Читать книгу The Wayward Debutante - Sarah Barnwell Elliott - Страница 9

The play was supposed to begin at seven, and when the curtains hadn’t parted by half past Eleanor started to get very nervous. Lady Montagu-Dawson’s ball would last until the early hours of the morning, but Beatrice and Charles wouldn’t stay beyond midnight and might leave much earlier. If they returned home before she did…oh, it didn’t bear thinking. She couldn’t let that happen and, much as she’d dislike it, she’d have to leave the theater prematurely if the play didn’t start soon.

It didn’t help her nerves one bit that the surly driver was supposed to be waiting for her; although she’d paid him extra to do so, she didn’t have much faith in his patience or his honor. If he didn’t keep his word, she’d have to go through the ordeal of finding a hack once more.

To keep her mind occupied, she let her gaze wander over the audience around her—as best she could, anyway, without turning her head too much and attracting unwanted attention. She was aware that a few inquisitive looks had already been aimed in her direction, since even if she were a member of the lower classes, it still wouldn’t be proper for her to be there alone. She sank down in her seat, hoping to make herself less noticeable. She’d deliberately seated herself on the extreme right side of the theater where the crowd was sparse. Her view was impaired, but in the interest of avoiding eye contact and conversation it was worth it.

Theatergoing was primarily a social experience, and most people there were too involved in their own conversations to worry about her. She was becoming worried, however, about a rowdy group of young men seated in the center of the audience. Their cultured accents betrayed them as society gentlemen, and she paled at the possibility that one or two might recognize her. They were obviously drunk, and certainly beyond caring whether they made a spectacle of themselves or anyone else. A pretty orange seller made the mistake of getting too close and was pulled onto one man’s lap. She laughed good-naturedly, but Eleanor could see that she was scared and only playing along.

Lucky for the girl, the curtains parted at that moment and she was able to escape. A hush spread over the audience as the first actor walked onto the stage. The quiet didn’t last very long, but Eleanor was able to block out everything but the play. For the first time in months she was doing exactly as she pleased, and she felt gloriously liberated.

This lasted almost an hour.

At first the woman’s laughter, coming from just a few rows behind her, was like the buzz of a fly: annoying, but perfectly ignorable. But then she kept giggling, as if she had little more than a dried pea rattling around in her head. It wasn’t even a proper laugh. It was a simpering, grating titter.

Eleanor gritted her teeth. She couldn’t turn around and tell her to be quiet. Chances were the woman would respond with a few rotten cabbages that she’d brought along just in case.

A sharp squeal burst from the woman, followed by another round of giggles.

This was more than Eleanor could bear. Pulling herself up straight, she turned around with as much hauteur as she could muster. She wasn’t going to say anything, but she would make her displeasure known with a pointed, dignified look. Then she would turn back around and enjoy the rest of the play in peace.

Only it didn’t work that way. She forgot about the pointed look completely, and she even forgot to turn back around. She forgot the reason she’d turned around in the first place.

The irritating woman was there, and her gaudy dress, cut low to reveal her generous attributes, was to be expected. But beyond that Eleanor noticed nothing about her. She noticed instead the man seated next to her, and she continued to notice him even as it slowly dawned on her that she was staring. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen and she simply couldn’t help herself.

His head was bent to whisper something in the woman’s ear—she might have responded with another giggle but Eleanor was temporarily rendered deaf. His brown hair, so dark it was almost black, was fashionably cut but just a bit too long. Long enough to brush against his temples and make Eleanor’s fingers itch to do the same. Nearly everything about his features proclaimed a high birth—his faultless nose and high, chiseled cheekbones, his straight, dark brows—but his full mouth intimated nothing but sensuality. And the way his perfectly tailored blue jacket caressed his broad shoulders…

Caressed? Eleanor cringed at the choice of word, but good heavens, it was true. Something about him made her think in terms of…well, touching. How very odd. Something about him made her rather flushed, as well. She wondered if he’d be hot to the touch, if his skin would feel soft, or his hands, perhaps, lightly callused. He was again whispering something into the woman’s ear, and his lips were so close that they must have brushed against her skin. What did that feel like? She watched, enthralled, as his head dipped slightly and his lips trailed down the woman’s neck, stopping at her shoulder.

