Chapter Four #2
Theater attendance—almost an essential requirement among the ton’s elite—drew people to the various performances in droves, although the quality of the plays had less appeal than the glittering gowns and kits of the Beau Monde.
As with Rotten Row, the theater was as much about seeing and being seen than being entertained.
Most people, even those in the rowdy crowd below, appeared more interested in the latest gossip and who in the aristocracy sat among them than in the actors on stage.
Craned necks and twisted shoulders held more favor, and the appearance of a high-ranking noble meant whispers spreading among the audience like so many waves on the beach.
Judith herself had finally abandoned her attempt to hear the words of Richard Sheridan, although her attention had not been drawn by one of her peers.
Instead, she focused on the actions of one specific actress, a blonde who pranced across the boards, gleaming and in complete control of the stage.
Stella Ashley. Her radiant smile and abundant physicality usually enraptured an audience—and apparently one lord in particular.
What had attracted Rydell to this woman?
Judith’s thoughts toyed with the edge of jealousy, which annoyed her to no end.
She had never been jealous of Edmund, even when she had been one of many debutantes vying for the widower’s attention.
Why should I be jealous of Rydell? He is hardly the only man in London to pay attention to me.
Stella Ashley gave a shout of surprise and seemed to float—actually float!—away from another actor. A skilled movement given her ample figure and tight costume.
The cramp in Judith’s left calf seized, shooting a spike of pain up into her thigh.
“Oh bloody hell,” she muttered, frustration overwhelming her.
She pushed from her chair, pointing down at her leg when Margaret turned to look at her.
“Cramp. I need to walk it off.” Margaret nodded and Judith pushed through the dark, curtained alcove at the back of the box and into the corridor outside.
She took a deep breath, pressing down with the ball of her foot as she limped back and forth a few steps.
Normally this time of year the corridor held as much sweltering heat and lingering odors as the theater’s interior, but the cooler days had left it a pleasant break from the people and candelabra-heated boxes.
Judith muttered to herself about blonde actresses, errant lords, and annoying cramps as she tried to work free of the agony.
Until she realized a man stared at her from four boxes away. A dark-haired man with an unrelenting smirk.
Judith froze. Dear God, he was too handsome for his own good.
He sauntered toward her, his head tilted to one side, his top hat canting precariously. “Are you ill, Lady Sculthorpe?”
“No. Blasted cramp will not let me sit still.” She pressed down with her toes again and winced.
“Ah.” Rydell glanced around, then took her arm and guided her back through the curtains and into the alcove.
As the darkness closed around them, Judith hissed, “What are you doing?”
In the dim light from the corridor, which pressed through a narrow space between the curtains, Judith could see the gleam in his eyes.
He pressed a finger to his lips, then pushed her back against the wall.
Before she could react, he knelt in front of her, placed his top hat on the floor beside them, and lifted the offending leg, bracing her foot on his thigh.
Her eyes widened. “Rydell!”
“Shh.”
With a firm grip, he closed both hands on her calf and began to massage the muscle, his fingers methodically loosening the tension.
She glared at him, her words a whispered hiss. “Are you mad?”
His smirk became a wicked sort of grin. “Merely mischievous. Do you wish me to stop?”
Judith bit her lip, her breath catching in her chest. His actions—scandalous as they were—held no seductive intent.
He could have been grooming a horse. But his ministrations had brought relief to the pain in her leg and foot, and the heat of his palms, the pure strength in his hands and arms sent a rush of desire up through Judith’s body.
Warmth bloomed in her belly and between her legs.
“I—” She stopped, her words faltering.
“How is the cramp?”
She nodded, trying to catch her breath. “Much better. I—thank—”
Rydell’s expression changed then, the smile fading into something calmer, alluring. His eyes narrowed, his gazed focused on hers as his touch on her leg gentled into long, soft strokes, drifting higher.
Judith gasped. “You must not—”
“Shh.”
His fingertips traced the edge of the ribbon holding her stocking in place. The heat between her thighs spread, and Judith found herself fighting to keep her breathing calm and regular. She clutched her fists into her skirts, fighting the urge to slip her fingers into his dark curls. “Rydell—”
“Shh.”
