive with lamplight, wheels, and voices, but for a moment the noise seemed to fall away, narrowing instead to the quiet exchange between them, to the warmth of her hand in his and the awareness that had begun to hum steadily beneath his skin whenever she stood this close.
Alexander released her only when he was certain she had her footing, though not before his thumb brushed, almost absently, against the inside of her wrist.
“Are you cold?” he asked, leaning just enough toward her that the words were meant for her alone.
“No,” she replied, lifting her face to him with a look that held the barest trace of challenge beneath its elegance. “Though I suspect I shall be if you keep me standing in the street for the sake of interrogation.”
“Then I must correct the situation at once,” he murmured. “It would be a poor beginning to the evening if my wife were to suffer on my account.”
“And yet,” she returned smoothly, her eyes glinting now, “you do not seem in any particular hurry to move.”
His gaze held hers. “That is because I am enjoying myself.”
Diana’s lips parted slightly, caught between surprise and something softer.
“In the middle of the street?” she asked.
“In your company,” he said simply.
She drew in a sudden breath. A faint color rose along her cheekbones, and though she turned her head slightly as though to look toward the theatre steps, he did not miss the way her fingers tightened just a fraction where they still rested against his.
“You are becoming entirely too bold, Your Grace,” she murmured.
“And you,” he replied, his voice dropping further, “have yet to tell me to stop.”
She glanced back at him then, and the look she gave him was no longer entirely composed. “I am considering it.”
“Take your time,” he said quietly. “I find I am in no danger of growing impatient.”
Something flickered between them then, something warmer, sharper, far more dangerous than polite conversation had any right to be in the middle of a crowded London street.
Diana drew a slow breath.
“If we do not move,” she said, though her voice had softened, “we shall be the subject of every observation in the building before we even reach the door.”
Alexander’s mouth curved faintly. “And would that trouble you?”
“It should trouble you,” she returned.
“Perhaps it should,” he said. “And yet I find I am more concerned with whether you are enjoying yourself than with what the ton chooses to observe.”
Her gaze held his for one suspended moment longer.
“I am,” she admitted.
The quiet honesty of it struck him more deeply than any teasing remark might have.
“Good,” he said softly.
And for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then, before the moment could stretch too far into something neither of them would be able to disguise, another familiar voice cut across the crush of arrivals.
“Well, if it is not the Duke and Duchess of Rosewood.”
Alexander turned.
Benjamin Kinsley approached, all easy warmth and unfeigned good humor. Emma was at his side, and Georgina and Martin Hyatt, only a step behind them. The four of them had clearly arrived together.
The sight would have been entirely pleasant if not for the immediate tightening that worked through Alexander’s body the moment his gaze settled upon Martin.
It happens every time.
There was no reason for it. No memory. No specific offense he could point to.
Martin Hyatt had done nothing openly discourteous, and yet from the beginning, something in Alexander recoiled from him on instinct alone.
The man’s manner was polished, his smile unforced, his attentions to Diana always framed in the language of old friendship and concern, but Alexander disliked him with a force that felt like a warning.
It irritated him because he could not explain it.
“Pentbury,” Alexander said, inclining his head toward Benjamin.
Benjamin grinned and clasped his forearm with easy familiarity. “You look as though London has not managed to bore you to death yet, Your Grace. A promising sign.”
“It has tried,” Alexander replied. “I remain unconvinced of its charm.”
“That is because you attend the wrong events.”
Emma dipped into a graceful curtsey for Diana and then looked up at her with that bright, knowing warmth that never failed to suggest she saw more than she let on. “You look beautiful.”
Diana smiled. “You are kind.”
Georgina echoed Emma’s greeting more softly, her sweetness unfeigned, and then Martin stepped forward at last. He bowed first to Diana, then to Alexander, his manner wholly correct.
“Your Grace.”
The title was spoken pleasantly enough. Alexander returned the expected inclination of the head and nothing more. “Tilbridge.”
The single word came out cooler than he intended, but perhaps not cooler than he felt. Martin noticed. Alexander saw it in the brief flicker behind the other man’s eyes before the polished ease settled back into place.
Strange that a face he could not place should provoke such immediate resistance in him. Stranger still that he trusted the feeling.
The women exchanged the first courtesies while Benjamin, as usual, began speaking three thoughts at once about the crowd, the traffic, and how London would one day collapse under the sheer weight of its own self-importance.
Alexander answered where appropriate, but his attention had already shifted. Martin stood a little too near Diana.
Diana did not appear aware of it. Or if she was, she did not seem troubled.
She laughed at something Emma said, the sound low and musical, and then turned to include Georgina with the instinctive kindness that always undid him a little.
She was so easy in her goodness. She made room for people.
Drew them in. It was no wonder others looked toward her and stayed there.
Martin certainly did.
Alexander felt the now-familiar tightening return beneath his ribs.
Jealousy was an ugly emotion, and one he did not care to examine too closely. It made a man ridiculous if indulged and brutish if left unchecked. Yet he could not deny its shape when it appeared in him, nor the fact that it attached itself to Martin Hyatt with alarming speed.
He wanted, absurdly, to place himself more firmly at Diana’s side and keep him there.
Instead, he said, in a tone calm enough to pass for casual, “We are blocking the entrance.”
Benjamin laughed. “Rosewood speaks. We had better obey before he orders us all indoors by force.”
They began to move with the crowd toward the theatre doors. Diana fell into step beside Alexander. Without thinking, he let his hand settle briefly at the small of her back to guide her through the press of bodies and up the stone steps.
They were shown to a box large enough for their small party to share, the velvet chairs arranged in a shallow half circle overlooking the stage below.
Benjamin and Emma took the seats farthest to the left, Georgina beside Emma, Martin beside Georgina, which left Diana and Alexander side by side nearest the center.
Alexander noted the arrangement with private satisfaction.
He helped Diana into her seat and sat beside her a heartbeat later, close enough that the silk of her gown brushed the black line of his coat whenever she shifted. Beneath them, the orchestra tuned in uneven fragments.
Diana turned her head slightly toward him, her voice soft enough not to carry. “You look much too pleased with yourself.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on the carved wooden arm, the other still loosely gloved in his lap. “Perhaps I am merely relieved that Pentbury talks enough for all six of us.”
That won another small laugh from her. God help him, he liked making her laugh far too much.
Before she faced the stage again, her gaze slid toward Martin and Georgina for a fleeting moment.
Alexander followed the look. Martin had settled back in his seat with perfect propriety, his attention apparently fixed upon the orchestra below, yet the unease in Alexander sharpened rather than eased.
What is wrong with him?
If memory was the mind’s domain, instinct belonged to bone and blood, and he had formed his opinion early. It did not like Martin Hyatt.
The curtain rose.
The play was a serious one, the sort of domestic tragedy fashionable enough to flatter itself with moral purpose. A devoted husband and wife struggled against circumstance, politics, and separation while trying to secure a future for their child.