Chapter 8
The opera was not Kit's idea.
But his aunt had said, "The box is available. You enjoy the opera, don't you?"
Kit did not enjoy the opera. He endured it. There was a rather big difference, which his aunt refused to acknowledge. However, they were here now and he fully understood the assignment.
And truly, as he took in the crowd milling below his balcony, he saw precisely how clever his aunt had been.
A ballroom was crowded and chaotic. But a box at the opera was intimate, and yet still visible to every pair of opera glasses in the theater.
"Clever, indeed," he murmured.
If the Duke of Ashworth's heir was seen sitting in a box with Cast-Off Clarissa—leaning toward her, laughing at her whispered remarks—the ton would have the image burned into their collective memory by morning.
Clarissa arrived a short time later on Alderton's arm, a small smile in place, with Mrs. Lennox trailing behind and looking nearly as pleased as he was to be at the opera.
"Good evening, Lady Clarissa." He bowed. "You look positively radiant—"
"Oh, please do not say radiant." The words seemed to burst out of her, and he saw John try and fail to smother a laugh. "We've just finished discussing how radiant has never been an apt description, and John said—" She turned to her brother. "Well, no, I mustn't tell him about that."
John ran a hand over his mouth to hide a smile at whatever inside joke she'd referred to, and Kit felt very much on the outside looking in.
He did not like it one bit. Though he did enjoy the way Clarissa was very clearly amused. But before he could join her in the fun, she straightened and grew absurdly solemn.
"My apologies," she said stiffly. "I merely meant…" She stopped short and looked to John as if for help.
He knew full well the man was her half-brother. So yes, it was ridiculous to be jealous of the man. But here he was. Wishing that this woman would turn to him for help instead.
And yes, he most certainly wished he was in on the joke as well.
Lord Alderton turned to him. "My sister does not take compliments well, I'm sorry to say."
Clarissa dropped the demure act to shoot her brother a teasing glare, but when she turned back to him, she wore that small smile again. "I just don't like the word radiant. It's excessive."
"You look…very well." He paused. "Is that better?"
She gave a little nod, but her mouth twitched with amusement. Progress.
"Shall we?" He gestured to a seat.
Kit positioned himself beside Clarissa, close enough to suggest intimacy but not so close as to cause a scandal.
Alderton took the seat behind. He kept his focus firmly on the empty stage as if he'd made up his mind then and there that he'd ignore whatever his sister and the earl were doing. Meanwhile, Mrs. Lennox sat like a sentry.
"Your chaperone isn't very talkative, is she?" he murmured to Clarissa.
Clarissa's eyes held a tiny glint of mischief. "Mrs. Lennox does not approve of idle chatter."
"Ah. I see." He paused. "You two must get on well then."
Clarissa's head whipped to the side. He kept his expression blank.
"Are you teasing me, Lord Stratton?" she asked.
"It's Kit," he reminded her. "And yes."
He could see the indecision cross her face.
He arched a brow. "Is that all right?"
Pink stole into her cheeks, and she shifted under his gaze. If he were to guess, he'd say she was…shy. Her eyes dipped and her lips parted. Then she peeked up at him from beneath thick eyelashes. "I suppose."
His chest tightened so painfully he nearly cried out. He wasn't sure he'd ever witnessed genuine shyness. He'd seen many a lady feign humility and innocence, but he'd never seen the real thing.
And the real thing was undeniably adorable. It made him want to protect her, or fight a duel for her, or…
He looked around them. Well, he supposed he'd have to settle for shielding her from unpleasant gossip.
The theater was filling quickly. Kit scanned the boxes to see who was present and who was watching.
Lady Arabella was in a box across the way with her mother. Good. Let her see this.
Estella and Lord Blackwood were in a lower box. Estella waved, and he saw Clarissa return the wave with a sweet little smile.
The wave was enough to garner more attention. Lady Arabella was watching them, and he took the opportunity to lean over.
"Don't look now," he whispered. "But I believe we have an audience."
Clarissa turned to face him, and he realized just how close he was. Too close. Not enough to cause a scandal, but certainly enough to rattle his wits.
Close enough to count those thick lashes, and see just how pink and lush her lips were. And…how wide her eyes.
She looked just as startled as he felt.
He straightened and made a show of going back to assessing the crowd. But then Kit's gaze snagged on a box to the upper left.
His father.
The Duke of Ashworth sat in a private box with two men Kit didn't recognize and a woman he did—Mrs. Farber, a widow of considerable wealth and flexible morals who had been orbiting the duke's social circle for the better part of a year.
The duke was leaning toward her, saying something that made her laugh.
He looked distinguished, and perfectly content in his role as London's most respectable hypocrite.
Kit's hand tightened on the arm of his chair.
He hadn't known his father would be here. The duke rarely attended the opera. He found it tedious, a fact about which Kit agreed with him. It was one of very few things they had in common.
