Chapter 15
Camilla found the evening something of a trial.
The Rowlandsons were not in the habit of dining with other families.
As they had not come to London at all while growing up, nor had they been particularly social with local families—apart from the Cunningworths, whose friendship had soured after Robert treated Felix so abominably—they had little experience with intimate dinners.
She feared they had answered their hostess rudely by not showing an enthusiasm for the theater. In fact, she was sure they had.
They were now fully accustomed to the balls and evening parties and were adept at morning calls, both being at home to visitors and also visiting others.
But dining before the theater with a family they had only just met, apart from Pembroke, suggested a level of intimacy between the two families that had not been fostered.
Not only that, for all she was displeased with the earl and wished to hold him at arm’s length, he was at the very least warm and approachable.
At first appearances, his mother and sister were far from sharing his affable nature.
On the contrary, they were rather formidable.
The dinner was got through somehow. They then squeezed into Evo’s crested carriage to travel to the theater, with their mother, Joanna, and her on the front-facing seat, and Evo and Tilly on the rear-facing. Lord Pembroke carried his family in his.
“What do you think of Lady Throckmorton?” Camilla asked. “And Lady Mary?”
“Dull as dish water,” Evo answered.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Camilla retorted, then turned to her mother.
Lady Poole was more inclined to be positive. “They seem agreeable enough.”
“Do you think so?” Camilla said doubtfully. “I found Lady Mary’s determined conversation oppressive.”
“Oh no,” Tilly said. “She was attempting to set us at ease.”
Joanna peered around her mother and caught Camilla’s eye. “I agree with you, but what can we do except thank them for the invitation and behave graciously?”
Camilla had been once to the Theatre Royal at Covent Garden and never to the one on Drury Lane.
They were more likely to visit the opera than the theater, although she couldn’t say why that was.
No one in her family except Sophia actually seemed to like the music.
She suspected it had everything to do with what their mother felt comfortable with, and she was accustomed to going to the opera.
The carriages deposited them on Bow Street in front of the theater, and they followed Pembroke and the other attendees as they filed between the columns into its entrance.
Somehow, without Camilla’s quite knowing why, Pembroke arranged the seating so that he was placed directly beside her, in the back row where the partition between the boxes rose high enough for complete privacy.
Surely that part of the arrangement had not been done with intention.
She had followed her mother to the middle row in the box, taking care not to be anywhere near him for fear he would think she was angling for a seat at his side.
Lady Throckmorton suggested that, as their guests, Lady Poole and her children should move to the front row of the box.
There they would enjoy both the best view and sound.
Camilla recognized the kindness in the gesture and allowed her family members to have the honor.
She slid down the second row to sit behind them.
Lady Mary began to enter the same row but turned back to speak to her mother.
Mr. Moffat, looking like his mind was anywhere but on where he was, slipped past his wife to sit beside Camilla.
She did not appreciate the arrangement but felt trapped and unable to change it.
“Lady Camilla, would you do me the honor of taking this seat and spare me the humiliation of sitting alone for all of Society to see? My mother and sister will be happy to entertain Mr. Moffat.” Humor tinged his voice, but his tone was inexorable.
It was by far the lesser of two evils, for at least she knew Pembroke, unlike Mr. Moffat.
She inched along the narrow aisle to reach the row above and the seat beside him.
The theater was well lit, but she knew that it would shortly be dark when they snuffed the candles.
What was unfortunate for her peace of mind, and indeed for her pride, was that she was aware of his nearness in every particular.
If she looked down, she saw his molded pantaloons and his hand with the signet ring resting there.
If she breathed in, she inhaled Russian leather and pine, a scent entirely his own.
If she turned her head only a degree or two, the white of his stark neckcloth in stiff folds would catch her eye, tempting her to look at those dark curls that stopped just short of his strong chin.
But she would not turn her head. She would not.
Entirely unaware of these thoughts that would be her undoing, he took out his quizzing glass and observed the crowd.
“Wilmot is sitting across from us, and here he told me he was busy this evening and wouldn’t come.”
She glanced in that direction, curious but not overly so since she had no answer—and because she did not want to give Pembroke too much of herself. Lady Throckmorton and her daughter were discussing in detail the theatergoers sitting in the tiers on the other side.
When his comment elicited no response, Pembroke snapped his quizzing glass shut and pivoted even more, so that he could have her in full view. She kept her face pointed forward and her expression blank, though her breathing grew unsteady.
