“I see,” she said slowly, clearly not seeing, because she was looking at him as if she still expected he might be feverish.
Alex was vastly relieved to finally make it through the French doors and into the dining room. He was even happier to discover that Sophie had been seated next to him rather than across the table. Given half the opportunity—and he rather thought facing her for the next two or three hours would certainly be that—he’d gaze at her like some pathetic love-struck loon all evening. As it was, he was bound to have a sore neck tomorrow from turning his head to the side so often. If nothing else, the seating required that he look away if he wanted to eat without dribbling food on himself— which he most certainly did. And in the end, he managed not to disgrace himself.
Seven
Alex had intended to spend the time in his opera box wooing the lovely Sophie. In fact, he had spent the two days since the dinner party carefully calculating his plan of attack. It was, after all, his mission to find a way into her good favor. He would whisper, wink, manage a few light but well-placed touches, and otherwise be on his best rogue’s behavior. The combination of music, excitement, and his attentions had never failed to secure his conquests.
Five minutes into the first act, Alex realized he would have to change tactics.
Sophie appeared completely enraptured by the performance. She was ignoring him entirely, her eyes never leaving the proceedings on stage.
Alex was at a complete loss as how to proceed. No one came to the opera to actually watch the opera. They came to see and be seen, to gossip, to flirt. That’s what he had the damn box for! He didn’t even like the opera.
He groaned inwardly and tried to get more comfortable in his seat. At least his view of the stage required that he look past Sophie’s profile. He could stare to his heart’s content and no one, including her esteemed chaperone Mrs. Summers, would be the wiser. And she was nice to stare at. His eyes slid from the thick mass of sable hair he knew to feel like silk from the briefest of touches after the carriage accident, down to her ear, which was perfectly adorable, small, and slightly pointed at the tip. His gaze continued down to her elegant neck and then her bared shoulder. Alex wondered if her skin would taste as creamy as it looked. He followed the curve of her collarbone as it slid around to the front where he could make out the most tantalizing hint of cleavage.
He shifted in his seat again, stared at her hair for awhile, then gave up and spent the rest of the evening trying very, very hard to develop an interest in the performing arts.
Sophie, on the other hand, had planned to spend the time in Alex’s box soaking in every blessed note of the opera and completely ignoring the man who inexplicably turned her mind into mush. Her original plan had been to cry off with a headache, but Mrs. Summers wouldn’t hear of it. So Sophie had devised the backup plan of actually enjoying herself, but that too seemed in immediate danger of failing.
The evening had started well enough. Alex had behaved as a perfect gentleman on the ride over. At least she thought he had been—she was still a little uncertain about some of the finer requirements of that particular station. He certainly had been more subdued in his choice of conversation topics, and, more importantly, he’d been unfailingly respectful to Mrs. Summers, which had raised him several notches in Sophie’s esteem. By the time they had reached the opera house, she had been confident her plan would be a resounding success.
That changed once they entered the box. It was too small for one thing, and for some reason he seemed to take up more than his fair share of the available space. He continued making polite conversation, but she had the hardest time overcoming the sensation that she had been cornered like so much prey. It wasn’t that she was typically uncomfortable in small spaces. In fact, if the box were half the size with twice as many people, it wouldn’t have mattered in the least. Small boned, and at barely over five feet and two inches, Sophie was accustomed to looking up to people, to feeling petite. Alex’s size, although impressive, wasn’t what overwhelmed her. It was everything else about him—his laughing green eyes, his gravelly voice, the way that one errant coffee-colored lock of hair kept slipping down his forehead the same way it had the first time she’d seen him. It was, simply put, him. He made her feel trapped. She didn’t like it. And yet she did. It was positively maddening.
When the music started and she realized he intended to stare at her all evening, Sophie knew she desperately needed a backup plan for her backup plan. After some consideration, she came to the conclusion that she might not actually enjoy the opera to night, but she could damn well pretend she did.