“I’d be pleased if you’d join us,” said the earl.
“That’s the ticket,” said Tom.
They looked at her. Teresa began to feel that she was the target of some sort of conspiracy, even though it was clear that the two hadn’t discussed this idea in advance. Who was the us Lord Macklin had referred to?
“I’ve arranged an unexceptionable party,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.
Teresa gazed at him. He must know, from the place where he found her, that she was not unexceptionable. Who was this group that could include her? How did he intend to explain her presence?
“The young ladies we met in the autumn will be there,” the earl told Tom.
“Oh, good.” The lad turned back to Teresa. “You’ll like them,” he added. “And they’ll take to you, I wager.” Tom turned back. “Miss Julia Grandison too? Chaperoning, like?”
The earl nodded.
“Ah. Well.”
Teresa couldn’t interpret Tom’s expression. Was this Miss Julia a hazard? Was she important to the earl?
They exchanged a smile that explained nothing to Teresa and then went on to discuss details as if all was settled. They spoke as if her preferences mattered, as if she was the one to be considered when making arrangements. It was a novel, and admittedly pleasant, experience.
And so, although she’d intended to refuse the invitation, somehow, by the end, she’d promised to attend the theater as part of the Earl of Macklin’s party. She told herself she could send regrets later, when he wasn’t right here before her, compelling and persuasive, with Tom egging him on, but she knew she wasn’t going to do that. Her mind had already turned to the gown she might wear and the ornaments that best set it off.
Four
It had felt as complicated as marshaling a small army, Arthur thought, but he had managed the thing. Señora Alvarez was at the play in his company. Though that was mostly due to Tom, he acknowledged. The lad had pushed the scheme before Arthur could open his mouth. An unexpected but welcome boost.
His party filled the large box he’d engaged for the performance nearly to overflowing. He’d placed the four young ladies across the front with the young Duke of Compton. Newcomers to town, they were all eager to see their first play. Their chaperone, Miss Julia Grandison, was behind them at the far end. And he and Señora Alvarez occupied the dimmest corner at the back of the box, close together, publicly private.
She wore a soberly elegant gown of dark blue, as if to fade into the shadows. A lace mantilla held in place by an ornate comb hid her face when she bent her head. She could hardly have done more to obscure her beauty. Arthur knew it was there, however, and he rather liked the idea that it was a secret they shared. At last he had a bit of time to become better acquainted with her. Some people said he possessed charm. He hoped Señora Alvarez might agree by the end of this night.
The young ladies did occasionally shoot inquiring looks in their direction, obviously curious about the foreign lady in their midst. Arthur felt a flash of uneasiness, as if he was awaiting an examination in a subject he barely understood.
Which was ridiculous. He pushed the idea aside. He knew how to make light conversation and pay a graceful compliment. Hostesses thought him an asset at any party. He was a mature man, not an awkward stripling in his first season.
And yet what he found to say to the señora was “I was in Spain once, when I was a boy.” His voice even sounded younger than usual.
“Were you?” she replied. Her face was difficult to see in the depths of the box, partly shaded by the mantilla.
“Our ship stopped in Málaga after we came through Gibraltar. I remember seeing oranges hanging from trees and being astonished.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “There is the scent, too.”
“The sweetness of the air, yes.”
“Almost like tasting the fruit.”
“But not quite,” he said. “They let me pick it. I ate as many oranges as I could hold.”
Her smile was reminiscent, as if she knew very well what he meant. Arthur enjoyed the beauty of it, and the fact that he’d evoked it. “My mother came from the south of Spain,” she said. “Near Cartagena. We would go there to visit her family in the winter.”
He nodded to encourage more confidences.
“The sea was so different,” she went on. “Soft and blue and friendly. Not like the rough waves of Santander.”
Her chagrin at mentioning this city was obvious. Clearly, she wished to reveal as little as possible about herself. It was frustrating. “Cartagena must be rather like Málaga,” Arthur said to keep her story flowing.
She raised dark brows.
“Both on the Mediterranean Sea and…southern.” This managed to sound both inane and naive. He gritted his teeth.
“How old were you when you made your journey?” she asked, ignoring his question.
“Ten. My father wanted us to see Greece, the whole family, that is. So he packed us up and set off.”
“How original.”
“He was full of ideas and enthusiasms. There were times when I chafed against his schemes, but I think now that I couldn’t have had a better father.”
Señora Alvarez blinked, then bent her head. The edge of her lace mantilla fell across her cheek so that he couldn’t see her expression, but he knew the smile had died. He remembered that she’d lost her family in the war. He should have chosen some other topic of conversation.
“Did you enjoy your travels?” she asked.
“I did.” He should have talked about the play, Arthur thought. But at the moment he couldn’t remember anything about the wretched piece. He didn’t usually have troubles like this.
“And did your father?”
Nothing to do but press forward. “He found that the Greek he’d learned in school was nothing like that spoken in the streets of Athens. He was quite outraged. He sent a letter of complaint to his old schoolmasters at Eton.”
“Because he hadn’t been taught modern Greek?”
“No. He felt that the Greeks should not have been allowed to stray from strict classical forms.”
She laughed, and Arthur felt a surge of triumph. Laughter made friendships. He leaned a bit closer to her. The theater was filling, and the babble of the audience made conversation harder. He caught a hint of the sweet scent she wore, and lost his train of thought.
“And what did they reply?”
“They?”
“The schoolmasters at Eton.”