Chapter 6 #2
She sighed, her shoulders wilting. He liked those fine, sharp shoulders of hers, another way she did not conform to fashion, when the favored look was sloping shoulders and soft roundedness. “That is why my aunt will not allow me to take voice lessons from him.”
“Because he is handsome?”
“And because he is Italian. And because—he is so ardently admired.”
Castrati were said to possess legendary sexual prowess, with the added benefit of guaranteeing no pregnancy. They were much in demand by a certain set of ladies. He wondered if Miss Lithwick knew this, and jealousy bit all the harder.
“Perhaps you would enjoy the performance better from my uncle’s box,” Jem said. Anything to interfere with her complete fixation on the stage.
She spoke without glancing at him. “We are very comfortable here, thank you.”
The tall Russian said something to Lucasta in a language Jem didn’t recognize.
Her native tongue? Lucasta gave a short response, and the German princess added something.
All three of them looked to the fourth girl, the small brunette.
She avoided Jem’s eyes and, behind her fan, answered their question.
Lucasta turned her eyes back to the stage.
“Perhaps when Signor Marchesi has completed his aria,” she said, following the singer’s every movement as he swept back and forth in majestic promenade, his perfectly shaped nose in the air.
It was not remarkable that Jem had achieved this concession. Almost certainly a box, overlooking the action, was to be preferred to craning one’s head to look up at the stage. So why had Miss Lithwick not agreed instantly?
Why might she be trying to avoid him?
Because he was being as subtle as a goat, Jem reminded himself. As her promised inheritance became common knowledge, gentlemen would descend on her in hordes. He had to position himself now. As a tradesman, an artisan who wanted her custom. Not a suitor longing for a smile.
When the chorus took over, three women warbling half a beat out of time with one another and more or less drowned out by conversations among the audience, Miss Lithwick allowed Jem to lead her and her friends to the stair and the balcony where his uncle’s box stood empty much of the time. Jem dropped a question in Ashley’s ear.
“Did you catch what language they were speaking?”
Ashley’s glare at the German girl rivaled the fabled stare of Medusa. “I couldn’t say the dialect, but the Gorgons,” he said grimly, “converse in Ancient Greek. Why are we sharing your box with them?”
Because Jem’s aim of making Lucasta Lithwick the subject of admiration would be greatly advanced by exposing her to public view in the Marquess of Arendale’s theater box. Equally speculated upon, however, would be his personal interest in this particular Gorgon.
Was he ready to risk the further scrutiny that this exercise would result in? He already walked the fine line between the ton’s favor and their ridicule, a line sometimes too fine to see.
And Clara had already turned her attention to the rest of Jem’s family. Where Clara Bellwether led, others would follow.
Jem was not like Ashley, who had borne his courtesy title since birth and had been bred to the stature he would eventually assume.
Ashley’s education included, in addition to hunting, shooting, gambling, racing, and taking the Grand Tour, an innate understanding of conduct, courtesy, the complicated schedule of precedent, and schooling in Latin and Greek. Jem possessed none of these skills.
But the Gorgons apparently did. At least the schooling in classical languages. What sort of girl’s school taught Ancient Greek?
The box was crowded with all of them in it, but the jostling from other persons in the pit was reduced, and the sound from the stage much improved. Lucasta went straight to the balcony as if afraid she’d miss something.
The German Gorgon and Ashley stood on opposite sides of the small chamber, ignoring each other with proud emphasis, while Plimpton hung near the rear, engaging the little knight’s daughter in polite conversation.
The Russian joined Lucasta at the balcony, standing at her left, which yielded Jem the place at her right.
He claimed it, noticing how many glances, stares, and opera glasses turned in their direction, the sudden whispers that arose behind raised gloves and fans.
While nothing could be done about Miss Lithwick’s gown, Jem was pleased that at least the rest of her showed to advantage.
She had a straight, proud carriage—part of her arrogant demeanor overall—and a long, elegant nose, a broad brow narrowing through prominent cheekbones to a decided chin, and a long, smooth neck that disappeared into the lace enfolding her neck.
He had the odd urge to remove the swath of fabric and unveil her décolletage. No other woman in the room failed to put hers on display. Miss Lithwick possessed a strange combination of antidote and appeal. He wanted to get to the bottom of her mystery.
