“It’s not the gown I’m complimenting,” he said dryly, “but what’s in it. Or rather, half out of it.”
“Is that a criticism?” she said sweetly.
“Merely an observation.” He was skirting the edges of their wager, but he didn’t care. The mere thought of the male half of the audience seeing her bosom so well displayed made something twist low in his gut. Clearly, he’d gone quite mad.
“Hmm,” she murmured, but apparently chose to take him at his word. Probably she assumed she’d have plenty more chances to catch him.
He began to think she might. Clarissa would do everything in her power to make sure she won.
Meanwhile, he had to look away as he settled her into the chair beside her mother’s. Otherwise, he might stand there frozen half the night, gaping down at her delicious breasts and wondering how they might smell, feel, taste.
God.
He took the seat next to Clarissa, and a faint scent of lavender oil wafted to him. Every time he saw her, she wore a different perfume. Was it just boredom that made her change incessantly? Or a genuine pleasure in trying different things? The first showed her to be flighty; the second showed her to be adventurous.
He wasn’t sure he wanted either in a wife. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t marrying her, after all. And why the devil did he keep having to remind himself of that? The blasted woman was getting under his skin.
The audience erupted into thunderous applause as Lucia Bartolozzi Vestris herself came onto the stage to present an introductory speech. The half-Italian actress was widely acclaimed a beauty, although he’d always thought her only marginally pretty, at least compared to Clarissa. But despite being a year or two younger than he, Lucia possessed the grace and manners of a woman much older, which was why she was so beloved among the theater set.
She’d taken months to prepare the Olympic for the opening, and it showed. There was none of the usual red velvet and heavy gilding of other theaters, just light and airy pastels with embossed flowers and fleurs-de-lis on the panels of the boxes. The sets were sparse but well done, and she’d fitted the theater with the latest in gas lighting. With the place crammed full to bursting and people still trying to get in from off the street, it appeared she’d already succeeded in having a first night to remember.
It took some moments for the theatergoers to quiet down enough so she could speak. Then, in her carrying tones, she began her introductory speech:
Noble and gentle—matrons—patrons—friends!
Before you here a venturous woman bends!
A warrior woman—that in strife embarks,
The first of all dramatic Joan of Arcs.
Cheer on the enterprise thus dared by me!
The first that ever led a company.
Clarissa leaned up to whisper, “It’s true, you know. I read in the paper that she’s the first Englishwoman to ever manage a theater. And look what a great success it is!”
“For tonight, anyway. She still has a hard path ahead of her.”
“But you believe in her, don’t you? You invested in her concern.”
He smiled. “I’ve known her a long time, actually. Her father, a dealer in art and other goods, supplied mine with most of his automatons. And me, as well, before he died. She and I have been friends since childhood.”
“Friends?” She bumped her arm with his. “You neglected to tell me that you knew her personally! Heavens, what other secrets are you keeping?”
None that he would tell her. “I have a fondness for women in breeches,” he said lightly. “But you unearthed that secret already.”
“Do be serious. How well do you know Madame Vestris? What is she like?” Her eyes narrowed. “Wait, she’s famous for her breeches parts—is that why you want me to wear breeches? Because you have some sort of . . . infatuation with her?”
“Shhh!” Lady Margrave hissed. “I can’t hear her speech! And everyone is sure to be talking about it tomorrow.”
“We’ll finish this discussion later,” Clarissa said under her breath.
They certainly would. After Clarissa had cautioned him about Miss Trevor and questioned him about Lucia, he had to wonder—could she really be jealous? It seemed impossible, but the signs were growing too strong to ignore.
Not that he wanted her to be jealous. Truly, he did not. But at least it put in a better light his own unsettling reactions to seeing men court her.
Of course, the cause of his behavior was a protective instinct, nothing more. Not jealousy.
Liar.
While that annoying word rang in his thoughts, the first piece of the four-part program began, a burlesque that showed the gods Hercules, Jupiter, Neptune, and Plutus singing a comic song while playing whist.