Chapter Eighteen
At first, Trentham was piqued. He’d envisioned his sister bringing a few genteel companions to widen his social circle for the evening.
Not that this was crucial. Over the past four years, many of his old friends had slunk back, or had allowed him to slink back into their fellowship.
But once upon a time, he’d been a gregarious young fellow.
Well-liked. A sought-after addition to any occasion.
He was aiming to reclaim that distinction. So this did not help.
As he’d stood outside on The Gaiety’s broad staircase, speaking inanities to milling acquaintances while waiting to spot Felicity’s carriage, Lynch’s landau had pulled into the drive.
Out spilled Lynch, Dessie, and Miss Delancey.
Followed by his sister. So. She had invited them as her guests.
Trentham experienced a dyspeptic moment of déjà vu, a memory of facing the scorn of the hypocritical peerage—most of whom believed the seventh commandment was just a suggestion.
What if Lynch and the Delancey sisters were the only people she could gather who would agree to be seen with him?
Fortunately, his self-doubt did not last the length of time it took him to reach and greet them.
Dessie and Miss Delancey were bubbling with laughter, putting him in mind of fine champagne.
And Lynch was always good company. Trentham ushered them inside, into the bright, gilded lobby, where an amusing-ish sight brought them to a halt.
Eli was surrounded by six ladies, young and old, none of them familiar, and all of them vying for his attention, even pushing one another as they kept touching his arms. Poor Eli was smiling a professional smile, but his eyes looked a bit frantic.
Taking pity, Trentham strode into the fray, parting the crowd as only a prince or duke could, then signaled Eli to follow him.
Eli did, murmuring apologies to his admirers.
When they were clear of the horde, Trentham asked, “Where are you sitting?”
He hemmed a moment, then admitted, “Standing, not sitting.”
“Ah.” Of course, Eli would want to attend the opera.
Evidently, he’d scraped together a few shillings to do so.
Trentham sighed. He should have invited him in the first place, but if the Barrington ladies had agreed to come, he would have had to disinvite him.
They wouldn’t share a box with a common performer.
No, that wasn’t fair. He had no idea what Lady Elizabeth would think.
But Lady Barrington would have been outraged.
“Come with us,” he said, leading his old friend back toward the others. “Lynch and I will shield you from overly zealous admirers.”
Eli mumbled an embarrassed thank you, then saw who he’d be sitting with and visibly brightened.
Everyone greeted one another with smiles and laughter. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours since Eli had been at Lynch’s, giving Miss Delancey her lesson, but no one mentioned it. Maybe, Trentham thought, they worried he might turn nasty again.
“Come, let’s find our seats.” He offered his arm to Felicity, and they made their way across the lobby to a staircase guarded by a stout, bearded usher who glanced at them, then waved them in.
They mounted the stairs to the second tier, pushed aside a midnight-blue felted wool curtain, and stepped inside.
There were six places, three in front and three in back, closely placed but not crowded together.
Private box seats were comfortable with plush, dark red cushioning.
A faint hint of musk and bergamot hung in the air, common enough in colognes that the scents could be coming from his own party or wafting up from below.
His ears were abuzz with the rising and falling hum of faraway conversations, rustling of gowns, squeaking seats, and the tuneless tuning of the orchestra.
He moved toward the back so he wouldn’t block anyone’s view, but Lynch beat him to it with Dessie. Next, Felicity, slipping past him, said, “The musicians should sit in the front.”
So he found himself on Miss Delancey’s right, with Eli on her left, which was pointlessly annoying. It was not a competition. They were not vying for the lady’s favor. And yet, he eyed the distance between their three sets of shoulders and felt Eli was winning.
Miss Delancey’s scent, lavender and something like the countryside in springtime, tickled his nose and banished all other perfumes.
He noticed when she began shrugging off her cloak—it was overly warm in the box—so he helped her as any gentleman would, glad to get his hand in before Eli.
But the simple polite gesture was nearly his undoing.
The reality of her there, close enough to…
touch, took his breath away. She wore a pale green gown with a low neckline and short, tight sleeves.
A tiny mole decorated her left collarbone.
He tried to focus on it rather than the swell of her breasts, or the stray strands of blond hair that had slipped from her chignon to caress her neck.
Heat flooded him and his pulse raced. He wanted her.