So why was he here tonight? Coincidence? Or had word reached him that his son was making a spectacle of himself with some disgraced earl's daughter, and he'd come to observe?
No, he was being ridiculous. His father didn't care enough about his whereabouts or his doings for that. It was just a coincidence.
And either way, it didn't matter. Kit unclenched his hands and sank back in his seat, settling in to endure the performance.
When the music began, Kit found himself staring at the stage without seeing it.
On the stage, a soprano was singing about heartbreak. It was, Kit supposed, very moving if one cared about such things. The melody soared, and the audience was rapt.
He supposed she was good. But Kit was too busy calculating to care. The mistress's next payment was due in twelve days. His aunt had agreed to the arrangement but hadn't yet delivered the funds. If he pushed—
"Are you all right?" Clarissa's voice was barely above a whisper. She was facing the stage, but her words were clearly aimed at him.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You were breathing normally, and then you weren't." She still hadn't looked at him. "It seems as though… No, that is— I didn't mean to pry. But you were at ease and then you weren't, and now it seems as if you're hardly here at all."
She said all of this under her breath, in one long exhale.
She was observant, he'd give her that. And while every instinct told him to laugh it off, another part of him simply…didn't want to. He fought a very real urge to tell her everything on his mind.
Perhaps her guileless honesty was contagious.
He resisted the urge. "It's nothing."
Her gaze flicked toward the back of the box. "That's what my brother says when it's very much something."
He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then finally, "Your brother sounds like a wise man."
"He is, but not because he doesn't speak about matters of the heart. Those are two separate traits entirely." She ended this with a quick little sidelong look in his direction. "It seems to me you're just avoiding an answer."
The soprano hit a particularly anguished note. Kit used it as cover for his silence.
After a moment, Clarissa seemed to accept that he wasn't going to elaborate. She settled back in her chair and returned her attention to the stage.
He should have been relieved. He was relieved.
But he was also disappointed. Some irrational part of him had wanted her to push. Not because he would have answered, but because the pushing would have meant she cared enough to try.
Which was a ridiculous thought, and he discarded it immediately.
The first act dragged on. The soprano wept, the tenor declared his love. A villain appeared, wearing a cape that was, in Kit's opinion, excessive.
"She should just leave," Clarissa murmured.
Kit glanced at her. "Who?"
"The heroine." Her voice was low and quiet, but there was no missing the frustration there. "She's been standing there for three arias letting that man make decisions about her life. She has perfectly functional legs. She could simply…walk away."
His mouth curved. "Where would she go?"
Her head tilted to the side as she considered. "Anywhere. She could steal a horse. Or find a ship." She turned to him with a wicked little smirk. "The villain has a very nice cape. She could take that and sell it."
He feigned horrified shock. "You'd have the heroine rob the villain?"
Mrs. Lennox shifted loudly behind them, if such a thing was possible. It was a very subtle way of shushing them.
Clarissa didn't seem to notice. She was too caught up in her fun. "I'd have the heroine take decisive action instead of singing about her feelings for another twenty minutes."
He leaned toward her. "If you were writing this opera, what would happen next?"
She cut him a sideways glance, as if checking whether he was mocking her.
He was not. Her opinion on the opera was far more interesting than the opera itself.
"Well," she said slowly. "First, she'd stop crying. All this weeping is getting rather tedious."
"Agreed," he said with a nod.
"Then she'd take stock of her assets. She has a decent singing voice, clearly, so perhaps she could earn money performing at coaching inns while she—" Her eyes flickered with amusement. "No, that's absurd."
He leaned over. "It's brilliant. Go on."
"She'd need an ally," she said.
"That hero seems like he'd help," he offered.
She made a face that had him swallowing a laugh. "Oh no. She needs someone practical who could help her navigate the escape. Maybe the villain's henchman, who's secretly kind and has been slipping her bread through the dungeon grate."
He considered that, though he couldn't recall the henchman in the opera doing much more than hovering behind the caped villain. "The henchman," he mused. "Not the handsome prince?"
"The prince hasn't done anything useful yet." Clarissa said this as though she hated to admit it. But no one could argue the point. "He is very handsome, but not what one needs in a crisis."
Kit bit the inside of his cheek. "In your stories for Lucy, does the princess have a prince?"
She turned to him and her expression said he was a fool to ask. "She has a talking horse."
"I see," he said. "I suppose that's better than most princes."
"Considerably." Her smile crept back. "The horse gives excellent advice."
He laughed. Quietly, of course, since they were at the opera, and Mrs. Lennox was truly intimidating. But he was heartened to see Clarissa's shoulders shake a little as well.
He very nearly shot Lord Alderton a smug look. See? he wanted to say. Clarissa and I can share a laugh as well.
He resisted the urge. And then the soprano launched into another aria and Kit let the music fill the silence.
He glanced up at his father's box. His father was focused on the stage. And this time, when Kit sank back in his seat, he didn't have to pretend to be at ease.