Читать книгу The Wayward Debutante - Sarah Barnwell Elliott - Страница 10

Eleanor didn’t exactly know what she was doing there, seated once more in the shadowy outer edges of the theater, just two weeks after her first ordeal there. She’d anticipated spending a quiet evening at home with Beatrice and Charles as no social events had been organized. Only that had changed late in the afternoon when Charles’s mother, Lady Emma Summerson, invited them all to dinner.

“You’ll come, of course, won’t you, Eleanor?” Beatrice had asked. “The invitation is rather tardy, I know, but that’s because something novel has come up. Mrs. Parker-Branch visited Emma late this afternoon with her latest protégé in tow—she fancies herself a great patron, as you know. He’s a Florentine tenor and has agreed to sing for Emma tonight.”

Normally Eleanor would have agreed immediately, but something—she wasn’t sure what—had made her hold back. “It sounds like a late evening.”

“I suppose, but you’ve done nothing all day. It won’t be anything too formal, I promise. Say you’ll come.”

Indeed, Eleanor had meant to say just that. But when she’d opened her mouth something else came out entirely.

“Perhaps I’ll give Miss Pilkington a visit.”

A braying voice coming from the center of the audience bought her attention back to the present with a snap. Her first instinct was to turn to see what was happening, but she caught herself in time. She’d been coaching herself all night to practice restraint, only it wasn’t as easy as it sounded. She’d been raised to speak her mind, not to lower her eyes demurely.

The curtains parted, and she took a deep breath, trying to relax.

Only she couldn’t, nor could she concentrate. She glanced over her shoulder to look at the rows of seats behind her, but they were still empty.

Don’t be silly, Eleanor, she chided herself as she turned her head back around. He will not be here this time. That would be too great a coincidence.

The evening’s play was As You Like It, again. She’d returned for a second viewing—not that she’d been able to see it properly the first time—and the chance that he’d also be there a second time was too slim to worry about. It was highly unlikely that she’d see him again in any context. His physical appearance might have suggested he was a gentleman, but his behavior certainly did not. She’d never seen him at any ton events before, and she would have remembered.

So why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? He was no longer a threat; he was nothing more than a spine-tingling—make that very spine-tingling—memory. She wasn’t unused to attractive men, either. Her brother, Ben, was terribly good-looking and Charles, until two weeks ago, anyway, was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. But, well, that was Charles, for goodness sake. It wasn’t the same.

Eleanor closed her eyes and tried to remember the stranger’s face. Since she’d dreamed about him just the other night it wasn’t that difficult. She sank back into her seat and looked up at the plasterwork ceiling. She couldn’t help grinning. Dear God, why have you made me so depraved? His boldness had shocked and thrilled her, and all he’d done was smile at her with a little more masculine approval than she was used to. Few men had ever flirted with her; she wasn’t used to that sort of attention.

The sound of a large form easing into the seat in front of her drew her attention back to earth. That form was a very tall and spherical man.

Oh…!

She frowned at his broad back and leaned her body to one side and then to the other, trying to see around him. How dare he not only come in late but obscure her view, as well? She stared at the back of his bald head, willing him to change his seat. She certainly wasn’t going to move. In the first place—just as a matter of principle—she’d sat down before him. In the second place, however, looking for another seat would require standing up, searching about and drawing attention to herself in the process. Just when she’d been avoiding notice so well.

With an annoyed sigh, Eleanor realized she had no choice but to crane her neck.

From the comfort of his private box, James looked out over the audience. He wasn’t really paying attention since he’d already seen the play, and had actually only come along because Jonathon had invited him for a closing night drink. With each successful play, he came closer to repaying the loan, and he liked to celebrate.

His gaze faltered as it drifted across a blond head. A woman, seated on the right side of the theater. Unlike most of the audience, her face was turned toward the stage, and she appeared to be following the play with interest. She was also completely alone. He narrowed his eyes, instantly certain he’d seen her somewhere before, although he couldn’t remember where. Other than the fact that she was alone there wasn’t anything remarkable about her. Her body, what he could see of it, anyway, was slim and covered in a dreary, gray dress. Her hair was pulled into a severe knot.

He watched with amusement as she shifted her weight, apparently trying to see around the large man seated directly in front of her. If he’d been any closer, he was certain that he would have heard her huff in annoyance.

Where had he seen her before?

With a frown, he reached for Jonathon’s opera glasses. As he watched, she leaned forward once again, trying to crane her head around the impenetrable form blocking her view. He chuckled as she sat heavily back into her seat in frustration.