Wanted her badly. And could not have her.
He managed to pull his gaze away before he could be accused of ogling.
Still, he felt he had ogled, something he had tried hard to train himself not to do—after Felicity, catching him watching a particularly fetching chit in a shop one day, had told him leering was rude.
The overture startled him out of his distressing reverie. The three of them leaned forward in their chairs as if yoked together. Trentham closed his eyes and listened.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he rejoined the physical world and took stock.
Dessie, Felicity, and Lynch were conversing animatedly, the Philistines.
Eli leaned far forward, resting his forearms on the balustrade, his gaze fixed on the orchestra, nodding to keep time.
Miss Delancey watched the stage. Her face glowed with appreciation, whether of the music or the spectacle or both, he couldn’t tell.
His own eyes had been shut for a good portion of the performance.
He hadn’t been lying when he told Lady Elizabeth he didn’t like opera.
The first act drew to a close. Miss Delancey heaved an enormous sigh, which Eli echoed. Behind them, their companions scraped chairs and feet on the floor and stood.
“Dessie and I are going for refreshments,” Lynch said, stretching his limbs. “Should we bring something back?”
“You may bring back a bottle of port wine and glasses,” Trentham suggested. “And perhaps some bread and cheese if you locate a proper vendor.”
Felicity said, “I’ll come along. I thought I spied Lady Arbuthnot earlier and I need to speak with her.”
Eli stood abruptly. “I’ve got to go find Honore. He’s down there in the pit. Violin. Owes me a half-crown.”
Trentham waved them all on their way, expecting Miss Delancey to find a reason to follow her sister. But she did not. In a moment, they were alone, watching the curtain ripple then grow still.
Miss Delancey turned in her chair to face him. “Please tell me you were not sleeping.”
“I was not sleeping.”
“You looked to be.”
“Maybe so, but I was not. You see, either I might close my eyes and appreciate the music, or I might watch the silliness on stage and put plugs in my ears. I can’t do both.” Chocolate and raspberries. “For Mozart, I choose to listen.”
She studied him, squinting, then drew in a breath and looked away. “That’s strange.”
He searched for a reply and found none. They were straining to banter and failing. He needed to clear the air.
“Ahem. How went your first lesson with Eli? That was this afternoon?”
“You needn’t have worried.” Her diction was sharp. As a dart. “He behaved as a perfect gentleman.”
He winced. “Miss Delancey,”—he paused, interlacing his fingers—“I’ve apologized to Eli, and must now also to you. Words sometimes come out of my mouth that I don’t mean.”
She lowered her chin and her gaze. Pink blotches appeared on her cheeks.
He’d thought he’d embarrassed her, but before he could apologize again, she set her jaw and looked him in the eye.
So not embarrassment. Rather, perhaps, she’d been summoning up nerve.
“Is that also your excuse for the Barringtons’ ball? ”
He exhaled. Hard. As if someone had punched him in the chest. What had he said?
He recalled their ghastly encounter. He’d justified himself for not asking her for a dance.
Then he’d complimented her ballgown. Which was the exact shade of her delicious lips.
He hadn’t told her so, but he’d implied it and… leered.
“There is no excuse for how I behaved at the ball.” Honesty was often the best remedy, and even if that was not likely to be so in this case, he could not come up with another approach. “Well, except for this: I’ve decided to court Lady Elizabeth.”
“I’m aware of that. Is this some strange British rule? That when you are wooing one lady you must insult all others?”
Not all. He dug his hole deeper. “It’s not a rule. It’s…”
“Optional?”
Feeling battered, he shook his head and said, “Here is the truth. I enjoyed flirting with you. But it would not be respectful of Lady Elizabeth to continue.”
“So you insulted me to put an end to our flirtation.”
“Yes. No. You see, it’s that…” Gad. What was wrong with him? He was never tongue-tied. Why was he spewing monosyllables? “I—”
“No, that makes sense.” A wry smile appeared, then disappeared. “It effectively put paid to my regard for you.”
His heart cracked in two, echoed poetically by the thwap of the curtain being thrown back. Eli stomped in. “He doesn’t have it.” He flopped into his seat. “Never loan money to a musician.”
Trentham thought it best to make no comment. He’d never loaned or given Eli money. Nor had he ever taken lessons from his friend, though the man had often been free with stinging advice.