Jem also did not understand a word of Italian, so he settled himself with studying how much Miss Lucasta Lithwick enjoyed the opera.
The action, which to Jem’s eyes was nothing but a lot of mincing and prancing, held her in thrall.
Her eyes followed every gesture, every flourish of the singers.
She breathed when they did, as if she were silently following along with the musical passages.
Her eyelashes were a spiky black, her eyebrows dark brown, and her complexion was a light olive, suggesting a heritage more Mediterranean than the pale fairness frequently seen in British Isles.
He couldn’t discern that she had powdered her face, or in fact used any cosmetics.
What an unusual girl, lacking birth and name, to forgo paint and fashion as well.
No wonder the Gorgons were relegated to the perimeter for Society parties and balls.
He had not been mistaken that she held the promise of real, bewitching beauty. What a pleasure it would be to bring that out. And have others note her transformation and put themselves in Jem’s hands, and in the fabrics of Dixon & Co.
The last shattering note faded, and the actors took their bows to extended applause.
Lucasta clapped most enthusiastically for Signor Marchesi.
The actor came out alone upon the stage to sing a solo tune, and Miss Lithwick’s attitude became reverent.
Even her friends refrained from attempting to talk to her during the song.
Envy slithered and hissed through Jem’s chest. He wondered what it would take to turn Lucasta Lithwick’s entire concentration on him.
Thunderous applause greeted the castrato’s final flourish, and Miss Lithwick turned a radiant countenance toward Jem. “What a glory to have a box and hear the music pass your ears on its way to heaven,” she said with a happy sigh. “Did you enjoy the performance, Lord Rudyard?”
Her glowing face and unexpected joy surprised Jem into honesty. “I didn’t understand most of it,” he admitted. “Except I gather there was a marriage at the end.”
The Russian girl uttered what was clearly a deprecatory remark, and Lucasta laughed.
The high, bright sound seemed to burst in his chest. “Yes, that was an unexpected turn of events. I gather the librettist borrowed from Gluck, who introduced that twist at the Paris Opera a few years ago. In Racine’s Iphigénie the goddess Diana intervenes and substitutes a deer for the sacrifice, and Iphigenia is carried straight up the heavens.
” She sighed again. “Here, her reward is marriage to Achilles.”
“You sound dubious about the merits of that reward.” Jem offered her his arm as they made their way out of the box. Plimpton escorted the knight’s daughter, but the other two girls strolled out arm in arm with each other, leaving Ashley to stalk behind, scowling.
Jem liked the way Lucasta Lithwick unselfconsciously placed her hand on his forearm. There was nothing coy or flirtatious about the gesture—no leaning against him, no covert squeeze. She was straightforward, practical, solid, and warm.
He was also rather surprised that she consented to touch him. Her glove was kid, not silk, and not new, but well-mended. The mystery of Lucasta Lithwick deepened.
The German Gorgon made a comment in Greek, and Lucasta smiled.
“If I do not find it a reward,” she said, “it is because we know Achilles sails with the Greeks, so he and Iphigenia are not likely to enjoy marital bliss. Furthermore, he will sulk in his tent after Agamemnon steals Briseis from him, and then return to battle only to kill Hector, who is the one character in all of Western literature whom Minnie devotedly loves.”
She might as well be speaking Greek to Jem for all he understood these names. “I’m not familiar with the story,” he said.
One of those cinnamon eyebrows arched. “You’ve not read the Iliad? I thought everyone had to read it at school.”
Everyone who achieved an education beyond a few years at the dame school around the corner most likely did.
Certainly boys sent to public school or taught by private tutors.
Jem never had those advantages, and now he had betrayed himself to Miss Lithwick, who already saw him as nothing but a popinjay.
“Well, I like the happier ending,” said the knight’s daughter.
“I favor the original,” Lucasta responded, as they descended the stairs and processed through the elegant foyer to the cloakroom so the gents could retrieve their overcoats and the ladies their wraps.
“Euripides gives Iphigenia’s sacrifice meaning.
She persuades Achilles not to fight Agamemnon for her, and she chooses to sacrifice herself so the Greeks may go to war and avenge the insult to their honor.
She submits to the decision of the gods and she gives her life for her country and her ideals. There’s something very noble in that.”
