Chapter 8
“Magnificent production, is it not?”
Lord Cresswell settled into the chair beside Lily with the languid self-assurance of a man who believed his opinions were gifts he bestowed upon the less fortunate. He crossed one leg over the other and surveyed the Theatre Royal with proprietary satisfaction.
“I have always admired Handel’s command of the dramatic. This particular work shows his genius at its most refined.”
The correction formed on Lily’s tongue before she could stop it.
Don Giovanni was Mozart, not Handel. The libretto was by Lorenzo Da Ponte.
Handel had been dead for more than half a century before Mozart composed this opera.
The error spoke of a confident, sweeping ignorance that demanded correction the way a crooked painting demanded straightening.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
“It is a remarkable piece,” she said, and offered him a smile that she had practiced in the mirror that morning. Warm. Open. Interested.
Aunt Margaret, seated to Lily’s right, lowered her opera glasses.
“Handel.” Margaret fixed Cresswell with a look that could have frosted a window.
“My lord, Don Giovanni was composed by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Handel composed Messiah and Rinaldo, among others. He died in 1759. Mozart did not compose Don Giovanni until 1787. They are, I assure you, entirely different men.”
Cresswell’s face went the color of claret. Sir Philip Hale, standing behind him, coughed into his fist. Mr. Dunfarrow studied the ceiling with sudden fascination.
Lily watched the humiliation settle over Cresswell’s features, and Hugo’s voice echoed in her mind.
A man who has been humiliated does not forget.
She touched Cresswell’s arm.
“My aunt is a great admirer of both composers.” Her voice carried the warmth she had been practicing, easy and unhurried.
“In truth, I confuse them myself sometimes. The breadth of their catalogues is astonishing, and one can hardly keep every detail straight. What matters is your appreciation for the music, and I can see you have a genuine ear for the dramatic arts. The second act, I think, will be extraordinary.”
Cresswell blinked. The color in his face receded. He straightened and cleared his throat.
“Indeed. The second act. Yes, I have read that the ending scene is particularly powerful.”
“I look forward to discussing it with you afterward, my lord.”
Cresswell brightened. He nodded with renewed confidence and turned to Sir Philip to offer an opinion about the set design that was almost certainly also wrong, but Lily let it pass.
Margaret watched this exchange with the still, focused attention of a hawk observing something unexpected.
“That was interesting,” Margaret murmured once the gentlemen had turned away. “You. Defending a man who does not know the difference between Mozart and Handel.”
“Being right and being effective are not always the same thing, according to Hugo.”
Margaret considered this. “He is correct, but I will deny having said so if you repeat it.”
A voice from the doorway of the box cut through the conversation.
“Lord Brimsey. Lady Brimsey. I hope I am not intruding.”
Hugo stood in the entrance, his evening clothes immaculate, his fair hair catching the chandelier light. His gaze swept the box as though he owned it and every soul inside, but something tightened around his jaw when his eyes landed on the cluster of gentlemen surrounding Lily.
“Your Grace.” Lord Brimsey rose and extended his hand. “Not at all. Do join us.”
Hugo shook her father’s hand and bowed to Lady Brimsey and Aunt Margaret. Margaret inclined her head with the measured courtesy of a woman who had not yet decided whether she approved.
Hugo turned to the gentlemen. His smile was pleasant, his posture open, but Lily noticed the way his shoulders squared as he took in Cresswell’s proximity to her chair and Sir Philip’s easy posture at her other side. Something cooled behind his eyes.
“Gentlemen.” The single word carried the weight of a Duke acknowledging lesser men in his fiancée’s company. “I trust you have been keeping Lady Lily entertained.”
“We have been discussing the performance,” Cresswell offered.
“How fortunate for her.” Hugo’s smile did not waver, but Lily caught the edge beneath it. “I have come to invite Lady Lily and her family to my box. The acoustics are superior, and I have taken the liberty of ordering champagne.”
Cresswell and the others took their cue from the efficiency of men who understood that a Duke’s invitation was, in fact, a dismissal. They bowed, offered congratulations, and withdrew.
