A Lady in Love (16 page)

"As I see. She looks in glowing health."

"Oh, yes. Harmonia is never ill.” Gliding her hand over her cheek, she wondered if she appeared as tired as she felt. Last night had been sleepless, as many nights had been—nights in which she'd lain awake and writhed at the memory of her foolishness. Tonight would be the same. For, fool that she was, the first sound of his voice, the first glance she'd had of him, this moment with him alone beside her, all combined to teach Sarah one depressing fact. She loved Lord Reyne no less for all the six months that lay between them. She loved him more, so much that her heart nearly strangled her with its fierce beating.

"Do you return to the fray?” he asked. Her replacement had held up her hand for a pause and fell to rubbing her arm, a questioning frown on her brow.

"No,” Sarah said. “I'm resigned."

Lord Reyne rubbed his hands together. “Do you suppose it would be ... cricket ... if I volunteered my services to the female side?” He smiled more broadly when he saw her doubtful expression. “I'm entirely recovered from my wounds, Miss East. You see, I remember that you were ever concerned for my well-being."

"I saw you are no longer troubled by them, sir."

"How can you possibly know that?” Alaric said, raising his brows at her as thought she possessed second sight.

"It's just that you seem ... happy, that's all.” She did not precisely know how to express it. Every motion he made was free, as though he'd shrugged off some galling fetter.

"I am happy. Miss East.” It was a statement of determined fact, allowable of no argument or even discussion. “Ah, she'd given up. Pray excuse me.” He walked across the room for a consultation with Mrs. Whitsun, who instantly allowed him to play for the ladies. Taking his place in the crease, he looked about the field as though he'd made a recent purchase of it and deciding where it would fit in his house.

His house. Miss Canfield's future home. Sarah saw Miss Canfield watching Alaric with an expression of mingled pride and laughter. How could he help but be happy with such a woman waiting to become his bride? The wonder was that they were not already married. Without knowing why, Sarah began to circle the room to stand beside Miss Canfield, who welcomed her with a smile. Clapping, Lillian called out,"Oh, well played!"

Sara joined in the applause.

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"Bravo!"

"Hurrah!"

"Bravo, bravo!"

The three men sitting in a box with Alaric joined in the cheers. Many voices called out to the actor on the stage. He, having finished a long speech of language so metaphysical as to render him unintelligible, bowed deeply to the audience. A rain of flowers flooded the stage from sentimental ladies.

"Frightfully good, don't you think?” asked Alaric's former subaltern, Mr. Chasen.

Mr. Ward agreed. “He certainly beats Kemble all hollow. You weren't in London for the O.P. riots, were you, Reyne?"

"No, I was otherwise engaged.” Alaric tipped his chair back, his arms crossed over his chest. He'd decided rather late to accept the invitation of three friends to this new play tonight, having read in the morning editions that it was a rare experience. Indeed it was, a rare chance to experience pure, exquisite boredom. This was boredom lifted beyond mere torture, into an entirely new realm of agony. He couldn't make out what the story was, let alone what point the orator tried to make.

"You may think Jaspers is good, but wait until you see Mrs. Tovey. I was here last night, you know. She's perfection in the part. And all her parts are perfection.” Mr. Hibbert sighed and rested his elbow on the rail, blocking Alaric's view of the stage. Alaric felt rather relieved about it. But in a moment, Hibbert apologized and sat up straight.

"Going to make her the object of your affections?” Mr. Ward asked, leaning over Hibbert's chair. Nimbly, he slipped loose the other man's monocular telescope and applied it to his eye, focusing on the curtained wings of the stage.

"It'll take a warmer man than me to woo her from the Marquis d'Augemont."

"Who the devil's he?"

"A Frenchie who saved his money.” The three officers, two still in uniform, laughed, and were shushed by other audience members in the boxes that lined the walls of the theater.

Out came the actress to frenzied applause and coarse comments from the pit. Her declaimed conversation with the actor already present might have been a confession of love, a plot to murder her husband, or both. Alaric couldn't be certain she wasn't asking the time of day and commenting on the weather. The papers had claimed this actress to be of surpassing beauty, lovelier than Venus. She seemed drab and colorless to him. He felt like writing a letter to
The Times
about it.

