Chapter Thirteen #2
“Yes, very much so,” Pere replied, turning back to Lord Hawthorne. “Though I have little to compare it to.”
“You don’t need to compare something with another in order to enjoy it, Lady Peregrine. One’s experience is enough to determine approval,” he replied, then offered her his hand. “Allow me to seat you?”
Pere nodded and tried to ignore the way her heart stuttered when she touched his hand.
He led her to the very front seat of the box. “Here, you will have the best view.”
Pere took a seat and immediately leaned forward, her gaze taking in the rows upon rows of chairs below, the milling about humanity, and the soft scent of perfume and snuff.
The auditorium buzzed with life, the ton’s murmurs blending with the discordant notes of the orchestra, a prelude to the drama that awaited both on stage and in her heart.
Lord Hawthorne took the seat beside her. “If I may?” he asked, his expression carefully guarded.
“My lord, this is your box; I wouldn’t deign to tell you where you can or cannot sit,” she teased, arching a brow.
“But if you have concerns about your proximity, I have none. But you must promise not to interrupt, or I will then be tempted to swat at you, and that will not be ladylike, I promise you,” Pere said, unable to restrain herself.
Her words were sharp, a playful challenge, but the warmth in her tone betrayed the thrill of his nearness.
“I have no doubt that you would take whatever action necessary, Lady Peregrine, and I therefore understand that sitting beside you is at my own risk. I accept the danger.”
“Very brave,” she shot back, smiling widely.
“I like to think of myself as courageous from time to time. So, do you know the storyline?”
“For tonight? Somewhat, but don’t tell me. I want to figure it out with everyone else.”
“I think most everyone else is quite aware of the plot,” he whispered in a teasing manner.
“Then let me be among the minority, blissfully unaware,” she replied, her expression scolding.
“As you wish,” he answered, his whisper soft, his eyes flickering between hers and her lips, just once before he glanced away.
The glance was fleeting, yet it sent a shiver down her spine, a silent acknowledgment of the tension simmering between them.
“They will begin now.” He nodded toward the stage, just as the lights dimmed and Pere gasped as the first score of music began to play.
“It’s so full of life,” she whispered to herself mostly, but Lord Hawthorne replied.
“It is; it’s my favorite part of the whole theater experience. The music.”
“I can understand why,” Pere replied, the swell of the strings singing through the air of the theater, echoing perfectly with the acoustics of the ceiling.
“However.” He leaned toward her, and Pere tried to calm her galloping heart as his breath tickled her ear. “Since tonight’s performance is The Bride of Abydos, you might find the sets equally enthralling as the music.”
Pere closed her eyes, his voice sending delightful shivers up her spine before she could give a weak nod. “I can’t wait.”
“Watch, they will open the curtain now, and you’ll see the opening scene. It’s set in the Ottoman Empire.”
Pere gasped when the lights reflected off large drawn buildings painted bright blue and orange, the actors walking onto the stage in full costume, pointed shoes and wide, circular hats.
The stage was a vibrant tapestry, its colors bold against the gilded proscenium, the actors’ movements a dance of exotic grace that mirrored the forbidden allure she felt sitting beside Gabriel.
The first scene flew by for Pere, and she began to piece together the storyline. “It’s Byron’s poem, isn’t it?” she asked, then turned to look at Lord Hawthorne, who had honored his word and not spoken once the first act had started.
“Yes, indeed it is.” He leaned back in his chair, watching her with interest. “And what do you think?”
“It’s so vibrant, and the costumes … I think I want a pair of slippers like the women in the harem,” she confessed and then looked down to her lap.
Raising her eyes just enough to look at Lord Hawthorne through her lashes, she shrugged guiltily.
“I … don’t think those are sold at Bond Street,” he whispered, leaning forward as if spilling a secret.
“I know.” She swatted at him playfully. “Nothing on Bond Street is that colorful,” she sighed. “But I’d look a little out of place if I showed up to a ball wearing those colors.”
“Who says out of place is a bad thing?” Lord Hawthorne asked, his tone direct.
Pere studied him, then decided to answer with her usual frankness. “Because a lady doesn’t draw attention.”
“You do.”
“I don’t try to.”
“Ah, and that’s the difference? Intent?”
Pere frowned and glanced to her brother and sister-in-law, who were whispering among themselves.
“Yes,” Pere answered, turning back to him.
“So, the intentions of a person can overcome their actions, if their intentions were in the right place.”
“Why do I feel like we’re no longer talking about a dress and slippers?”
“Because you made an interesting point, and I’m curious.”
Pere paused. “It depends.”
“Ah, and isn’t that the truth about so much of life? It depends. So tell me, what would make it acceptable to … have the intentions of doing the right thing but … failing?”
Pere took a deep breath, uncertain where this conversation was leading but willing to play along. For now. “Honesty.”
He flinched slightly, not as if her words hurt, but as if they surprised him. “Honesty?”
“Yes, it’s remarkable how little it’s used and how often it will fix most problems. Being honest.”
“So simple.”
“And yet, so very difficult, wouldn’t you say, my lord?”
“Honesty always costs something though.”
“It does. Because it requires something else. Humility, vulnerability.”
Hawthorne studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable.
“Well said. And often not considered. It’s not often I can verbally spar on philosophy and morality with a person whose mind is as lovely as their heart, Lady Peregrine.
” He nodded, as if giving her the winning point of a battle she wasn’t aware she was fighting.
“Thank you…” But before she could ask him to explain, the lights dimmed, and the next act began, but as colorful as the sets and as enticing the music, Pere couldn’t immerse herself in the story like before.
Now, the real mystery was sitting beside her.
His thigh brushed hers as he shifted, a fleeting contact that sent heat racing through her veins.
She didn’t move away. Neither did he. The harem silks on stage blurred; all she felt was the warmth radiating from his body, the subtle scent of sandalwood and starched linen, the way his little finger rested a mere breath from hers on the velvet armrest. A dare.
A question. A promise she wasn’t ready to answer—yet couldn’t bring herself to refuse.