A Lady in Love (17 page)

"They are both in the navy. Lord Reyne."

"Yes, but she didn't learn to bowl from them,” Miss Harmonia said. “Don't you remember, Sarah? Harcourt taught you and the dog retrieved the balls."

"Yes, that's right.” Sarah looked up when a knock sounded at the door. Meeting her eyes, Alaric smiled. But instead of her expression transforming by a joyous smile, she only dropped her eyes once again to her lap.

Three footmen entered, carrying filled baskets. “Why, what's this?” Lillian asked. “Alaric, how thoughtful you are."

"I hope you don't mind. I changed your order for biscuits and wine for this light supper.” Though he spoke to Lillian, he found his head turning toward Sarah. Would his effort please her? Sternly, he reminded himself that her reactions were no concern of his. But why didn't she seemed pleased?

Apparently, Harmonia's notice of Sir Percy had been reciprocated. In a few moments, the party was increased by Alvandale and Morebinder, this time unaccompanied by their entourage. Lillian was as welcoming as always. They could have been South Sea Islanders, naked save for paint, and she still would have been charming.

The box began to grow crowded. Alaric stepped out of the way, toward the front of the box. Harmonia was absorbed by the new arrivals. He stood alone beside Sarah. The pearls in her hair were dull in comparison with its shine, and the purity of her skin eclipsed their moon-like luster. Alaric clasped his hands to keep from touching her cheek. He wanted her to look up so that he might savor once more the sensations her gaze aroused.

"And is Sarah enjoying the play?” he asked, striving desperately for a tone that would make it clear she was nothing to him. He managed only to sound, he thought, like an elderly uncle left alone with the baby.

"Very much so, sir. I've never been to the theater before."

Well, that was good. She was using more than one sentence at a time. “It's been a long time for me, too. That is, I've not visited the theater since ... Covent Garden burned.” He thought he saw a brief smile though as long as she kept her head bowed he could not be certain. A loud laugh from behind him made him jump and he looked around half-angrily. “You know, if Harmonia were my sister, I think I should object to Morebinder ogling her in that way through his glass."

"I believe his eyesight is very poor,” Sarah ventured.

"What is he doing at the theater if he can't see the stage?"

"The same as you, who do not care for this play.” Sarah looked up, then. She went on, in a tone too low to carry to the others in the box, who were becoming noisier by the minute. “The play is about Lady Anne Devries who discovers too late that the man she truly loves is her husband's brother. There is also another story about her maid, who is in love with a highwayman."

Alaric bowed. “Thank you, Miss East. You've saved me from the consequences of my ignorance. At least thirty people wanted to ask me what I thought of it, and I was having a deuced hard time as I cannot tell one player from another."

"Some are women, Lord Reyne."

This was said with so sweet a smile and in so soft a voice that, for a moment, he could not be sure she was jesting. Then he laughed, and she looked as if she'd like to join him. “I shall keep it in mind, but God save me if the maid puts on breeches. I'll need to come to you so you may explain it to me again."

"I'm always happy to help you.” But the laughter in her voice faded and she fell to examining her hands once again. Just before she dropped her gaze, Alaric thought those large grey eyes moistened as though with tears. She'd been weeping before, from the sentiments of the play, but this was different. He began to shake again, suddenly afraid as war, battle, and the imminence of death had not frightened him.

"Are you thirsty? Would you care from some champagne?” Corks popped, reminding him of his duties as provider of the feast. Alaric moved off and somehow couldn't find his way back to her before the resumption of the play.

While standing beside Lillian, Alaric became aware that every person who approached them had a question in his or her eyes. He'd noticed this before, but put it down to the novelty of his return. Now, though, he seemed to understand what they were silently asking. Behind every statement, behind every laugh, he heard, “Why are you not married yet?” He wondered if Lillian was also mindful that they were the object of such curiosity. This, however, did not seem to be the moment to turn casually to her and ask.

When soft music began again to fill the theater, Alaric took his leave. “Must you go?” Mrs. Whitsun asked, cutting off Lillian, who had been on the point of inviting him to stay.

"I'm afraid so. I have friends waiting for me. We are engaged to go on to White's after the play. Otherwise, I would certainly take advantage of the chance to remain by four such lovely ladies.” This gratified Mrs. Whitsun, as was intended.

