“I would have thought you enjoyed the costumes most,” he said in a brittle undertone, “given your passion for fashion.”
To keep from losing her temper at him more visibly, she returned to watching the stage. Her “passion for fashion” indeed. Once again, he saw her as only a frivolous ninny. “And I would have thought you enjoyed the wit most,” she said archly. “But perhaps you need someone to explain it to you.”
Sheridan gave a low laugh that rumbled around in her body for a bit, making her feel all soft and mushy inside.
Then he whispered, “Is that your polite way of saying you think me witless, Miss Pryde?”
“Oh, was I polite? That was unintentional.”
Perhaps she should just face the fact that Sheridan had no romantic interest in her. No matter what she did, she would always be someone for him to tease and then ignore. He would clearly never see her as a woman capable of being his wife. Why, even when he’d danced with her at balls, it had been out of a sense of duty to his oldest half brother. If dancing hadn’t changed his perception of her, what else was there?
On the stage, a young man was trying to steal a kiss from the lady destined to be his true love, and that sparked a wild notion. A kiss. That was it! Vanessa’s pulse began to race. She had to get Sheridan to kiss her. Kisses could be magical. Well, none that she’d ever experienced had been so, but clearly she just hadn’t found the right person to kiss. Why else would kisses punctuate the crowning moments in comedies, the lovely parts of ballads, and even the thrilling verses of poetry?
But how on earth could she get Sheridan to kiss her when he didn’t see her as the enticing enchantress she wanted to be to him?
Idly she picked up the polemoscope. As if to add insult to injury, Mr. Juncker appeared in the aperture. Even as she watched, Mr. Juncker rose, clearly meaning to leave his box.
That gave her an idea. Sheridan already thought her enamored of Mr. Juncker. She could still use that. But first she had to convince Sheridan to leave the box with her. And her view of another box gave her the perfect excuse.
Vanessa leaned back to whisper in his ear, “I’ve spotted a friend of mine in a box down the way. I simply must go speak to her. Will you accompany me?”
He eyed her askance. “What about your favorite scene?”
“It just finished,” she said hastily. “Besides, it looks as if my friend might be leaving, and I haven’t seen her in months.”
“Why don’t you ask your uncle to go with you?”
“You mean the uncle who is presently emitting a loud snore?”
Sheridan looked at Uncle Noah and grimaced.
“You can remain here,” she added. “I’ll just go by myself.” She rose, praying that Mama didn’t try to stop her, and that the overprotective Saint Sheridan followed her. When he did, she released a long breath.
Once they were in the now-empty corridor, Sheridan muttered, “Who is this special friend of yours, anyway?”
She kept slightly ahead of him. “Miss Younger.”
“Never heard of her,” he said, clearly skeptical.
“That means nothing. First of all, you rarely go into society unless your family forces you to. Second, you avoid me whenever possible, so you wouldn’t necessarily have encountered her. Third—”
“Wait, wait, stop.” He grabbed her by the arm to stay her. “What do you mean, I avoid you? That implies an active dislike.”
“Call it what you will, but you must admit you go out of your way to keep from chancing upon me.” She stared at him, daring him to deny it.
“I don’t—I haven’t—” For a moment, he looked flustered. It was encouraging to think she could fluster him. Then he smoothed his features into the usual stern expression he used only with her. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that one.”
“Hmm.” She continued down the corridor. “In any case, you would never have met her because she hasn’t even had a coming out.”
“So how did she get to be friends with you? You had your coming out a while ago. If your friend is of an age to come out, then she must be aptly named indeed, since she’d have to be a good six or seven years younger than you.”
“How clever of you to make such an obvious play on words with my friend’s name.” She peered down the corridor and slowed her steps. Where in blazes was Mr. Juncker?
“I’m clever enough to know that a name like Younger is clearly fictitious.”
“Why would I create a fictitious—” She halted so suddenly, he tread on her train. Not that she cared. Now was her chance. Pivoting toward him, she said, “Quick. Kiss me.”
“What?”
“Kiss me!” When he merely arched one eyebrow, she muttered, “Oh, never mind. I’ll do it myself.” And gripping his shoulders, she pulled herself up on tiptoe to press her lips to his.
He jerked back and glanced down the corridor to see what she’d seen—Mr. Juncker headed toward them. Then with a frown Sheridan pushed her against the wall and kissed her back.
Except that his kiss was perfunctory, the kiss of a man forced to do something he ought, not something he wanted. He let it go on in a most unsatisfying manner until Mr. Juncker had slid past them with a murmured, “Beg your pardon.”
Only then did Sheridan release her. That’s when it dawned on her what he’d been doing: once again protecting her, treating her like a . . . a silly schoolgirl. Making sure that Mr. Juncker didn’t see her being kissed, while at the same time not really kissing her at all.
Anger took over,
