“My lady!” Tweed said disapprovingly from the doorway. “That’s my job.”
Alice let him take the tray from her. She didn’t have nearly enough servants, and collecting a few teacups and plates to take to the scullery was hardly a job that was beneath her, but it clearly offended Tweed’s notions of what was proper.
Chapter Seven
Gerald lounged against the wall of the box, idly observing the comings and goings of the people in the stalls below. He wasn’t terribly fond of the theater, but Tarrant had invited him, and Gerald had nothing else planned.
Voices outside the box alerted him to the imminent arrival of the rest of Tarrant’s party. The door opened, Gerald straightened, and as the first person stepped into the box, she came to a dead halt. It was that girl. Her excited expression faded, and for a moment she looked dismayed.
Seconds later his aunt bumped into her. “Lucy, whatever are you doing—oh, Gerald. We didn’t expect—how lovely to see you.” She gently pushed the girl aside and came forward to greet him.
“Evening, Aunt Alice. I didn’t realize you were to be one of Tarrant’s party, either.” He nodded at the girl. “Good evening, Miss Bamber.” Swathed in a green velvet cloak trimmed with snowy swansdown and wearing a green-and-cream-striped turban, she looked like one of Persephone’s handmaidens.
She inclined her head graciously, all signs of dismay gone. “Lord Thorndike.”
“Thornton,” he grated. The wench was doing it deliberately.
She touched a white-gloved hand to the side of her face in an unconvincing gesture of regret. “Of course. So shatterbrained of me.” Her sherry-colored eyes danced.
Gerald eyed her balefully. She wasn’t the slightest bit shatterbrained. Or the least bit sorry. And he was sure he’d seen her somewhere before. That cheeky expression, those eyes, that attitude . . . That mouth . . . But where?
The orchestra began, and the audience settled—as much as it ever did. “Are we waiting for any more people to arrive?” Aunt Alice asked Tarrant.
“No, as I said, it’s a very small party.” He seated Aunt Alice and took the seat beside her. Gerald seated Miss Bamber and placed himself a little behind her. For some reason he felt he needed to keep an eye on her.
Tarrant hadn’t invited a party at all, Gerald realized. He was only interested in one person: Aunt Alice. He’d invited her goddaughter for the sake of propriety, and Gerald so he’d keep the girl occupied.
Tarrant was pursuing his aunt. But for what purpose? Men did chase after widows. But not Aunt Alice, surely. She’d always been the soul of virtue.
Tarrant. Gerald had always thought him a man of honor. The chivalrous type. A man of integrity. He’d make her a good husband.
But he’d told Gerald quite clearly that first night at the club that he had no intention of marrying again.
Aunt Alice was busy scanning the crowded theater through her opera glasses. Tarrant leaned back lazily in his seat, watching her with an indulgent expression.
What were his intentions? Gerald felt very protective of his aunt. She’d always been kind to him, and his family had treated her so unkindly. She was all alone. Someone had to look after her.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was watching him. He turned his head to find Lucy Bamber regarding him with narrowed eyes. She immediately switched her attention to the stage, pretending she hadn’t noticed him.
Something nagged at the back of his mind. Who the devil was she?
The play began, and she leaned forward, as if entranced. At first Gerald thought she was putting it on, but soon he realized she really was entirely caught up in the foolishness onstage—of course she would sympathize with the rebellious daughter. And then the comedy . . .
Her laughter was . . . distracting.
Most young ladies he knew tittered or giggled, or else cultivated a world-weary air of ennui, thinking it frightfully sophisticated to appear bored with everything.
Lucy Bamber’s laughter was wholehearted, spontaneous and annoyingly infectious. Gerald found himself smiling at stage antics he’d seen a dozen times and hadn’t thought funny the first time. But she found them hilarious. And he couldn’t help but smile in response.
Which was irritating. He didn’t want to smile along with her.
When the first act ended, she clapped ecstatically and turned to Aunt Alice with an expression that took his breath away. “Oh, Alice, isn’t it wonderful?” Then she saw him watching her, and the bright animation dimmed. She raised a brow as if to say, “Well? What are you looking at?”
Gerald stomped away to fetch refreshments.
He returned with champagne to find the box full of several visiting ladies and far too many visiting gentlemen. Tarrant, he noticed, hadn’t moved an inch from where he’d been sitting beside Aunt Alice. Gerald’s lips tightened. Tarrant had always been clever tactically.
Lucy Bamber was surrounded by young gentlemen—including two of his friends. She was sipping champagne and smiling. His friends were behaving like besotted fools, flirting and flattering. And she was lapping it up, dammit.
A small table had been brought in and spread with drinks, glasses and a range of appetizing refreshments. Of course Tarrant would have arranged provisions beforehand. He’d always been efficient.
The realization did nothing for Gerald’s mood. He drained his glass of champagne, poured another, leaned against the wall and watched his friends competing to make Lucy Bamber laugh. He wished he’d never come. He hated the theater.
* * *
* * *
They were well into the third act, and Gerald had lost all interest in the play. He sprawled moodily in his seat, legs crossed at the ankles, hands stuffed in his pockets, watching Lucy Bamber through half-closed eyes. The candlelight limned her profile. It wasn’t a classic profile by any means; she wasn’t a beauty. But something about her drew him, though he was damned if he knew what.
It was warm in the theater—all those candles and the heat of a thousand bodies—and she’d removed her long white gloves. Her cloak hung loosely over the back of her chair, as if she’d shrugged it off unthinkingly, letting it lie where it fell in folds around her. Her attention was wholly on the stage; they were at the part where everyone was pretending to be somebody else—stupid story—as if that would fool anyone. She stroked the swansdown edging of her cloak rhythmically, as if she were patting a cat, stroking the soft feathers between her fingers. Stroke . . . stroke . . . stroke.
He sat up frowning, a thought picking elusively at the edge of his brain. An image of another slender hand stroking something soft and white . . . Feathers . . . A long white neck . . .