As he bowed over Lillian's hand, she said softly, “I'll be home from two until four tomorrow if you'd care to call."

"Thank you. I shall. Good evening, Miss Phelps. Miss East.” Sarah's white dress glowed as though light itself was molded to her figure. Alaric left rather abruptly, promising himself that he'd send Lillian some small gift in addition to flowers. A pierced ivory fan, a scent-bottle, or perhaps a new glass for the theater.

Returning to his own box, Alaric was greeted by Hibbert, Chasen, and Ward. He'd returned not a moment too soon; the curtain was already parting, and the noisiness of his friends’ greeting caused a storm of furious hushes to arise from the surrounding audience.

Alaric tried hard to concentrate on the action going forth on the stage. Shifting in his seat, he cast a suspicious glance at his companions. One of them had certainly changed chairs with him, for it had not been
this
uncomfortable before the intermission. Move though he would, something jabbed him in the back, or bunched up beneath him or made his legs fall asleep. The only comfortable position he could find was more or less turned away from the stage (all to the good) but facing the direction of Lillian's party.

The circle of his telescope seemed to burn in his pocket. His fingers itched for it. The sliding noise as he opened it was gratifying. Sternly, however, Alaric snapped it closed. He turned his head, and his attention, toward the stage.

The actress clutched at her throat. “Ah, cursed house, and cursed hour! The fickle tide of love hast blinded my soul!” She fell to stormy weeping. A sigh of sympathy seemed to sweep the audience, broken into by a groan as, no doubt, some masculine heart was wrung by agony.

Alaric opened his telescope once more. Anything would be preferable to the torture of watching the stage. For a few minutes, he idly gazed about the house, pausing on a sleeping man, a weeping woman, or a fellow sufferer. Yet, as he amused himself, Alaric knew that sooner or later he would reach the upper tier of boxes and search out Sarah East.

Was she ill? She sat up very straight, her eyes fixed, not on the play, but on some internal view. Her face, from being flushed with enthusiasm, was pale and her lips turned downward. If she were not ill, then she must be unhappy. Alaric did not stop to wonder that the thought pricked him like the point of a knife. Perhaps that aunt of hers had taken her to task for displaying so much interest in the performance; some people might take it to mean she was vulgar. Alaric thought her lively attention charming, and regretted he'd not told Mrs. Whitsun so.

Whatever else Sarah might do, she would never feign disinterest for effect, or drawl out praise in a way that was worse than outright condemnation. She was honest, he'd known that from the first, and her emotions were lived fully. If she sat still and quiet, something must be wrong. He only hoped someone over there would notice and help her. He wished he could do it himself, but that would be unwarrantable interference.

As the curtain closed, Alaric said, “I'm sorry, you fellows, but I'm going now."

"Now?” Hibbert echoed. “What about the rest of the play?"

"Yes, and what about the club?” Chasen asked.

"You go. I don't feel up to it, somehow. But you must dine with me one day next week. Thursday? Very good. Excellent, in fact. Unless Miss Canfield has other plans, of course."

"Of course,” Ward said, laughing. “You lads will have to get yourselves betrothed to find out what real independence of action means. Eh, Reyne?"

"Quite. Good evening, gentlemen."

Walking home through the puddles left by a spring rain, for his carriage was deep in a crush of others, Alaric turned into the square with a sigh that was not entirely one of relief. His carefully chosen, beautifully appointed home was dark, save for a light in the library. He'd given the servants late leave, but he knew Barton would be there, waiting up.

"How was the play, my lord?"

"Don't ask. A bottle in the library, I think."

"Yes, my lord. I'll bring in another glass."

"Another?"

"Mr. Canfield has been waiting for you the last hour, my lord. With the claret.” Barton's face, never exactly writhing with expression, was even more impassive than usual.

"Is he drunk?"

"I would not say so, my lord."

"Yes, well, your standards are higher than most, Barton. Bring in that glass."

"Very good, my lord."

"That you, Reyne?” Mr. Canfield's tall, broad form filled the open doorway. Though a waft of alcohol fumes floated out too, the man did not seem the worse for drink.

