Chapter Five #2
Fletcher recoiled. “What? No! Just not women of the ton.”
“I don’t know how these things work. I’d like to go into my marriage informed.”
“Then talk to your mother or your fiancé. My personal history has no bearing on your marriage. But I do not pay women like that. Just for posterity.”
Louisa huffed. She was surprised Fletcher was being so prudish. “I’m just trying to establish that what I’ve heard is true. That men tend to come to their marriages with experience.”
“Yes. As I said, most do.”
She leaned close to Fletcher, who flinched. “Why are you so uncomfortable?”
“Because this is not proper conversation.”
“That has never stopped you before.” Louisa found herself intrigued by whatever Fletcher was keeping with her, and even though she knew this was not proper, she enjoyed pushing him, and now her mind was at work imagining what he must do or be like in bed, and that was a wholly improper thing to think about Fletcher of all people, but now her mind was racing.
But before she could say anything further, Fletcher said, “Oh, look, we’ve arrived at the opera house.” He broke land-speed records getting out of the carriage.
Once Fletcher’s driver had helped Louisa alight from the carriage, Fletcher was already halfway toward the entrance to the theater. Louisa raced—as well as she could in her delicate shoes—to catch up.
He looked at her warily when she hooked her hand around his arm.
“You need not be embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“Then why won’t you talk about this with me? And don’t tell me it’s inappropriate.”
Fletcher stopped walking and wheeled on her.
He lowered his voice so as not to be overheard and said, “Because it’s intimate.
Because this is a topic you discuss with your spouse and not your friends.
Feel free to discuss this with whoever will listen, but you and I are not having this conversation anymore. ”
That certainly surprised Louisa. She took a step back from him and they stared at each other.
Fletcher let out a breath. They were surrounded by wealthy opera attendees, so they couldn’t have this out here.
He offered his arm to Louisa again and said, “I’m sorry.
I’m not cross with you.” They began walking toward the theater.
“You, my dear Louisa, are this remarkable combination of bold and naive, and I love that about you, but I cannot be your tutor, especially when that is the role your husband is supposed to fill. And I will not do anything to disrupt your wedding.”
Louisa suspected she deserved that. “All right.”
Fletcher patted her hand where it rested on his arm. “All right. La…what are we seeing?”
“La Cenerentola. It’s the story of Cinderella. A comedy. The French soprano is supposed to be very good.”
“Then let us focus on that, shall we?”
* * *
As the first act ended, a few things crystallized in Fletcher’s mind.
First, Louisa looked lovely tonight. He’d thought that the moment he walked into her house.
Lovely was perhaps too soft a word, in fact, because she’d looked…
beautiful. Splendid. Alluring. She wore an emerald green evening gown that hugged her bosom with a delicate gold necklace with some purple jewels—quartz?
sapphire? Fletcher knew nothing about gems—that seemed to point right toward said bosom, and thus Fletcher had been helpless not to look at it, and he felt lecherous for doing so.
Louisa was his friend. He should not be admiring her bosom.
But Louisa was a beautiful woman. Fletcher had eyes.
Tonight, her brown curly hair was piled atop her hair with tendrils dangling artfully around her face.
She had big eyes and pink lips, and he loved looking at her face.
Louisa was one of his favorite people in all of England, and her face was his favorite to gaze upon.
And now she sat primly next to him, her hands folded in her lap, clearly trying to avoid giving the gossip hounds anything to talk about.
Second, he hadn’t been paying attention to the opera at all.
He knew the rough outlines of the Cinderella story, so he hoped to be able to improvise when Louisa inevitably asked for his thoughts during the intermission.
But he had no idea what had happened because he’d spent the entire time replaying their conversation from the carriage in his mind.
He was ashamed to say that he found talking about sex with her arousing.
The problem, though, was that he shouldn’t have had that conversation with her at all.
He should have shut it down earlier. He understood that Louisa was curious about sex, and that he was hardly a virgin himself.
He liked sex a lot, in fact, and most of his partners had been actresses or widows or women whose reputations did not rely on staying pure.
