Chapter 11
The theater was packed with almost every sort of person, from the greatest lords in the land to those who were barely respectable.
As long as one could afford a ticket, one could come.
It was one of the reasons why Ruby loved coming to the playhouse. She didn’t get to come as often as she would have liked, but Ruby did adore a good performance.
It was hot.
The candelabras and chandelier lights were flickering. The scent of people was almost overpowering. The room was a vast collection of every cologne and perfume that was made. And of, course, there was the scent of close people.
Gowns shone under the guttering lights.
Jewels twinkled, and the din of conversation was so intense that one might have thought that a hoard of bees was buzzing right in one’s ear.
People were full of laughter and delight, drinking wine, whispering, and gossiping. Affairs were being arranged! Possibly marriages too.
In her imagination, she spotted two mamas and fantasized that they must be going on and on about the challenges of wedding their daughters.
And as she sat next to her mother in the box, looking at the stage, she wondered what it would be like to have a mother who gossiped about marriage. Surely, it would be nice. But then again, to have such a nice life, she would also have to give up her power.
The marriage-minded mamas had little power of their own. Hence the importance of marrying their daughters to important men.
Her mother had never gossiped about such a thing. Or tried to arrange Ruby’s marriage. Until tonight. And one would argue she was trying to disarrange it.
Why had her mother brought her here? Because her mother had not brought her simply to watch a performance, though the young lady was the star of the stage. Mrs. Abigail Simpson was apparently the most talented actress of the day.
The reason eluded her, until she glanced over to the left and spotted Viscount Skyburn sitting in his box. Alone.
She suddenly tensed.
He had not noticed her yet. His eyes were fixed on the stage as if that was the only thing he could see. The play was about to commence. The curtain was about to come up, and she desperately wanted him to turn and look at her, to see her. She wished she’d written to him.
She wished he’d written to her.
They had shared such utter passion, and yet neither of them was acting as if they had. Because that’s who they were, wasn’t it?
They were both racing through life at a pace, eager for pleasure, but not for anything else. She would not reprimand him. She would not think ill of him. She had made clear what she wanted, and she had taken it.
And it irked her to no end that there was a part of her, a stupid little part, that longed for him to turn and look. And be happy to see her.
As if he could sense her across the crowd and her thoughts, slowly, he turned. His eyes met hers. But it was not pleasure that she saw on his face.
It was alarm. His eyes widened. His handsome face paled, the burnished bronze turning an ashy color.
She could almost feel the swallow that he made as his neck muscles tensed under his immaculately tied cravat.
His beautiful, strong shoulders tightened underneath his perfectly cut coat, embroidered in silver and gold.
He inclined his head to her, at least, before he whipped his gaze back to the stage.
He looked afraid.
Dear God, the man looked afraid.
Was her mother right? Had she made an utter fool of herself? Was he ashamed of their passion?
Had her mother done the right thing bringing her here?
She gripped her fan as her heart raced, not with passion but with dismay. The ivory bit into her skin, and she swallowed back the bile that was twisting in her stomach.
Just when she wanted to bolt, something she would never do, the curtains swished open and the play began.
Vibrant energy from brightly dressed actors and high-flying dialogue filled the stage.
Her mother, who had been gossiping with the woman in the next box about one of the royal princes of France, turned slowly to her.
“You caught sight of him, did you?” she said sotto voce. “And he looked at you too?”
How did her mother know? She’d been so engaged in conversation. But her mother was a master at knowing what was transpiring around her. It was a skill developed by someone who understood political stakes and had to operate with subterfuge rather than direct action.
Women were the true masters of this, for most women could not act directly.
Unlike Ruby.
She nodded tightly. “Mama, you didn’t need to do this,” she said, her throat tight.
“Oh, I did,” her mother disagreed as she smoothed a hand over her skirts. “Just to show that he’s already ready to move on to the next woman.”
Her heart sank. It shouldn’t. She was no foolish miss. “I suppose you’re about to tell me that he has an interest in one of the actresses on stage.”
“Just watch,” her mother warned calmly and without malice.
The actors were whirring about the stage, engaging in all sorts of tactics which caused the audience to roar with laughter.
It was a marvelous comedy by Sheridan, and soon everyone was applauding and letting out cries of shock and delight.
The absurd plot unfolded, and actors were falling out of closets, hiding in boxes, and kissing the absolute wrong people.
And, of course, everyone was furious with the wrong people too.
The audience loved it!
But there was one thing Ruby noticed above the plot. The young lady in the play, the most glorious of ingenues, was played by a beautiful young woman with silvery blonde hair, bright eyes, and a presence that filled the entire space.
And he could not take his eyes off her.
Much to her chagrin, Ruby surreptitiously watched Viscount Skyburn watch Mrs. Abigail Simpson.
A lead ball formed in the pit of her stomach.
“So, this is why you brought me here, Mama,” she said softly as she gestured ever so slightly with her fan between Skyburn and Mrs. Simpson. “So that I might become jealous or witness the fact that he is doing as so many men do and is interested in more than one young woman at once?”
Her mother shook her head. “Not at all, my dear. That is not why I brought you here at all.”
“Then why?” she bit out.
“He is not interested in her. Look at his face again.”
She did.
She studied it.
And she realized that her mother was quite right. He wasn’t looking at Mrs. Abigail Simpson with love, not the sort that she’d assumed, or admiration of the sort she assumed.
He was looking at her with pride. His eyes were shining with pride.
Ruby’s lips parted with astonishment. “I don’t understand, Mama.”
“That’s his sister,” her mother whispered in her ear, and Ruby nearly jolted in her seat.