“I hope I will not receive the silent treatment from you this entire evening.” His voice was low and for her ears alone.
She wondered why he should care. As if she might learn the answer from his expression, she risked a glance. That she regretted instantly when she saw the teasing smirk on his face. She removed her gaze but felt him lean back farther to study her.
“Alas, I fear it is my destiny to be sentenced to famine. After all, you already withhold your smiles.” She wouldn’t ask him what he meant, and he paused before adding, “You seem to be looking forward to this tragedy in particular. Are you, perhaps, contemplating its relevancy to your situation?”
“Whatever do you mean by that?” His provoking air almost made her want to laugh, and she decided she felt irritation instead. He did not deserve her attention.
“Just as Cordelia withholds her affection, perhaps Camilla withholds her smiles,” he suggested.
“If we are to use King Lear as an example, Cordelia is withholding her flattery,” she retorted. “I hardly think you would wish for me to heap that upon you.”
“No. But one meager expression of pleasure in my company would be an arrow’s flight from flattery.
” Pembroke was coaxing, but she was afraid she heard sincerity in his tone, and that her distance was hurting him.
She was equally afraid she was wrong. She kept her lips closed and gently shook her head.
“Very well.” He inhaled audibly and sat up. Just when she thought herself safe, he leaned in close, next to her ear. “Since you begrudge your smiles, I will simply have to tease them out of you.”
“I don’t begrudge them,” she replied with an attempt at dignity. “It is merely that I am not a woman who smiles for no reason. I have to find something amusing.”
“You used to find me amusing,” he said. He was still leaning in, but the playful tone had left his voice.
“I used to find you a great many things,” she retorted—and then blushed a fiery red.
Movement on the stage indicated that the performance was about to start, and as she attempted to rein in her panic at having so exposed herself, the servants set up the metal shields for the candles, plunging the theater into obscurity.
Rowe now knew for a certainty she had harbored feelings for him in the past, and that there was a likelihood she had them still.
She had betrayed herself by that remark, and had she not blushed, he might not have guessed.
But she had blushed, and now he knew. He was equally certain she was silently kicking herself for having said as much.
His first reaction was a surge of triumph.
If he had won her affection before, it would not be so difficult to win it again.
But as the performance was acted out below them, more sober thoughts marched him back to reason.
For one thing, he had not seen her attachment in time—or if he had, he had not been ready to admit to it.
And now, it might be too late to rectify his mistake.
Perhaps she had hardened her heart to the point where he could not win her back.
After all, she had spoken of suitors and wanting to find a husband who was a friend and warned him not to interfere with her goal. The thought made him ill.
The play continued, and he listened with only half an ear as he considered these things, the direction of his thoughts increasingly gloomy.
Then the dark thoughts and blasted play simply became too much, and he decided that a bit of amusement was in order if he was not going to fall into a maudlin state.
After all, he hadn’t lost her for good. He had just suffered an upset, which was not something that had caused him to give up before.
No, Rowe decided, he would not miss this opportunity to pursue her.
The problem was simpler than he realized; he had not courted her before, not properly.
Now that he was going to begin a true courtship, surely he could win her heart.
After all, he mused with something like a sigh of resignation, he managed to win young ladies’ hearts all the time when he had no intention or desire to do so.
How hard could it be to win a woman whose heart he was set on winning?
He looked down at her gloved hand, which held a delicate fan of painted chicken skin.
He had not yet seen her scar from the knife wound.
Had not held her hand in his as he had done that day and longed to do so again.
He lifted his eyes to her profile, suspecting she would notice it in the dark, but not caring if she did.
Her thick hair was piled high and her pert nose and full lips set his heart pulsing.
In complete oblivion of what was unfolding below on the stage, he angled toward her.
“Lady Camilla.” He waited, curious if she would respond to a simple address and nothing more. Unsurprisingly she did not, but he could tell from the way she sat that she was listening.
“That you used to find me a great many things gives me cause to hope. It means you thought of me.”
Camilla opened her fan with a snap, and in the pretense of fanning herself created a barrier between their faces so she was cut off from his view.
Rowe chuckled softly. He allowed her to have her way for a few minutes, then gently took hold of her hand and guided it back down to her lap.
He held it for a small moment, feeling a throb of heartbeat in their fingertips though he did not know if it was his or hers.
“I give you a promise,” he whispered. “Before the season is over, you will think a great many more things about me.”