Lady Richelieu was one of his fondest memories, and though their affair had been short, she’d known her way around his body as few of his lovers had.
But there’d been no emotion there. Lady Richelieu—Diane was her given name—was among the sexiest women Fletcher had ever seen, and he liked her company and her lively conversation, but he’d known from the start that she’d discard him when she was through, which indeed she did, and there were no hurt feelings.
He generally did not become aroused around Louisa, but he had tonight, and he didn’t know what to do with that information. It was just the topic, he told himself. So he’d ended the discussion.
But Louisa was, of course, a woman, even if she hadn’t experienced any kind of sexual congress. She would soon, though. Much to Fletcher’s dismay.
Picturing her with Rotherfeld made Fletcher want to put his fist through a wall.
That was a new feeling. He didn’t know what to do with that, either.
The lights in the opera house came on and Louisa clapped delightedly. “This opera is a great deal of fun. The soprano has a voice like an angel. I’m glad we were able to come tonight.”
Fletcher had some regrets, but he said, “Yes, I agree.” He did generally like attending the opera, although he liked Louisa’s company more.
And he wanted to get her off the topic of the actual opera, so he said, “Did you see Lady Winter’s hat?
Do you think she plucked the feathers from an entire peacock or… ?”
Louisa laughed. “I think that might be an actual taxidermized peacock.”
Fletcher picked up his opera glasses and made a show of looking toward Lady Winter.
The hat was quite ridiculous, although it did not look as though any birds had been grievously harmed in its construction.
“I wonder if we could train a bird to sit on a hat and stay still until an opportune moment, at which point it would come alive and terrify everyone.”
“I have no doubt that if anyone could accomplish that, it’s you.”
“I know the opera is a serious and sober art, but I can’t help but think we could liven it up. Live animals, perhaps.”
“Oh, certainly. And then as soon as a horse gets spooked, he gallops off the stage and into the audience.”
“That certainly would have made that production of Lucio Silla we saw last month. I think I slept through part of it.”
“It was a rather lackluster production. Tonight is much better. What did you think of the changes the librettist made?”
Well, devil take him. Fletcher had no idea what to say to that. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but he was blessedly saved by Lady Cheshire suddenly joining them in their box.
Lady Cheshire was another opera regular, one of Louisa’s friends, and the two women spent the rest of the intermission discussing the opera.
Fletcher excused himself, walked up and down the hall outside the boxes, greeted various acquaintances, and managed to steal a feather from Lady Winter’s hat before he returned to the box to find Louisa and Lady Cheshire still discussing.
When the house lights dimmed to signal the second act was about to begin, Lady Cheshire excused herself to return to her seat. So Fletcher sat next to Louisa and said, “My lady, I have a gift.” Then he brandished the peacock feather.
“Fletcher, you didn’t.”
“There was an excess of feathers in Lady Winter’s hat. I doubt she’ll miss this one.”
Louisa took the feather and secured it in her hair. “How do I look?”
“Breathtaking.” And she did look especially beautiful with that mischievous sparkle in her eye, but Fletcher had added a little mocking to his voice to not give himself away.
Louisa laughed. “I’m sure I look as ridiculous as Lady Winter’s hat. I shall try to ignore that you’re a thief.”
The second act didn’t go better than the first in terms of holding Fletcher’s attention.
He could not make himself focus on the performance.
About halfway through Act II, Fletcher gave up and watched Lady Louisa instead.
Her attention seemed rapt on the performance, but at one point she turned toward him and whisper-hissed, “What?”
“Nothing. The feather is drooping a bit.”
Louisa plucked the feather from her hair and then slipped it through Fletcher’s cravat. Fletcher found his breath catching as her knuckles briefly tapped his skin.
Later, as Fletcher escorted Louisa back to his carriage, he supposed he’d done his job to not compromise Louisa in any way, feather-related shenanigans aside. He hadn’t so much as touched her while they’d been in the box, aside from that moment she’d touched him. And yet, he felt out of sorts.
“You’ve been quiet,” Louisa said on the ride back to her home.
She absently played with the peacock feather, slipping it through her fingers, and Fletcher was helpless not to watch her long, delicate fingers move.