And then he turned his gaze in her direction.

Oh, dear.

She knew she should have looked away the very second their eyes collided, so why was she still staring, only now with her mouth ajar like a simpleton? Her mind told her what to do, only her body was slow to respond. It didn’t help that he was staring right back at her, looking every bit as surprised as she felt. And why shouldn’t he be? She’d been ogling him. His gaze traveled over her face as if remembering every detail, and she blushed deeply as his bemused expression gradually gave way to something far more sensuous. She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were from such a distance, but she could easily discern that they were dark and sinful. His lips curved appreciatively.

Her jaw snapped shut and she turned around so quickly that her head hurt. Dear God. What had she told herself? Do not look at anyone, particularly not men who look like that. Particularly not handsome rakes who seduce women in public places.

She wrinkled her nose at that last thought. Was that really what he was doing? Seducing that woman? What she would have given to be able to turn around to double-check. She’d certainly never seen such a thing before, and here was her chance to find out the precise mechanics. But she clearly couldn’t do that, no matter how curious she was. Especially since she sensed that he was still watching her. No, she couldn’t turn around. Not again, and she shouldn’t even be thinking such unchaste thoughts. What would her family think? She was Eleanor, the good, studious child, and although she’d strayed that evening she’d since learned her lesson.

All she could do was wait for the intermission. It seemed like an eternity, and she was too flustered to pay attention to the action onstage. She just counted the minutes and endeavored not to think about the wicked man behind her.

As the curtains began to close at the end of the first act, Eleanor quickly rose from her seat. She tried not to look too agitated as she walked down the aisle, her eyes trained on the floor and her heart pounding in her chest. He was still watching her. She could feel his gaze on the side of her face.

She was the first person out the theater doors, and once into the foyer she began to run. The street outside was still busy but she had no trouble picking out her driver. In her current state he shone like a beacon.

Thank heavens she’d be home soon.

James Bentley’s office was situated on the south side of his large home. Its floor-length windows filled the room with bright sunlight, light that was gradually bleaching his mahogany furniture of its original dark sheen and endowing it with the warm and weary look of age. Shades of brown and green dominated the office, but were tempered—if one wishes to be strictly honest—by dust. The sunshine brought the dust to prominence, although this fact often went unnoticed by the occupant’s selectively unobservant male gaze. His maid, a girl of about twenty, was too scared of him to enter most days, although he couldn’t fathom why. So the dust quietly collected on the skirting boards; on the chairs and desk; and on the randomly placed piles of books, stacked three, four or five high. It was a cluttered room, but it was an intelligent clutter, a masculine clutter. It was exactly as a productive office should look.

That’s what James told himself as he regarded the room from his desk, even though his day thus far had been marked by inactivity and distraction. He’d accomplished little more than a good lunch at his club.

He rose from his seat and crossed the room to look out the window, onto the well-appointed houses that faced him from across the street. He’d been living at this address for just over a year. Just a year since he’d returned to London after twelve years away. It had been a busy time: furnishing a new home, rekindling old friendships, helping finance a friend’s business and sorting out his own neglected finances. But now the novelty and challenge of these endeavors had begun to fade. He feared he was getting bored.

That thought worried him—he’d been having it too often, and he couldn’t put his finger on the source of his discontent. He supposed taking advantage of the season’s entertainments might help. Despite his lengthy absence, he still received piles of invitations every week—to dinners and balls and every other type of social torture imaginable. And, if he ever decided that standing around in a hot room with a gaggle of silly girls whispering about him behind their hands was a pleasant way to spend an evening, then someday he just might accept one of these invitations.