She came to the end of her speech, and the applause erupted once more. “You're quite right, old man. She's marvelous. What eyes! What expression!” Mr. Chasen said, beating his gloved hands together in ecstasy.

"She's made a quite sensation. Devil of a crush in the Green Room, I daresay. Perhaps we'll shove along and join it, just for
s'amusant.
What do you say, Reyne?” Hibbert asked.

"Whatever you chaps want.” What he'd seen of the actress did not tempt him to approach her more nearly. Come to think of it, most females in London these days failed to possess even the rudiments of attractiveness. Casting his gaze about the theater, Alaric considered that all women seemed to come in distressing shades of yellow or fish-white. He'd not seen a one worth the following since leaving Hollytrees. Loyally, he excepted Lillian. She always looked well. But the others—dear lord!

Perhaps, he thought, tipping his chair further back, teetering on the danger point, chicken-pox affects the eyesight adversely. Or perhaps it had rendered his vision so sharp that he could see past artifice to the real beauty beneath.

Lillian was supposed to be here, somewhere. He'd not spotted her yet. He brought his chair forward with a thud that brought hisses from the crowd, for the actor and actress had begun ranting again, complete with over-emphatic facial contortions. Alaric ignored both the crowd and the performance. He scanned the house. A glint of something like gold attracted his attention in the box across the way, on the same tier as his own but back two. He dismissed it as the candlelight calling forth reflection from the gilding on a cherub's behind.

But the flickering glow of gold continued to twinkle in the corner of his eye every time he looked in that direction. Finally, he extended his own glass to examine the object more closely. A muffled exclamation escaped him.

The two friends in the rear of the box exchanged looks. Chasen leaned forward. “Are you all right, Reyne?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Sorry to disturb you."

Sarah East leaned her elbow on the rail and gazed at the actors. It was her hair sparkling under the candlelight. Alaric did not know he smiled as he studied the play of expression on the girl's face. Obviously, she'd never seen anything so wonderful as those two clowns, declaiming their hearts out. No doubt some of the flowers littering the stage were from her hand.

"That was uncommonly well put. ‘Wearily wandering this orb twinged of torment... . ‘ I like that,” Ward said. “Comes off the tongue so well."

Alaric raised his small telescope to his eye. Like a diamond slipping loose from its setting, a single tear traced Sarah's flushed cheek. He almost reached out, as though he could wipe it away. For fear someone might have noticed his reaction, he flicked his attention once more to the stage.

The actor and actress embraced. He could see the woman's expression. She looked as if she'd like to hold her nose. Almost without willing it, Alaric once more raised the glass to aid his gaze. Sarah, safely protected by the charm distance lends, pressed her gloved hand to her eyes as though to halt tears that would flow at the tender scene.

Hibbert sniffed and flourished his handkerchief. “Damn that's moving. Pardon me, you fellows."

Coughing, Chasen said, “Quite, quite."

Remembering Lillian had said she'd invited Mrs. Whitsun and her two guests to the play, Alaric dutifully searched the depths of the box. There was a dim shadow in the rear that might have been she, only recognizable because a chilly glitter seemed to encircle the figure's throat. None of the others would have been wearing gems of the quality that throws back candlelight.

Then Sarah sat upright, blocking his view of Lillian. She turned as though to speak to someone behind her, and all Alaric could see was the graceful line of her back. The sweep of her hair exposed the nape of her neck, and in his glass, it seemed near enough to kiss. Then she turned again, her face aglow with pleasure in the play. She licked her open lips with enthusiasm and leaned forward once more.

Alaric dropped his telescope and had to feel about on the floor for it. He was surprised and ashamed to find that his hands trembled as he searched. Sitting up, he focused with great concentration on the actors as he fought the desire to turn the glass again toward Sarah. Sternly, he took himself to task.

Yes, she was beautiful. Yes, from the first, he'd been charmed by her. She was youthful and completely natural in her reactions and interests. To a man newly returned from war, a young lady was the best antidote to horror and exhaustion. However, she was a hoyden, completely uncontrolled. Climbing trees, losing slippers, yes, playing cricket in a ballroom—all unacceptable behavior. She was still a child, beautiful or not.