As if she heard him, an impossibility from that distance, she turned her head to the side quickly, almost suspiciously. He stopped laughing, his eyes on the face that was now presented to him in profile. Suddenly, he remembered.

“See anything unusual through those?” Jonathon asked, regarding him with mild interest.

“Perhaps.”

Jonathon glanced down at the audience toward the nondescript blond woman. She still fidgeted miserably. “Really?” he asked dubiously.

“Have you seen that woman before?”

Jonathon frowned. “Don’t think so…honestly can’t remember. Have you?”

He shrugged. “When I was here last…about two weeks ago. She was unaccompanied then, too.”

Jonathon sighed. “What a nuisance. Do you want to remove her, or shall I?”

James didn’t respond. He wasn’t going to throw her out, not until he’d satisfied his curiosity, anyway. He didn’t know why she so intrigued him, but he’d thought about her several times since he’d first seen her. She was quite pretty, but she definitely didn’t seem out of the ordinary. Yet he remembered a slightly different picture from before: bottomless azure eyes; flushed cheeks; full, parted lips…he hadn’t expected to see her again, and he wasn’t going to let her run away so soon this time.

With a departing nod to the still-doubtful Jonathon, he left the box, heading down the dimly lit flight of stairs to the seats below. It took only a moment to locate her, and he had to hold back another grin as he walked slowly down the aisle. If she’d been paying attention before, that was no longer the case. Her attention now seemed to be entirely focused on boring holes with her eyes into the man’s thick neck. She was so absorbed that she didn’t even notice as he took a seat directly behind her. She just exhaled loudly in frustration and craned her head once more.

James watched her for several minutes, enjoying her irritation. The act soon ended, and the man rose and walked off, presumably to stretch his legs before the second half of the play began. With a relieved sigh, she leaned back into her seat.

And he leaned forward, his lips only inches from the back of her head. In a whisper, he asked, “Why don’t you change your seat if you can’t see?”

She didn’t turn around. He wasn’t sure if he’d expected her to. For an instant she looked as though she was about to jump out of her seat, but then she merely stiffened her shoulders. She was pretending not to have heard him.

He narrowed his eyes. The volume in the theater had increased as the scenery was changed, but it wasn’t that loud. She’d heard him, and it wasn’t as if she had anyone else to speak to, either. She was just sitting there, intentionally ignoring him. James wasn’t used to that sort of treatment. He slid from his seat, stepped over the row of seats in front of him, and sat down right next to her.

Eleanor kept her neck as rigid as a flagpole. She’d no idea who this beastly man was, and she certainly wouldn’t dignify his presence by looking at him. Making eye contact would only invite further liberties; better just to ignore him and hope that he’d go away. She’d rehearsed this tactic many times in her head just in case such a scenario should pass.

“Are you enjoying the play?”

She made no answer and still didn’t turn her head. Instead, she imagined what he’d look like. Pudgy. Ugly. His nose would be bulbous and lined with red veins from too much drink.

He sighed elaborately next to her, leaned back in his seat and stretched out his legs. In turn, she edged sideways in her own seat and tried to make herself as small as possible so she wouldn’t accidentally touch any part of him. Odious man.

“Well, you must like it, as I’ve seen you here before,” he said. His voice was deep and rich and didn’t fit the unattractive physique her mind had conjured up. “Unless, of course, you just make a habit of wandering around the less savory parts of London by yourself at night.”

She hoped he didn’t notice her eyes grow slightly wider as the meaning of his words sank in. Had he really seen her there before? Her muteness was positively killing her, but she refused to speak, hoping that if she ignored him long enough he’d get bored and leave.

But he didn’t get bored. He got impatient, and he reached out and grabbed her hand, tugging gently.

She gasped and pulled it away with a jerk. She was so outraged that she completely forgot about ignoring him and turned her entire body around to rebuke him. But the nasty words that were ready at her lips died before they were ever formed.

Oh, no.

“Hello again,” he said, his voice laced with humor.

She didn’t reply. She was still too stunned. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but there he was. Right next to her, regarding her with curiosity and waiting for her to say something. And she could think of nothing to say. Her head felt as if it had been emptied of all intelligent content and all she could do, again, was stare. She’d thought he was handsome the first time she’d seen him, but now, up close…she really shouldn’t be looking at his lips. She lifted her gaze from his mouth but instead became trapped in his eyes. Mesmerizing eyes, not dark at all as she’d previously thought, but leafy green with veins of gold and brown.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice growing softer.