He ran a hand through his dark hair and glanced at the papers scattered across his desk. He still had work to do, but it could wait until tomorrow. A brisk walk would clear his head, and besides, he was supposed to have dinner with his older brother, Will, in a few hours. William Henry Edward Stanton, now the seventh Earl of Lennox, to be exact.

James grabbed his jacket in preparation to leave, but just as he started walking to the library door it opened. His butler, Perkins, announced, “Mr. Kinsale to see you, my lord.”

Jonathon Kinsale, his best friend and now a business partner, too, was right behind him, not waiting for permission to enter. “You’re not leaving?” he asked in his mild Irish brogue.

James resignedly draped his jacket onto the back of an armchair. He wasn’t in the mood for company, but Jonathon was already helping himself to a glass of brandy. “I’m dining with my brother tonight. Thought I’d take a constitutional first.”

“Oh? And how’s Will?”

“Just returned from six months in the country. Haven’t seen him yet. Why don’t you come along? You’d be doing me a tremendous favor.”

Jonathon made himself comfortable on the worn sofa. “Why, so I can play buffer between you? No thanks. You can handle him perfectly well on your own.”

“He’s bloody persistent, though. Every time I see him, he brings up things I don’t want to talk about.”

“Like Richard.”

James shrugged. Even in the privacy of his home, with his best friend, he still didn’t want to talk about his eldest brother. “Richard is dead. He doesn’t concern me anymore.”

“Of course,” Jonathon said, obviously unconvinced.

James sat back down, wishing Jonathon wasn’t so bloody astute. But the truth was, he didn’t think Richard would ever cease to concern him.

Both Richard and William shared the same mother, but she’d died giving birth to Will. Their father, the fifth Earl of Lennox, had remarried one year later, this time to Diana Bentley, a renowned Irish beauty and his lifelong love. Unfortunately, she’d also been an actress.

James was born a year later and Will, only two at the time, had adored his little brother instantly. But Richard was another matter. He’d been eight when his father remarried, old enough to be aware of the traces of infamy that clouded James’s mother’s past. He’d despised her, and he’d hated James, too. To his sneering and slightly mad eyes, she was a lowborn whore, and her son carried her tainted blood. He’d told James this every chance he’d got. Although James hated Richard right back, these words dominated his childhood. He’d always been afraid that despite a polite facade, the rest of society felt much the same way.

Unfortunately, Richard concealed this side of his personality well, and when both parents died in a fire, no one questioned his ability to be guardian to James and Will, who were only nine and eleven. As the eldest son, Richard would control their education and incomes. He also inherited the title and the bulk of family estates until they came of age.

Will hadn’t fared too badly, but for James, the years that followed were marked by unhappiness and abuse. Will did what he could to protect his younger brother against Richard, but he, too, was just a child. James bore his brother’s cruelty as long as he could, and if only he could have borne it for a few more years he would have come into his inheritance—not a great fortune, but enough to pay his commission and become an officer in His Majesty’s service, like every other third or fourth son. Instead, he’d run away at sixteen, with only the money in his pocket. He’d slept on the side of the road for two days, but then came across a recruiting party at a public house. A red-coated captain had urged all able-bodied men present to protect their fair island from the French scourge, but what sounded most attractive to James—who’d had one pint of ale too many for his youthful head—was the promise of a clean uniform and a hot meal. At least he wouldn’t starve, and although he was presently unable to buy his commission, perhaps he could earn his place as an officer through honest hard work.

“Will just refuses to accept that I’ve created a life for myself separate from everything he values,” James said finally. “I’ve no love for titles and inherited privilege.”

“He just wants to correct past wrongs. Feels guilty because you had to struggle for so many years while his life was easy. Richard was mad.”

“Mad, yes, and not too fond of me, either. I know all this, so let’s drop the subject.”