Let him keep that firmly in mind, and let him also remember that Lillian was exactly the sort of woman he'd always known he would marry someday. She was beautiful, if not spectacularly so. She was the happy possessor of a calm, well-ordered mind, ideal for a lifetime friend. He could not expect her embrace to stir the wild embers of passion, for they weren't married yet. She wasn't some idle mistress who could be expected to raise his expectations and then fulfill them. No doubt, when the time came, he'd be stirred enough.

The
entr'acte
came, in Alaric's opinion, not a moment too soon. With a click, he closed the tube of his telescope and put the resultant circle in his pocket as he stood up. “I'll see you gentlemen at the next act."

"Ah, off to meet Miss Tovey, then?"

"No, Ward. My fiancee is in the audience and I must offer my respects."

"Quite,” Mr. Chasen said. “Very proper. Shall I ... er ... come along? Help with conversation?"

"No, thank you. I think I can manage."

"Damn me,” said Mr. Ward after the box's door had closed behind Alaric.
"My
fiancee's in the audience and you don't see me slipping out to her between acts. I'll have to see her enough once we're married. I'll wager he's gone to offer La Tovey a slip on the shoulder. I'd do it, if I were as right in the pocket as Reyne."

"Right as Reyne?” Hibbert echoed. “I say, that's clever."

Unaware that he'd just become a bon mot, Alaric set off down the corridor. Lillian's party sat on the far side of the theater, and if the house had been thinly attended, he could have walked to it in three or four minutes. As it was, however, it seemed he was forced to stop every yard. Many of his closest friends were still in the field, but there were plenty who knew him to speak to. He concealed his true opinion of the play, not wishing to spend the entire interval arguing, and pushed on.

Outside the door of the correct box, he paused, his fist raised to knock. Though not a man given to examining his motives, he wondered exactly why he'd come. Politeness might dictate that he visit Lillian, yet he could not but be aware of an excitement that had nothing to do with his bride-to-be. But that was ridiculous. His self-respect demanded that he prove to himself that he was not attracted to Sarah East.

Acting the fool over a chit of a girl was an old man's game, and he'd not fall victim to her charms. He'd be polite, show due attentiveness toward Lillian and return, when the half hour was up, to his friends on the other side of the theater. He made a mental note to send flowers to Lillian in the morning.

"Alaric!” Lillian held out her hand with her welcoming smile. He bowed over it. “I thought you weren't going to come."

"I couldn't stay away. Good evening, Mrs. Whitsun. Miss Phelps.” He paused, worried for a moment that his tone might change when he spoke, but then he rushed to continue, thinking his pause might be noticed. “And Miss East. Good evening."

"Good evening. Lord Reyne.” She'd turned at his entrance, the candlelight from the theater behind her glinting in her hair, piled and tousled with ringlets hanging. He couldn't help but remember it falling down her back, still wet from the ducking she'd taken in the lake.

Lillian was saying something to him, and he brought himself out of his daydream with a jerk. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, seating himself.

"I asked if you found the play to your liking."

"Oh, yes, it seems most interesting. However, I wonder if one of you ladies could perhaps tell me what it is about?"

Mrs. Whitsun gave her whinnying laugh. “Really, Lord Reyne, how droll."

Miss Harmonia, hanging over the edge of the box, said, “Sarah, Sarah, look! Isn't that Sir Percy Alvandale? I wonder where Lord Morebinder is?"

Sarah, Alaric noticed, did not ape her friend's bad behavior, but sat quietly in her seat, looking at her hands linked in her lap. “I don't know,” she said softly.

"I much admired your bowling style last evening, Sar— Miss East. Where did you learn it?"

"Oh, don't ask the child to talk about that. Lord Reyne,” Mrs. Whitsun said. “Such a scolding I gave her, encouraging those naughty rakes that way."

"I was at school with Morebinder's older brother, Charles. Young Morebinder simply needs steadying. It is not easy to be thrust into a new position by the death of a near relative."

Lillian put her hand on his arm. “I'm sure Mrs. Whitsun did not mean Lord Morebinder is an evil person, Alaric."

He smiled at her. “No, of course not. Perhaps, Miss East, you learned to play cricket from your brothers. Let me think. You said they were in the ... ah ..."