She didn’t know how or when it had happened, but he’d reclaimed her hand; with his thumb, he lightly stroked her palm. If not for that fact, she surely wouldn’t have answered him. But with his hand covering hers she couldn’t think too clearly. Her voice didn’t sound quite like her own. “Eleanor.”

He cocked his head, waiting for more. His fingers drifted up her arm, across her shoulder, to trace a gentle line along her jaw.

“Surely you have more of a name than that?”

Did she? What was her name? “Um…Smith.”

“Are you newly married, Eleanor…um, Smith?”

“Why do you ask such a question, sir?” Her sense was finally returning, and she pulled her head away from his wandering hand.

He smiled, his eyes darkening wickedly. “You stumbled a bit over your name, Eleanor Smith,” he explained. “I thought perhaps it might be…new to you.”

She blushed deeply, but her voice was sharp. “I stumbled because I am unused to such rudeness.”

“I see. Are you married at all, then?”

She just glared at him before turning her head away to face the stage. She would not answer him this time. Doing so had obviously only encouraged further impertinent questions.

“I don’t believe you are married.”

She could hear the laughter in his voice and cursed him silently. She picked up the thin program she’d been given upon entry and began reading it for a second time.

“If you’re not married—and you’re not—then you must be employed.”

Still without looking at him, she gritted out, “I never said I wasn’t married.”

He chuckled. “But you’re not, of course. You’re lucky you aren’t, too…if you were, your husband would be obliged to give you a thorough spanking for coming here alone. It’s not at all proper, you know.”

Eleanor didn’t turn her head for a moment. She was too shocked, not believing he’d really said what she thought he’d just said. Spanking?

Spanking?

With the word raging in her mind, she turned on him, eyes flashing, forgetting for the moment the dangerous effect he had on her. “You, sir, are not at all proper!”

He was unfazed by her indignation. “How are you employed, did you say?”

“I did not.”

“I see. Then shall I guess?”

“I am a governess,” she answered shortly, hoping that austere and respectable occupation would change the direction of his lecherous thoughts. Scathingly, she added, “And you are…what, a professional libertine?”

She’d meant to insult him, but her remark seemed only to amuse him further. “No…I rather wish, but…” He paused, perhaps realizing he’d baited her too much. “Don’t think I’ve introduced myself yet—perhaps I should start over. I’m James Bentley.”

“Do you intend to sit here all night, Mr. Bentley?”

“Just until I figure something out,” he said thoughtfully, his gaze roaming over her face. “You see, it’s a rather odd thing that a governess should be here alone. I mean, you ought to have an untarnished reputation, oughtn’t you? You ought to be at least as proper as the brats you look after.”

Eleanor swallowed hard, wishing she hadn’t come up with that particular profession. He was right. No governess would traipse off to the theater alone—not if she expected to keep her position, anyway. “It is not a crime to enjoy the theater. And I’m not employed. Currently, that is,” she blurted out. “I am looking for work.”

James leaned forward. “I can help you with that,” he said, his voice low and slightly thick.

“You can?” With his face so close to hers, she felt her train of thought begin to slip carelessly away. Her eyes wandered to his mouth. She was watching him speak, but not really attending to what he said.

“You’ve overlooked one crucial point, Miss Smith. You’re far too pretty to be a governess. No one will ever hire you.”

“No?” Her voice sounded small and faint.

He shook his head. “Afraid not. But I’d be happy to employ you.”

She blinked, not understanding at first what he meant. But when the meaning of his words slowly became clear, all the anger and embarrassment she’d felt that evening came back to her in one large dose. She opened her mouth to retort, but she had no insult to equal the one he’d just dealt her. So instead she said nothing and rose. He didn’t try to stop her as she pushed past him. What a fool she’d been. She knew he was watching her, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was leaving the building, finding her hack, and getting home as soon as possible. With her head down, she picked up her pace.

And then the next thing she knew she’d crashed into a large, solid object. It was the man who’d been sitting in front of her, the one who’d started her disastrous night off on such a sour note. She glared up at him. He was coming back to his seat for the second act, but unfortunately, he seemed to have had several pints of ale in the interim. He wasted no time latching his fat hands on to her shoulders.

“Well, ’ullo. What’s the ’urry, luv?” he slurred. She backed away from him quickly, but she tripped on the hem of her dress as she did so. With a startled cry, she fell backward.