When he’d left home, he’d thought nothing could be worse than life with Richard, but two years in the army had proved him wrong. The life of a professional soldier was a far cry from the more comfortable existence of an officer. Jonathon had been in his regiment, and they’d become friends whilst sitting in a muddy ditch trying not to be killed. It turned out that Jonathon knew several members of his mother’s family. James’s grandfather owned a Dublin theater, and Jonathon had worked there as an actor and playwright. They’d spent hours plotting ways to escape the service, but these plans became irrelevant when a Frenchman fired a bullet straight at James’s heart; Jonathon shoved him out of the way, taking the bullet himself. James would be forever grateful for this act, although by the end of the day he, too, was struck down. Wounded but alive, both were released from further duty. They’d traveled to Ireland, where Jonathon promised to introduce him to the family he’d never met.

And they’d embraced him. He’d felt for the first time in many years that he had a family. He’d even adopted his mother’s maiden name, a change that Will took issue with; his name would certainly be a topic of conversation at dinner that night. He’d stayed there for almost a decade, until news of Richard’s death arrived.

When he’d returned, Jonathon had come with him, hoping to pursue his dream of owning a London theater. He’d saved a bit of money, and James had helped him with the rest.

“You are being rather stubborn, James, I must say,” said Jonathon, unwilling to let the subject drop that easily. “Will has a point. Richard’s gone. You’ve moved back to London, you’ve claimed your inheritance. So start using your real name, too, and pretend to be respectable.”

James rose, picked up his jacket once more and headed for the library door without responding to that suggestion. “Sure you won’t come tonight?”

Jonathon reluctantly rose from his comfortable position and followed him out of the room and across the marble hall. “Theater won’t run itself. By the by, did you enjoy yourself last night?”

James’s head experienced a tiny pulse of pain at the memory. He knew exactly what Jonathon was referring to. He opened the front door with a quiet groan and stepped outside. “You witnessed my shame?”

“Kitty Budgen is rather conspicuous, I’m afraid. Laughs like a jackal.”

“A real friend would have stopped me.”

“It was too amusing to stop.”

James hadn’t intended on spending his evening with Kitty Budgen, sometime actress and notorious flirt. He’d gone to the theater merely to sign some papers and had been about to leave when he’d spotted a lone woman seated in the audience. Unaccompanied women were invariably prostitutes and not good for business, so he was going to ask her to leave. He’d been waiting for the right moment, but the longer he watched her the less convinced he became. He couldn’t see her face, but her tight, priggish hair and drab clothes didn’t correspond to a prostitute’s colorful appearance. Furthermore, she definitely wasn’t trying to solicit anyone’s attention. He’d started to lose interest, and then Kitty had come along and he’d forgotten about her altogether…

How surprised he’d been when he finally surfaced from Kitty’s charms to see the woman now turned around in her seat, staring at him with a mixture of shock and opprobrium. Any doubts he’d had about her status vanished—he didn’t think he’d ever seen such a sincere display of maidenly outrage. He couldn’t blame her, either, all things considered.

And he’d been damned shocked himself. She was remarkably pretty, a fact he would never have guessed from the back of her head. She was beautiful in a way that Kitty, with her garish clothes and painted face, could never be. He rather regretted the fact that he’d held back from approaching her. He had an idea she’d have been a far more interesting companion.

“James?”

He looked up, realizing he’d become lost in his thoughts once more.

Jonathon sighed. “I said that if I were in your position, I certainly wouldn’t be wasting my time with the likes of Miss Budgen. I’d be dancing with a different heiress every night and fathering weak-chinned, aristocratic brats. What about marriage?”

James frowned. “You’re as bad as Will. I’m not sure that any self-respecting heiress would waste her time with me, nor am I interested in the least. Now—” he paused, looking north, in the direction of Hyde Park “—I’m walking this way.”

Jonathon took the hint, but he couldn’t help calling out over his shoulder as he headed in the opposite direction, “Perhaps you should try to be interested. It might cheer you up.”