Chapter 10 #2
Alexander looked at the stallion being led away in the distance, then back at his mother with complete seriousness. "He is exactly what I need, Mother. Spirited and stubborn."
"Wonderful," Margaret said dryly. "You have found your equine soulmate. How touching. Now shall we enter the theatre before you create any additional scandal?"
They moved toward the entrance, but Alexander became immediately aware of the attention focused upon them.
The crowd parted as they approached—not with the usual deference shown to rank, but with something more wary.
People stepped back slightly, conversations faltering as he passed, eyes tracking his movement with the cautious interest usually reserved for unpredictable animals.
"If you insist on dressing like a gang leader," Margaret murmured beside him, "this is precisely the response you will receive."
"I have observed them behaving in exactly this manner when Alex is dressed in perfectly conventional ducal attire," Anthony interjected cheerfully. "I do not believe it is the clothing. It is simply... him."
"Be that as it may," Margaret said, though Alexander caught the hint of satisfaction beneath her criticism, "you could at least make an effort to appear more... civilized."
Alexander smiled and turned to his mother, offering his arm with deliberate formality. "I believe they are considerably more afraid of you, Mother. You possess a far more intimidating presence than I could ever hope to achieve."
Margaret accepted his arm with a small, pleased smile that suggested she did not entirely disagree with this assessment.
They made their way through the theatre's elegant corridors toward the Harrington box.
Margaret nodded graciously to acquaintances as they passed, Alexander maintained his careful neutrality, and Anthony trailed behind making quiet observations about various guests that were probably not meant to be overheard.
As they reached the stairs leading to their box, Margaret spoke quietly beside him.
"Either fate is playing games with you, my dear," she said with the particular tone she reserved for observations she expected him to take seriously, "or all of this supposedly careful strategizing is actually for her benefit."
Alexander looked at his mother, confusion evident in his expression. "I do not understand—"
"Look at the third row," Margaret interrupted gently. "On your left."
Alexander turned his head.
And there, seated between her parents and Anna Pemberton, looking directly at him with an expression that made his heart perform some complicated maneuver he could not have named, was Catherine.
Their eyes met across the theatre's ornate interior, and Alexander felt the world narrow to just that connection—her face illuminated by gaslight, her lips slightly parted as though she had been caught mid-breath, the way her gaze held his without retreat or pretense.
"Ah," Margaret said beside him with infinite understanding. "I thought so."
But Alexander barely heard her. He was already moving toward their box, his entire awareness consumed by the knowledge that Catherine was here, that she had watched him arrive, that they would spend the next three hours in the same space unable to speak or touch while every instinct he possessed screamed at him to cross that distance and—
"Alexander," Margaret said quietly, her hand tightening on his arm. "Breathe, my dear. And for heaven's sake, try to look as though you are paying attention to the performance. At least occasionally."
"Yes, Mother," Alexander managed, though they both knew it was a promise he had no capacity to keep.
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Alexander settled into his seat between his mother and Anthony, the plush velvet beneath him registering only distantly as his attention remained fixed on the third row below.
Catherine had turned back toward the stage, her profile visible in the warm glow of the gaslights, but he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands rested too carefully in her lap.
The house lights began to dim. Conversations faded to whispers, then silence. The curtain rose with a soft rustle of fabric.
Alexander did not see any of it.
His entire world had narrowed to Catherine's presence three rows down and across the theatre.
He watched the way candlelight caught in her hair, the elegant line of her neck as she turned her head slightly, the rise and fall of her breathing that he could track even from this distance by the movement of her shoulders.
She was trying to watch the performance.
He could see the effort in the way she kept her gaze forward, the determined set of her chin.
But every few moments, as though unable to help herself, her attention would drift.
Her head would turn fractionally toward where he sat, her eyes would find his in the dimness.
Each time their gazes connected, Alexander felt it like a physical impact. His hands tightened on the armrests of his chair. His breath caught and held until she looked away again, leaving him bereft and burning.
On stage, actors delivered their lines with dramatic flourish.
The audience around them responded with appropriate murmurs of appreciation or gasps of shock.
Alexander registered none of it. He was aware only of Catherine, of the unbearable distance between them, of how her presence pulled at him like gravity.
The plot appeared to involve some historical conflict—he caught fragments about honor and betrayal and forbidden love, which struck him as almost comedic given his current state. A woman in elaborate costume was weeping over some tragedy. The audience leaned forward with rapt attention.
Catherine turned to look at him again.
This time she did not look away quickly.
Their eyes held across the darkened theatre, and Alexander saw in her face the same desperate wanting he felt clawing at his chest. Her lips parted slightly as though she might speak his name, though of course she could not, they were surrounded by hundreds of witnesses, trapped by propriety and position and the impossible gulf of three rows and social convention.
Alexander's mother shifted slightly beside him, a movement that might have been pointed or might have been innocent. He could not bring himself to care.
On stage, the conflict was apparently reaching some climax. Voices rose in passionate declaration. Music swelled. The audience sat forward in their seats.
Catherine's hand moved to her throat in some unconscious gesture, her fingers resting against the hollow there.
Alexander watched that small movement and felt heat flood through him at the memory of touching her face in the library, of how soft her skin had been, of how she had leaned into his palm with that small sound of surrender.
God, he wanted her. Wanted to cross this theatre, to pull her from that seat, to find somewhere dark and private where he could—
"Alexander," his mother murmured very quietly beside him. "You are staring."
"Yes," he agreed, not bothering to deny it or look away.
Margaret made a soft sound that might have been exasperation or amusement. "The entire theatre can observe this, you realize."
"Let them," Alexander said, his voice barely above a whisper.
On stage, the first half was ending. The curtain fell to enthusiastic applause. The gaslights brightened, signaling intermission. People began rising, moving toward the corridors for refreshment and conversation.
Alexander stood immediately. His mother caught his arm.
"Do try to maintain some pretense of propriety," she said gently. "For both your sakes."
Alexander nodded, though they both knew it was a futile request.
He made his way down to the main floor, his path bringing him inevitably toward where Catherine stood with Anna near the refreshment area. The crowd pressed close in the narrow corridor, giving him a socially acceptable reason to move near them.
Their eyes met. Alexander felt his pulse spike, felt every muscle in his body go taut with the effort of maintaining proper distance.
"Your Grace," Catherine said, her voice carefully neutral despite the color high in her cheeks.
"Lady Catherine," Alexander replied, the formal address feeling absurd after everything that had passed between them. "Lady Anna."
Anna curtsied with her usual brightness, apparently oblivious to—or tactfully ignoring—the charged atmosphere between her companions. "Your Grace, what a remarkable entrance you made this evening. The entire theatre is still discussing it."
"Is that so," Alexander said, though his eyes never left Catherine's face.
A group of guests pressed past them in the corridor, forcing Alexander to step closer to avoid being jostled. For one brief moment he was close enough to Catherine to smell the faint scent of lavender, to see the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat, to feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
"I should—" Catherine began.
"Yes," Alexander agreed, though neither of them had completed a coherent thought.
The crowd shifted again, pulling them apart. Catherine moved back toward her family with one last look that felt like a physical touch. Alexander watched her go, every instinct screaming at him to follow, to find some excuse to keep her near.
Anthony appeared at his elbow. "That was subtle."
"Be quiet," Alexander said without heat.
"The second act is about to begin," Anthony observed. "Though I suspect neither of you will notice it any more than you noticed the first."
Alexander did not dignify this with a response. He returned to his box, settled into his seat, and fixed his gaze on where Catherine sat three rows below.
The second act was, if anything, worse than the first.
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