She should have hit the floor, and she braced her body for the inevitable pain, but it didn’t come. She found herself instead being held by a pair of strong arms. She didn’t have to look behind her to know to whom they belonged. She went rigid, trying to ignore the unfamiliar sensation that washed over her, a feeling of both helplessness and safety, of anger and, most frightening of all, of thrilling pleasure. She took a deep, steadying breath and regarded the large man in front of her. Although she couldn’t see it from her position, something in Mr. Bentley’s expression—that handsome face that had been laughing and mocking her until just a moment ago—must have told him to retreat. Any menace the man had possessed was now replaced by an almost comic apprehension, and he nodded apologetically as he backed away. She shivered, wondering if Mr. Bentley really could be dangerous if provoked.

He turned her around in his arms and looked down at her face with concern. “Are you all right?”

She nodded shakily and tried to straighten. He was too close, and she had to crane her neck to look at him. Heavens, he was tall. She hadn’t noticed when he’d been sitting.

He brushed a finger across her cheek, and she realized he was wiping away a tear. She hadn’t been aware that she’d been crying. There was something…almost tender in his expression, something truly apologetic for having upset her. It only lasted a second—perhaps she’d even imagined it—but it sent a shock of uncertainty through her body. Was he to be her friend or her foe? At that moment it wasn’t clear which. One minute he was arrogant and insulting, and the next he was protecting her from harm. A tiny inexplicable part of her wanted to bury her head in his arms, even though prudence told her to kick him in the shins and run.

He was still holding her, still looking down at her face. She couldn’t look away. His head dipped and she was certain he was going to kiss her; it felt inevitable, like a force she was powerless to stop and didn’t want to stop, anyway. She’d never been kissed before and she didn’t know what to do. She closed her eyes and waited.

Nothing happened.

“Miss Smith?”

She opened her eyes. He was looking at her questioningly and holding up a long, chestnut-colored curl. With a startled intake of breath, she reached her hand up to feel her wig. It had slipped to the side just slightly, probably when she’d run into that man. He reached out his hand, too, and she stepped away quickly, concerned that he was going to pull it off.

They faced each other. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but she knew how she felt: nervous. There was no telling how he would react to this discovery. He might be angry, or feel deceived. He’d obviously be suspicious. But instead all that emerged from his guarded expression was…the same look of intense curiosity that she’d seen on his face several times that evening.

“You’re a bit of a puzzle, aren’t you, Smith?” he said, taking a step forward and stopping when only a few inches separated them. “But I’m afraid I’d rather like to figure you out.” His head dipped slightly again, only this time to whisper, “I was going to kiss you a moment ago. Unless you want that to happen you’d better run.”

She still wasn’t at all clearheaded, but for the first time that night she had no trouble making a decision and acting upon it. She took him at his word and turned and fled. She didn’t look back.

And James didn’t follow. He would have liked to, but he could tell from her expression that he’d frightened her. He just watched her dash up the aisle, long enough for her to disappear through the doors. Then he sat down on the closest seat, not yet ready to return to his box. Jonathon had doubtless observed the whole encounter and would be waiting to rib him. Normally James would have no problem handling his jokes, but for some reason this situation was different. He felt…disappointment at her leaving, and regret that he was the one responsible for her departure. It was an odd sensation since he didn’t even know her. She remained a mystery, and he’d stupidly frightened her off for good. He believed that she was exactly what she claimed to be: a governess who, for whatever reason, simply liked a bit of Shakespeare. Nothing wrong with that. It was actually rather endearing. Like a lot of governesses, she probably had no family and therefore no chaperone. So why, having determined that she was not a doxy trolling the theater, had he treated her like one?

The answer was pretty obvious. Because, in the short time he’d spent with her, she’d intrigued him more than any woman he could remember. Because she had the most remarkable eyes, and a face that was both sensual and intelligent, a rare combination. Because he did want to kiss her. Because he knew, whether she knew it or not, that she’d wanted him to kiss her, too.

The curtains parted for the next act and he sighed. He didn’t really want to sit through the play once more. He rose, but as he stepped into the aisle something caught his attention: a reticule, abandoned on the floor. She must have dropped it. He bent over to pick it up, noting that it was made of cream silk and embroidered with birds and flowers. It was obviously expensive. Perhaps it wasn’t hers after all…

He didn’t mean to snoop, but there was only one way to find out. He opened it, looking for some clue. It contained a long piece of frayed blue ribbon, a small leather-bound volume of the plays of William Wycherley, a mirror and several coins.

It also contained an invitation: to The Right Honorable Marchioness of Pelham, 5 Belgrave Square.

Now who was that?