One finger tugged at the ribbon’s bow, and Judith realized with a start what he had in mind. “You cannot—”
The ribbon loosened. He freed the top of her silk stocking and eased it down her leg. “But I can.”
Judith pressed her head against the wall, panting as he removed her slipper and pulled her stocking free, tucking it and the ribbon into his coat pocket.
He replaced her shoe and eased her foot to the floor.
He stood slowly, leaning into her, their bodies almost touching.
“I wish,” he whispered, “to own a part of you.”
Judith’s lips parted in a gasp, his words galvanizing her, an unexpected and stark craving spearing through her. Rydell took her upper lip between his own, tugging, worrying it, as he cupped her face in his hands.
I cannot do this! It is scandal! In everything she had done, every lover she had taken, she had never been this public, this outrageous, this—
He teased her mouth with his tongue, gliding it along her lower lip, as his last words resonated deep into her soul.
I wish to own a part of you. Desire, a deep craving for this man, flooded over her, consuming her with a demanding need to be with him in every way possible.
She had never desired any man this fiercely, this—
She released her skirts and pushed against his shoulders, breaking her mouth from his. “You must stop.”
He did, pulling away slightly. “You did not enjoy—”
“I did.” She shot a quick glance toward Margaret and Edmund, who still faced the theater, although Margaret’s attention had drifted to the boxes opposite theirs.
“But I cannot want you this much—need you—” She swallowed hard, trying to regain some composure, forcing her voice into a tight whisper.
She had to break this hold on her. She shook her head, her thoughts wild.
“Besides. I thought you had someone, someone who you—” She gestured vaguely toward the stage.
Something shifted in him. Rydell stiffened, his expression souring with his mouth becoming a thin line, his eyes narrow and downcast. “So did I.”
“I am your second choice then?”
He looked back at her, his gaze piercing. “Hardly.” But he stepped away. “I have to take care of something. It may take a while. But I will find you again.” He scooped his hat off the floor, but paused, looking over his shoulder. “And you are no man’s second choice. Unless he is a fool.”
Then he left.
Judith took a deep breath and released it slowly, letting her arousal, her inflamed passion for Lord Mark Rydell leach from her.
It took several deep, slow breaths before her legs steadied enough for her to walk to her chair behind Margaret and Edmund. Neither gave her a scant glance, and she hoped they would not notice one bare foot and ankle as they left for home.
I wish to own a part of you.
The words spoke of a desire Judith had longed for her entire life.
She had had few courtiers in her first and only season—the second daughter of an almost impoverished household had little to offer but wit and competence.
She had been no one’s first choice, not even Edmund’s.
But he had been a scarred and wounded veteran of the war with the American colonies, a widower with two sons, and not even an earl.
A second son with few prospects beyond his own investments.
Wealth and a title could have won his first choice for a second bride—or possibly his second, third, or fourth choices—but another year would pass before an accident would take both his father and older brother from the lineage.
Despite his pursuit of some of the more desirable debutantes, he had been turned away at almost every door.
So Edmund had to settle for Judith after the others rejected him, as he had often told her the first four years of their marriage, especially after he had become earl.
“If only I had waited another year.” A phrase he often used when their relationship turned unpleasant.
But Judith had persevered in the marriage, and she had proven to be an excellent and faithful wife as the years passed. Finally, in the years after George’s birth, Edmund had grown to care for her deeply. They had gradually become suited partners in a quiet and decent marriage.
But Judith had longed for passion. For a man to desire her with a mindless longing.
So as a widow she had sought it among the young blades of the ton.
To no avail. The passion of a puppy is sweet but often without control or direction.
Judith had frequently needed to comfort her lovers when their performance in her bed peaked almost before getting started.
She had to fight laughter at their overwhelming disappointment, consoling them with kisses and promises of a brighter future.
But it had all begun to tire her, even as she continued to desire the presence of a man in her bed.
I wish to own a part of you.
Judith’s chest tightened, the words of the actors below slipping over her unheard. Did he realize what he was saying?
Judith wiggled her toes inside her left slipper and bit her lower lip, her mind recalling the feel of his fingers on her thigh, his lips against hers. A smile slowly crossed her face as she suspected he knew quite well what he had said. He wanted to claim her.
First choice.