She whipped her gaze back to the stage, and she could see it. The resemblance. Dear God, it was almost as if they had been twins. Mrs. Simpson looked so much like him. She was the female version of him.
And her heart skipped a beat as confusion pummeled through her. “Why is this so terrible, Mama?”
Her mother’s lip curled. “His father left bastards all over this country, and even now the son hides them, my dear. That is the nature of powerful men. They hide their scandals and their secrets. He’s hiding his father’s secrets.
So make no mistake. He will keep secrets from you.
He will keep secrets from his children. It is what all men do. ”
She sucked in a short breath. “Why do you hate Papa so much?” she whispered.
“I do not hate your father. I’m simply disappointed by him,” she said. “And now I think I’m going to go.”
“But, Mama, it’s the middle of a performance,” she said.
“That doesn’t really matter, my darling. I’m feeling rather driven to go,” she said.
And without another word of explanation, her mother stood, her skirt sweeping about her, her jewels flashing, and she whisked out into the hall.
The truth was great lords and ladies often came and went to the theater whenever they pleased. But somehow, sitting here alone in the box with her mother out in the hall, Ruby felt her heart hollow out.
Her mother was right, of course.
Ruby was a pragmatist. Skyburn would keep secrets from his wife. All gentlemen did. And yet there was a part of her that thought perhaps he was different, and they could have at least been friends. And friends did not keep secrets from each other.
Now, of course, she did not expect him to tell her about his sister. They’d known each other for all of two minutes. But would he keep secrets from her if they were friends? True friends?
Would his speed and agility in outmaneuvering all go even that far? Perhaps he didn’t wish to be her friend. Perhaps he’d had all he wanted of her.
And that was no one’s fault. For she had asked for nothing more. Still, there was a bitter note in her mouth.
This night had been too full of revelations. First, her mother’s comment about her father keeping her in England, despite the fact her mother had wanted to take her.
Had that broken her mother? Had it made her the brutally cold woman she was now? And how could her father have done it?
But the worst? She did not doubt that he had. Because her mother was correct. Women had no rights over their children.
She swallowed as sick burned her throat.
Suddenly, Ruby found, like her mother, she could not stay. She stood, her legs wobbling, and she staggered out into the hall. And much to her horror, tears filled her eyes.
Her mother had already swept off. No doubt her beautiful mother was about to go and meet a young man somewhere and drink champagne, and live pleasurably throughout the night, having already abandoned her daughter.
No. Having had her daughter taken from her, her mother had given up.
Now, a life controlled by affairs and champagne and never-ending travel was her mother’s nature, and Ruby could not be angry with her for it. And yet sometimes, oh dear God, she wished that there was someone who would be steady for her.
She all but stumbled out into the darkness, her stays feeling far too tight, and she sucked in a sharp breath, which was immediately replaced by a sob. She pressed her hand to her tightly constructed bodice, wishing she could tear it off and drink in gulps of air.
Why did life have to be so cruel? Why did lords have to be so cruel to everyone about them?
“Are you well?”
She whipped around, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
“You should go back in,” she said, knowing exactly who had spoken to her. “You don’t want to miss this performance.”
Peter stopped and gently rested his hand on her shoulder before he carefully took her chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“Look at me,” he said softly.
She slowly tilted her head up at his urging and gazed at him. “I’m quite all right. I always am, you know?”
His face was a taut mask of concern, and anger, as if he wished to punch whoever had hurt her. “You shouldn’t be alone out in the hall, and your mother shouldn’t have left you like that. This is your first Season.”
Her mouth dropped open. He had noticed.
“Yes, but I’m not like others,” she whispered, clinging to this to make the pain less.
“You still need a chaperone. Otherwise, you could be ruined.” He hesitated. “A girl still needs her mother.”
Those last words ripped out her heart, and she nearly looked away, but she forced herself to hold his gaze and remain strong. She would not collapse before him. She couldn’t.
“I don’t care if I’m ruined,” Ruby said defiantly. “I have money, and I have power. Men don’t have to care if they’re ruined. So why should I?”
“Because,” he said softly, “you’re not a man.”
“As well you know,” she returned. “But I have the power of a man, and I will use it.”
“All right,” he said. “Keep behind your fortress, my bold Ruby. But I am here if you need me.”
“You should go back,” she said. “I know that you wish to watch the young lady on stage.”
He tensed, a look of distaste replacing his kindness as he lowered his hand from her face. “You’re thinking that she’s—”
“I did perhaps for a moment,” she cut in, rather embarrassed she’d even entertained the notion. “But then I really looked at you. At my mother’s instruction.”
“Oh?” he queried, clearly trying to remain impassive.
“Yes,” she said. “You must be very proud of her. She’s quite a success.”
His mouth tightened into a line as his gaze darted over her face. “What do you mean?”
“You two look very much alike,” she said gently. “You both must look like your father?”
He sucked in a sharp breath. “What?” he demanded.
“I’m sorry. Should I not have said it?” she rushed, stunned by the emotion on his face. It wasn’t anger. It was panic. As if he had done something wrong. “I think once it’s clear, no one could see otherwise.”
He looked away, his gaze searching the dark hallway as if he was weighing his reply. When at last he looked back to her, his eyes shone with intensity. “Yes, she is my sister, and I am very proud of her, but please don’t tell anyone. She doesn’t want anyone to know.”
She blinked. “What?”
He reached out and took her hands in his, beseeching. “She doesn’t want anyone to know that I’m her brother.”
“It’s her secret, not yours?” She gasped, stunned, because in that moment, she knew one thing. Her mother was wrong, and she was too, and it was the happiest moment of her life.