Jem helped settle her cape around Miss Lithwick’s shoulders. It was a functional garment of felted wool, rust-colored and well-brushed, ornamented with dark braid running along the selvage. He would like to see her wrapped in rich silks.
“All the same, you wouldn’t turn down marriage to Achilles,” he said dryly.
What girl would? This season, every debutante’s mama had invited Jem to her come-out, and every papa dropped a hint to Jem about how much her settlement would be.
The desperation to find a suitable marriage was why Bertie was painting unhappy fruit, waiting until the moment she could be turned loose again into society.
It was the future that his sister Judith would never be offered, no matter how rich, admired, or titled Jem became.
“Wouldn’t I?” Miss Lithwick turned her face up to his as they stood outside the theater before the long queue of coaches.
The night shadows darkened her eyes, while the torches caught the gold in their depths.
“Achilles in the Iliad is petulant and cruel. He is given great gifts, his mother’s entire devotion, and he behaves without honor.
I think I would rather be carried to the heavens in Diana’s chariot. ”
“Indeed? Then that puts you in the minority of women of my acquaintance.”
“This is us,” the German girl said offhandedly as a black lacquered coach rolled up, a florid coat of arms on the door. “I apologize, gentlemen, that we don’t have the seats to offer you a ride home.”
“We could find a light supper somewhere,” Jem suggested, and was surprised to hear himself do so. “Ham at Vauxhall. Or there might be something at Ranelagh tonight.”
The girls exchanged a glance without speaking.
“It is near midnight,” Miss Lithwick remarked.
That seemed to mean something to them, though to young fashionable gents, midnight marked the beginning of a night’s revelries.
Midnight often meant fireworks at one of the pleasure gardens.
At balls, suppers were held at midnight, with dancing to continue to the wee hours.
But the Gorgons were clearly for home. Miss Lithwick raised the hood of her cape and settled it over her pert little cap, taking care not to crush the feather.
“Thank you for the use of your theater box, Lord Rudyard,” she said with a formal politeness. “That was quite generous of you, an unlooked-for courtesy.”
“I am at your service, Miss Lithwick. And I enjoyed the evening more than I expected.” What he meant was, he’d enjoyed partaking in her pleasure. When was the last time he’d discussed Greek literature or opera with a woman? Never, that was when.
Her arched brows rose in a curious, imperious look. “Would you go so far as to find it fascinating? How fortunate for us, then.”
“Touché, Miss Lithwick,” he murmured.
He ought to have remembered she was waiting for an opportunity to depress his pretensions.
Nevertheless, as she fumbled with the cowl of her cape, he brushed her gloved fingers aside and tied the tapes into a neat, firm bow.
It was an office he had performed for a thousand customers and dress dummies.
But Miss Lithwick stood quite, quite still, as if an accidental touch might burn her skin.
Her breathless whisper lacked menace, but there was a firm warning in it. “Do not trifle with me, milord Rudyard.”
Jem stepped back and sketched a short bow as her friends, already in the carriage, called to her to ascend.
“I trifle with no one, Miss Lithwick.”
That was true. He did not dally, loll, or dangle, nor did he wait upon the pleasure of any capricious miss.
He had a business to run, and in due time he would have estates and a marquessate to oversee.
Jeremiah Falstead had never trifled in his life, not from the moment he shed his infant dresses for short pants and realized a man had to work his way through the world.
And, Jem thought, as Ashley snapped the coach door shut and rapped on the side to get the coachman moving, he was not trifling with Miss Lithwick. The evening had provided an unlooked-for momentum to his plan.
Many curious eyes had marked her at the theater in the Marquess of Arendale’s box.
Those same eyes had seen her on his arm.
Lucasta Lithwick would set fires of curiosity about the haut ton.
If he could lure her into his shop and let her emerge a diamond, others were sure to follow where the new heiress led.
But he hadn’t forgotten his revenge, his blow for Judith. As an object of acclaim, the latest fashion, she would know how it felt to have strangers sit in judgment. He was elevating her to the same relentless scrutiny and ruthless judgment that so wearied him.
And if she tumbled out of Diana’s chariot to fall among the lesser mortals, well, perhaps she would harbor a little less derision toward them, and show a little more pity.