"Yes, sir,” Alaric said, crossing the hall with his hand out. “I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

His future father-in-law shook hands with a powerful grip. “I called on the chance of finding you in, and your man said you'd not be long."

Alaric shot a glance at the imperturbable butler. Though Barton had not ventured an opinion, he must have known the play would not be to his master's taste. “Another bottle, Barton."

"Yes, my lord."

"Let us sit down, Mr. Canfield."

"All right. May as well be comfortable. It's my girl I'm wanting to talk to about."

Alaric poured his guest another glass. The fresh breeze from the square riffled the long white curtains at the windows behind his desk, making the candle flames dance. “Lillian? What's amiss?"

The former miller's apprentice squared his broad shoulders, deepening the shadow behind him. “Just this: when are you two getting married up? It's been over six months, man. Are you trying to slide out from under your obligation?''

"My dear sir!"

"Don't come your fine manner over me. I know what you are, well enough. A nobleman, and the son, grandson and great-grandson of a long line of noblemen. Your blood's blue enough and I'm what I am. But my Lillian's good enow for any prince. So why don't you marry the gel and get on with the raising of my grandsons? Or doesn't that prospect interest you? By God, if you turn out one of those namby-pamby fellers ..."

Alaric was torn between laughing and anger. However, to give in to either emotion would be to face, he feared, one of Mr. Canfield's large fists, and he was too tired tonight to give as good as he'd get. “I think I can assure you, sir, that my interest is entirely of the sort that would meet with your approval. But people just don't rush into matrimony these days. I'm endeavoring to give Lillian the time required to prepare herself for marriage."

"Dammit, man. How much preparation does a girl need? She'll marry you and like it. Her mother and I married within six weeks of our meeting. I first saw her on a Wednesday and the banns were first called that Sunday. And her father was not nearly so dead set on the match as I am."

Alaric shook his head, wryly smiling. “I'm afraid I'm not so impetuous, sir. But, if it pleases you, I shall ask Lillian to suggest a date for our wedding. No doubt she'll have some notion in mind. As a matter of fact, I believe she said something about wishing to be married around Christmas-time."

"Are you sure she didn't mean
last
Christmas? After all, it's April. She can't mean to make me wait another ...” He counted quickly on his strong fingers. “No. I won't wait eight more months to see her wed. You talk to her, Reyne. And if you've got any feeling, you'll see to it that the date is sooner than that. June, maybe. Two months is more than enough time to ‘prepare.’ Specially when you've had six months before that!"

Mr. Canfield strode toward the door. “I'll not stay longer, Reyne. Though you keep a good cellar, I've said all I came to say.” The man hesitated and turned back. “You'll forgive me for speaking so plain. It's my girl I'm worried for."

"There's nothing in the world to forgive, sir. Lillian is worth any effort.” His father-in-law-to-be nodded his head abruptly and departed, cramming a round hat on his head as he went out, without waiting for Barton to bow him away.

When the butler came in, bearing a bottle on a salver, he found his master looking out into the square, the curtain held back. Slowly, Alaric turned. “You've been long enough with that. Where'd you go for it? France?"

"I considered, my lord, that Mr. Canfield had taken his limit. Too much wine in a boisterous man may lead on to mayhem."

"Please, Barton. I've heard enough poetry for one evening."

"I feared
The Ingrateful Wife
would not be to your liking, my lord.” Barton bowed from the waist, pouring a stream of red wine into Lord Reyne's glass.

"Then why the devil didn't you say so? Leave the bottle and go to bed."

"Yes, my lord. If I may say so, sir—you have been kind enough not to reject my opinion when I've ventured ..."

"Barton, I knew you when we had only a blanket for a roof and a box of charges for a table. You needn't talk as if you're an old family retainer with a mouthful of pebbles."

"Very good, my lord. She ain't for you. Captain Naughton."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Miss Canfield. She ain't for you. Not sayin’ anythin’ against the lady. She's fine. But anyone can see with half an eye she ain't for you."

"If my boots were off, my dear old campaigner, I'd throw them at you."

"Very good, my lord.” The door closed with a soft snick.

As tired and stiff as though he'd spent the day in the saddle, Alaric lowered himself into the chair behind the desk, kicking his feet up onto the clean blotter. He lifted his glass and studied the inverted heart shape of the candle flame in its depths.