Читать книгу To Wed A Rebel - Sophie Dash - Страница 12

Chapter Five

Ruth

“A toast,” announced Griswell. “To the happy couple.”

The merchant had returned to the opera box shortly after Ruth and she did not miss the cryptic look he gave her, nor the annoyed flicker on his beak-like face. Roscoe’s warning was still in her ears, the warmth of his hands still on her skin, bringing an unsettled knot to her stomach. It was over, whatever it had been. Weakness – every human was prone to it, even she. This had been her one slip-up, the stumble before the rest of her life began. Mrs Pembroke. She knew who she was meant to be. Who everyone expected her to be.

The evening passed by without event, until the moment when a glass was positioned in Ruth’s hand. Although she’d had wine before, it had always been little sips, a drink in moderation, for her uncle disapproved. Not due to religious reasons, but due to the price. Alcohol was expensive and mishaps caused by intoxication even more so, both to a man’s pockets and his character.

Albert spotted her hesitation and gave her a meaningful look. The evening at the opera had gone poorly. Ruth knew she had been inattentive and lacking in enthusiasm. Her husband-to-be had noticed. To not drink would be to further insult him. Even Lottie shot Ruth a severe glance. Did they sense her reluctance? Ruth could not help but think on what her uncle might say at her conduct, at how she jeopardised all their futures.

Don’t be a burden, her mother had said. Don’t be a burden, my darling.

The wine had a queer, familiar taste.

Another toast, fuzzed words, Griswell’s piercing eyes.

Ruth put the glass to her lips again, until the entertainment before them was a distorted blur. The costumes, at first enchanting, now seemed like twisted, mocking devils. The floor sloped, her seat tipped, distant singers split in half, two bodies with mirror movements.

“A little air is all she needs.”

The glass was wrenched from her hand, barely touched, a few mere mouthfuls gone.

Griswell’s voice, she heard her name, a clicking tongue followed by Albert’s wet words, thick fingers, and Lottie’s fan inches from her face.

Cobblestones.

There shouldn’t be cobblestones in a theatre.

The air was sharper, a sudden coldness. They were outside.

Movement – a carriage – brought a half-formed question, perched on her lips, clumsy. Her chaperone didn’t answer.

“That’s right, don’t fight it,” she heard Griswell say. “Sleep. It will make this all the easier for you – for both of us.”