“But I definitely remember the pantomime.” Feeling daring, Millie related to Willard the details of the slightly risqué performance that had followed the main production.
“A comedy, then,” he commented.
“With a gratuitous amount of tripping and hitting”—she slanted him a glance—“and ladies who ‘protested too much’ against stolen kisses.”
He opened the door, allowing his mother to enter the box first.
“Wouldyouprotest against a stolen kiss, I wonder?” he asked.
The heat of his breath fanning her ear made her turn quickly away.
Would she?Why, yes!Yes, of course.
She meant to flirt, but she certainly had no intention of allowing a kiss.
She followed his mother into the box. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw to her surprise that the box was nearly full. And—her gaze roamed the small space—as far as she could tell,allthe other people present were gentlemen.
Younggentlemen.
Some even younger than herself.
“Your seat, my sweet.” Lord Willard offered her the chair to his side, placing her not next to Lady Eltenham, but between himself and a young man.
He hadn’t spoken loudly, but they were very close to the stage, and theaters were built to carry sound. Several people in the pit below stirred, glancing up in her direction.
Her eyes moved over the benches, taking note of London’s colorful masses, many of whom returned her curious notice. She rested her gaze on the broad back of a man who did not. Judging from the way he let his female companion rest her head almost fully against his shoulder, they weren’t the kind of people who Lady Sarah would have pointed out on their last visit.
She turned away and glanced toward the back of the box. The crowd’s attention was a sticky, chilling a sensation almost akin to an unexpected encounter with a collection of spiders’ webs.
She couldn’t gracefully exit now, could she? At least not without making herself even more a part of the show…
The young man seated at her right caught her attention. His eyes moved slowly down her person, lingering long enough on her breasts for her to unconsciously hunch her shoulders.
Confused, she glanced to Willard, who appeared to perceive nothing wrong. She cast a desperate gaze to Lady Eltenham, but the lady had closed her eyes and didn’t appear to have any intention of opening them.
Calm down.
She was in a respected peer’s heir’s company, a well-liked and influential young man. A man with whom she’d willingly danced just last night. Moreover, as absent in mind as his mother appeared to be, she was, in physical form, fully present.
Much as Millie might wish to cry out for help, she was not in obvious peril. And if she cried out for no reason at all, she deserved to be Bedlam-bound for shaming her family.
She gave Lord Willard a stiff nod of thanks and then gracefully took the chair he offered.
Outwardly, she calmly fixed her eyes on the stage. Inwardly, she continued to wonder why she felt as if she’d unwittingly entered a trap.
*
Just after thelights dimmed, Neville thought he heard Mrs. Cartwright hum. As they were sitting very close to the violins, he couldn’t be sure the hum wasn’t just a reverberation.
Neville flinched as she rested her head against his shoulder.
“A gentleman and two ladies have just entered the box,” she whispered. “The gentleman’s shape seems right, but, in this light, I can’t discern the color of his hair.”
The man beside them—who’d earlier grimaced at Neville’s coldness toward Mrs. Cartwright—glanced askance. Then, he harrumphed, prompting a shush from his female companion.
“All the luck,” the man said under his breath.
Neville turned his head, as if pressing his lips to Mrs. Cartwright’s brow. The angle was not right, but he dared not make his turn any more obvious. Since his companion had just been studying Willard’s box, if he looked now, their unusually specific attention might be noted.