Leonora nodded her agreement, then saw her aunt to the door.
She returned to the parlor more pensive. Perhaps going out into the ton, at least for the few weeks before the Season proper commenced, might be wise.
Might distract her from the lingering effects of her seduction.
Might help her recover from the shock of Trentham offering to marry her. And the even greater shock of him insisting that she should.
She didn’t understand his reasoning, but he’d seemed very set on it. A few weeks in society being exposed to other men would no doubt remind her why she’d never wed.
She suspected nothing. Not until the carriage drew up before the theater steps and a harried groom opened the door did the faintest glimmer of a suspicion cross her mind.
And by then it was too late.
Trentham stepped forward and calmly held out his hand to assist her from the carriage.
Jaw slack, she stared at him.
Mildred’s elbow dug into her ribs; she started, then threw a swift, fulminating glance at her aunt before haughtily reaching out and placing her fingers in Trentham’s palm.
She had no choice. Carriages were banking up; the steps of the theater hosting the most talked-about play was not the place to create a scene—to tell a gentleman what one thought of him and his machinations. To inform her aunt that this time she’d gone too far.
Cloaked in chilly hauteur, she allowed him to help her down, then stood, feigning icy indifference, idly surveying the fashionable hordes streaming up the theater steps and through the open doors while he greeted her aunts and assisted them to the pavement.
Mildred, resplendent in her favorite black and white, forcefully linked her arm in Gertie’s and forged her way up the steps.
Coolly, Trentham turned to her and offered his arm.
She met his gaze, to her surprise saw no triumph in his hazel eyes, but rather a careful watchfulness. The sight mollified her somewhat; she consented to lay the tips of her fingers on his sleeve and allow him to guide her in her aunts’ wake.
Tristan considered the angle of Leonora’s chin and preserved his silence. They joined her aunts in the foyer, where the crush had brought them to a standstill. He took the lead and with no great difficulty cleared a path to the stairs upward, drawing Leonora with him; her aunts followed close behind. Once on the stairs the press of bodies eased; covering Leonora’s hand on his sleeve, he led his party up to the semicircular corridor leading to the boxes.
He glanced at Leonora as they neared the door of the box he’d hired. “I’ve heard that Mr. Kean is the best actor of the day, and tonight’s play a worthy showcase for his talents. I thought you might enjoy it.”
She met his eyes briefly, then inclined her head, still haughtily aloof. Reaching the box, he held aside the heavy curtain screening the doorway; she swept in, her head high. He waited for her aunts to pass him, then followed, allowing the curtain to fall closed behind him.
Lady Warsingham and her sister bustled to the front of the box and disposed themselves in two of the three seats along the front. Leonora had paused in the shadows by the wall; her narrowed gaze was fixed on Lady Warsingham, who was busy noting all the notables in the other boxes, exchanging nods, determinedly not looking Leonora’s way.
He hesitated, then approached.
Her attention swung to him; her eyes flared. “How did you manage this?” She spoke in a hissed whisper. “I never told you she was my aunt.”
He raised a brow. “I have my sources.”
“And the tickets.” She glanced out at the boxes, quickly filling with those lucky enough to have secured a place. “Your cousins told me you never go out in society.”
“As you can see, that’s not strictly true.”
She glanced back at him, expecting more.
He met her gaze. “I’ve little use for society in general, but I’m not here to spend my evening with the ton.”
She frowned, somewhat warily asked, “Why are you here then?”
He held her gaze for a heartbeat, then murmured, “To spend my evening with you.”
A bell clanged in the corridor. He reached for her arm and guided her to the remaining chair at the front of the box. She threw him a skeptical glance, then sat. He drew the fourth chair around, set it to her left, angled toward her, and settled to watch the performance.
It was worth every penny of the small fortune he’d paid. His eyes rarely strayed to the stage; his gaze remained on Leonora’s face, watching the emotions flitting across her features, delicate, pure; and, in this setting, unguarded. Although initially aware of him, Edmund Kean’s magic quickly drew her in; he sat and watched, content, perceptive, intrigued.
He had no idea why she’d refused him—why, according to her, she had no interest in marriage at all. Her aunts, subjected to his most subtle interrogation, had been unable to shed any light on the matter, which meant he was going into this battle blind.
Not that that materially affected his strategy. As far as he’d ever heard, there was only one way to win a reluctant lady.
When the curtain came down at the end of the first act, Leonora sighed, then remembered where she was, and with whom. She glanced at Trentham, was unsurprised to find his gaze steady on her face.
She smiled. Coolly. “I’d very much like some refreshment.”
His eyes held hers for a moment, then his lips curved and he inclined his head, accepting the commission. His gaze went past her and he rose.
Leonora swiveled and saw Gertie and Mildred on their feet, gathering their reticules and shawls.
Mildred beamed at her and Trentham; her gaze settled on his face. “We’re off to parade in the corridor and meet everyone. Leonora hates to be subjected to the crush, but I’m sure we can rely on you to entertain her.”
For the second time that evening, Leonora’s jaw fell slack. Stunned, she watched her aunts bustle out, watched Trentham hold the heavy curtain aside for them to escape. Given her earlier insistence on avoiding the ritual parade, she could hardly complain, and there was nothing the least improper in her and Trentham remaining in the box alone; they were in public, under the gaze of any number of the ton’s matrons.
He let the curtain fall and turned back to her.
She cleared her throat. “I really am quite parched…” Refreshments were available by the stairs; reaching the booth and returning would keep him occupied for a good portion of the interval.
His gaze rested on her face; his lips were lightly curved. A tap sounded by the doorway; Trentham turned and held the curtain aside. An attendant ducked past, carrying a tray with four glasses and a bottle of chilled champagne. He placed the tray on the small table against the back wall.
“I’ll pour.”
The attendant bowed to her, then Trentham, and disappeared through the curtain.
Leonora watched as Trentham eased the cork from the bottle, then poured the delicately fizzy liquid into two of the long flutes. She was suddenly very glad she’d worn her midnight blue gown—suitable armor for this type of situation.
Picking up both glasses, he crossed to where she still sat, swiveled on her chair so she sat sideways to the pit.
He handed her one glass. She reached for it, somewhat surprised that he made no move to use the moment, to touch her fingers with his. He released the glass, caught her gaze as she glanced up.
“Relax. I won’t bite.”
She arched a brow at him, sipped, then asked, “Are you sure?”
His lips quirked; he glanced out at the patrons milling in the other boxes. “These surrounds are hardly conducive.”
He looked back at her, then reached for Gertie’s chair, turned it so its back was to the throng, and sat, stretching his long legs out before him, elegantly at ease.
He sipped, his gaze on her face, then asked, “So tell me. Is Mr. Kean really as good as they say?”