There was traffic from the stream of people leaving the opera, so they were moving slowly. Fletcher glanced out the window and thought snails might make better time. They’d be in the carriage for a while, unfortunately, which meant Louisa would make Fletcher talk.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Suddenly my mind is on other things. La Cenerentola was lovely, but I didn’t absorb all of it, I will admit. I’m afraid I don’t have much to say about it.”
“What other things?”
“Nothing of import. I just found myself becoming easily distracted by stray thoughts tonight. I apologize for not being more attentive.”
Louisa nodded. “It’s all right. But surely you must agree the soprano was spectacular.”
“She was very good.” Fletcher had no idea if she was, but Louisa seemed satisfied with her answer.
“Do you have any engagements this weekend?” she asked.
“I suppose like most of the ton I will be attending the funeral for the Marchioness of Beresford.”
“Oh, I nearly forgot. How dreadful.”
“Did you know her?”
“No. Well, we may have met in passing, but I cannot recall ever having a conversation with her. How devastating for Beresford, though. He has been a friend to you, no?”
“In a way. More a friend of Lord Waring’s. But I promised I’d attend.”
Louisa shook her head. “What a dreadful story. She was so young. Beresford must be heartbroken.”
“I have not spoken to him myself, but Waring has said he is devastated.”
Louisa gazed out the window. “Marriage is…it feels fraught.”
It definitely did. But Fletcher said, “I wouldn’t know.”
“I understand, but…you see so many different kinds of marriages. My parents weren’t a love match, but they get on well.”
“Same for my parents. Or they did until my father passed.”
“Yes. And then you have the Swynfords and the Caernarfons, who all seem so happy.”
“Yes. They are blessed in their unions. Swynford’s was a love match. But Caernarfon barely knew Lady Grace when they married.”
“But they’ve grown close. I suppose that is the kind of marriage I’m after.”
“And do you believe you will find that with Rotherfeld.”
“I suppose I can’t know for certain, but I do hope so. At least, I should like to avoid the fate of my friend Eleanor. She and her husband barely tolerate each other. And poor Lady Beresford. Oh, my heart aches for that family. Her son growing up without a mother!”
“I know.” Fletcher agreed the situation was tragic and hoped not to dwell on it. The funeral would be bad enough.
“Anyway. I don’t know what kind of marriage I am to have, and I suppose that bothers me. But you cannot offer much insight.”
“I have spoken to Rotherfeld several times since your engagement. He seems agreeable.” That was a nice way to put it.
“Agreeable? Is that the best you can say of him?”
Truthfully, Fletcher would be perfectly happy to never occupy the same space as Rotherfeld ever again, but he said, “I had hoped we could be friends, but we do not appear to have much in common. But I shall keep trying for your sake.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. I should like it if the two of you were friends.”
Fletcher began to doubt that was possible, but if pressed, he wasn’t certain he knew the exact reason why.
He found Rotherfeld dull, yes, but there were several people of his acquaintance who were not that interesting.
Surely he could figure out a way to connect with the man. For Louisa’s sake, if nothing else.
He took a deep breath, anxious to be home, but not wanting to show his irritation to Louisa.
“I suppose I was rather forward on the way to the opera,” Louisa said. “It’s just…no one ever tells women anything. I’ve had a few conversations with my mother about what to expect once I am married, but, aside from you, men are generally a mystery to me.”
“Men are just…humans.”
“Yes, but the way they are raised is different from women. You got to go away to school. You can go wherever you want without a chaperone.”
“Yes, yes,” Fletcher cut her off. He knew all this.
“But I think the key to your relating to your future husband will be to have a discussion with him. I am a poor stand-in. I can’t know what’s in his head or his heart.
And you speak frankly with me all the time, and I am a man. Rotherfeld is not much different.”
“All right.” Louisa seemed disappointed in that answer. “I will take that under advisement.”
They rode silently for a moment, and then Louisa said, “How did you manage to extract a feather from Lady Winter’s hat?”
“Cunning and guile,” said Fletcher with a wink. “Nice to know I’ve still got them.”