Hugo offered Lily his arm. She took it and leaned close as they moved into the corridor.
“You did not need to rescue me. I was managing perfectly well.”
“I have no doubt. I simply prefer my fiancée’s company to that of Lord Cresswell, who I suspect could not tell Mozart from a music box.”
“You heard that?”
“I heard your aunt correct him. I also heard you rescue him from it.” He glanced down at her, and the teasing fell away. “Well done.”
They settled into the Thornwaite box. It was larger, positioned closer to the stage, with plush velvet chairs and champagne already poured. Lord and Lady Brimsey took the seats nearest the front. Margaret positioned herself to Lily’s left with the strategic precision of a chaperone.
Hugo sat to Lily’s right.
The space between their chairs was negligible. His shoulder nearly touched hers, and when he shifted to hand her a glass, his arm brushed her sleeve. The contact was brief, incidental, and it sent a current through her skin that settled low in her stomach.
The orchestra struck the opening notes. The houselights dimmed, and the theater sank into warm, velvet darkness. The music filled the space between them, and Lily tried to let it carry her away from the awareness of the man beside her.
It did not work.
Hugo’s cologne reached her first. Sandalwood and something deeper. In the darkness, it was everywhere. She breathed it in with every inhalation, and each breath pulled him closer even though neither of them had moved.
His knee rested an inch from hers. His hand lay on the armrest, fingers loose and relaxed, and she was aware of every one of them with a precision that bordered on absurdity.
The first act unfolded below, and she absorbed none of it.
Her awareness had narrowed to the charged air between her body and his, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the warmth that radiated from him like heat from a hearth.
She shifted in her seat. Crossed her ankles. Uncrossed them. Her left knee began to bounce, a nervous habit she had broken years ago and that had apparently resurrected itself for the sole purpose of humiliating her.
“You are vibrating.” Hugo’s voice came low and close, his lips near her ear. The warmth of his breath grazed the curve of her neck.
She stilled her knee. “I am not.”
“Your leg has been jiggling since the overture. You are going to shake the champagne off the table.” A pause. “Is something the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter. I am watching the opera.”
“You are watching the back of the seat in front of you. The opera is happening on the stage.”
She turned her head to deliver a retort and found his face closer than she expected. In the dim light, his amber eyes held flecks of gold, and the shadows carved the angles of his jaw into something unfairly compelling. She forgot what she had been about to say.
She turned back to the stage.
His hand moved.
It was so subtle that if she had not been attuned to every particle of his existence, she would have missed it.
His fingers left the armrest and settled against her thigh, just above her knee.
The touch was light, barely a pressure through the layers of her gown, and his hand moved in a slow, deliberate stroke along the outside of her leg.
Soothing. As though he were gentling something wild.
Heat flooded her skin. Her breath caught.
“My family is right there,” she whispered.
His hand stilled. Then it withdrew, returning to the armrest with the same unhurried ease.
She did not look at him, but she could feel the smirk.
The absence of his touch was worse than the touch itself. Her leg resumed its jiggling. Her skin burned where his fingers had been, and as the music swelled into the second act, Lily sat rigid in her chair, replaying the slow stroke of his hand along her thigh until she thought she might scream.
She needed air. She needed distance. She needed to be anywhere in London that was not six inches from the Duke of Thornwaite in a dark theater.
“Excuse me,” she murmured to her mother. “I need a moment.”
Lady Brimsey glanced at her. “Are you unwell?”
“Just warm. I will return shortly.”
She slipped out of the box and through the upper gallery to a narrow balcony overlooking the street. The night air hit her flushed skin, and she gripped the iron railing and breathed.
What was wrong with her?
She pressed her forehead against the cool metal and closed her eyes.
She was Lily Readthorpe. She read books.
She corrected gentlemen when she could. She did not dissolve because a man touched her leg in a darkened box.
She did not lose her composure because a rake with sandalwood cologne leaned too close and whispered in her ear.
She straightened and smoothed her gown.
She would compose herself. She would return to the box. She would sit beside him for the rest of the evening and feel nothing.
Nothing at all.