Somewhat to her surprise, she’d had a role to play, too; several times, Devlin had thrown her a certain look, which—correctly, as it had turned out—she’d interpreted as an appeal for her to distract one or more gentlemen while he and Martin conversed with another. She’d discovered that her years in society had left her more than able to engage with such men and divert their attention from Devlin and Martin’s more private discussions.
That had been…a novel challenge, and meeting it had left her feeling buoyed.
Looking back on those moments, thinking of the deepening connection between her and Devlin and imagining what might lie ahead, she acknowledged that, now the children were growing and she’d consolidated her control over the various Alverton households, she was rather keen to take what seemed to be shaping up as her next step, namely to fulfill the role of Devlin’s countess on a wider, business-inclusive, possibly politics-inclusive stage.
The more she dwelled on all she’d sensed and felt over the past days, it definitely seemed that Devlin was ready and willing and even happy to invite her deeper into his life.
At the thought, she felt hope, anticipation, and eagerness soar. She was definitely ready to take on that challenge.
“Mama! Mama!” Rupert pointed, then turned big eyes up to her face. “Did you see the g’rilla scratching himself?”
She’d missed the performance, but duly glanced at the gorilla’s cage as they strolled past, then turned to her expectant sons and said, “And now you know why gentlemen who behave like that are said to be no better than apes!”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Devlin struggling to hold back a laugh. She shifted her gaze, for an instant limpid with innocence, to his face, then she smiled, chuckled, and tipped her head lightly against his shoulder before facing forward and settling her arm more comfortably in his as, together, with the children running ahead, they walked toward the exit.
Chapter 6
On Friday evening, Devlin sat draped in shadows alongside Therese in a prime box at the Royal Italian Opera House and watched his wife’s face. On the stage, the tenor was delivering an aria with passion and verve, but for Devlin, the expressions that flitted over Therese’s fine features were infinitely more mesmerizing.
Even the downpour outside, a torrential storm with which they’d had to contend to reach the Opera House’s foyer, hadn’t dimmed her mood, her transparent expectation of enjoyment. Anticipation had glowed in her eyes and lit her entire countenance.
On the way to Covent Garden, she’d admitted that she’d considered inviting others to join them in the box, but given the invitation would have been at such short notice, she’d decided against it.
He hadn’t thought of that possibility and appreciated her restraint. Being able to drink in her expressions without anyone else being close enough to notice his absorption was his notion of a just reward.
He was dimly, distantly aware of the activity on the stage, but his attention remained riveted on Therese, on the play of emotions ranging from tense to rapturous that, as the music swelled and built and the soloists’ voices combined in a duet, flowed across her features.
She’d always enjoyed musical performances. He’d learned that shortly after they’d first met, when he’d been forced to inveigle an invitation from one of his aunts to a musical evening held by said aunt’s closest friend by pretending to an interest in the talents of some Italian tenor, purely in order to continue to cross Miss Therese Cynster’s path. It had, however, been several years since he’d accompanied her to an opera; he’d forgotten how completely the dramatic music could enthrall her and sweep her away. Sweep her consciousness from this world and leave her reactions visible for anyone to see.
Of course, the vast majority of the ladies and even the gentlemen occupying the boxes to either side were similarly affected, which left him to enjoy the sight of Therese’s changing expressions without fear of being observed.
In the grip of a fascination he could rarely indulge, he didn’t stir or redirect his gaze until the curtains swished closed and the attendants rushed about, turning up the gaslights for the main intermission.
The visiting Vienna Court Opera had elected to perform the shortened version of Rossini’s William Tell, which comprised three acts. The interval between the first two acts had been of only a few minutes’ duration, just long enough to allow the scenery to be changed and those who had secured seats for the highly anticipated performance to look around and take note of who else had managed the feat and smile and nod and catch the eye of those they wished to impress by their presence.
Devlin had seized the moment to ask Therese what she’d thought of the production to that point and had happily listened to her rhapsodize until the lights had dimmed and expectant silence had descended on the auditorium once more.
Now, Therese sighed and turned to Devlin. “Thus far, this has been a tour de force.” She glanced past him at the occupants of the next box, then swept her gaze around the circle. “The audience seems to be more heavily weighted to the diplomatic set than the usual ton gathering.”
Elegantly, Devlin uncrossed his long legs. “I suspect that’s an outcome of so many visiting dignitaries having congregated in the city for the final week of the exhibition.”
He rose as an attendant opened the door to the box and wheeled in a trolley bearing a large platter of canapés, glasses, and an ice bucket in which resided an open bottle of champagne. After closing the door, the attendant parked the trolley against the rear wall, then at Devlin’s signal, poured two glasses of the wine.
Devlin took the glasses and offered one to her.
Still seated, she accepted it with a quizzical lift to her brows. “Is this your doing or our benefactor’s?”
He sipped and glanced at the attendant, who was readying the platter of canapés. “Mine.” He looked back at her and smiled. “It seemed the least I could do to add to the ambiance, given the box fell into my lap.”
He raised his glass to her, and smiling, she returned the salute and sipped.
The attendant came forward to offer the canapés, and she chose a small pastry. She barely had time to savor it before the first knock fell on the box door.
At Devlin’s nod, the attendant opened the door, inquired of the persons without, then stood back and announced, “Lord and Lady Hardcastle, Lady Poulson, and Miss Nagley.”
Therese rose as Lady Hardcastle, a matron with whom she had a passing acquaintance, swept into the box and, barely glancing at Devlin, bore down on her.
“My dear countess, I might have known you would be here! Such a splendid performance, don’t you think?”
Therese recalled that Lady Hardcastle considered herself something of a musical aficionado. “Indeed. I can’t remember hearing better. The tenor, in particular, was superb.”
“Wonderful delivery! But of course, they are foreigners, and one has to admit they do seem to manage Italian better than our local performers.”
Lord Hardcastle had greeted Devlin, who arranged for glasses of champagne to be poured for their guests. Lord Hardcastle duly arrived to thrust a glass under his wife’s nose. “Deuced good stuff, m’dear. But then, it’s Alverton, of course. He’s always had a knowing palate.”