Miss Darby's Duenna by Sheri Cobb South Page A

ushered his ladies inside, where they retired to the ladies’ cloak room to divest themselves of their outer garments. Sir Harry, his disguise affording him unprecedented access to this sanctum sanctorum, was not unnaturally mesmerized by the sight of so much feminine beauty primping and preening before the full-length mirrors, until he turned and beheld his fiancée in all her black-and-white splendor.
    “I say—that is, my dear Miss Darby, surely you do not intend to go out in public dressed like that!”
    All Olivia’s earlier doubts about her attire came flooding back. “ ‘Tis the black bodice, is it not?” she said, frowning at her reflection. “Does it make me look as if I were in mourning?”
    “I never saw anyone look less funereal,” the dowager informed her roundly. “Why, the neckline is cut so low it’s positively indecent!”
    Since Olivia’s décolletage was in fact quite respectable, she felt compelled to point out the injustice of this charge. “But my lady, this dress is quite modest, compared to some.”
    Looking about him at the expanse of white flesh on display, Sir Harry was forced to concede the point. “Well, don’t come crying to me when you catch your death of cold,” muttered her indignant ladyship.
    Olivia’s ordeal, however, was far from over. When she rejoined Lord Mannerly in the lobby, he bent upon her a look filled with consternation.
    “My dear Miss Darby, surely you do not intend to wear that gown to the theater!” he murmured in an undervoice.
    “Is it truly so dreadful?” asked Olivia, filled with remorse. “I did wonder about the black bodice, but Madame Girot said—”
    “Clearly this Madame Girot is no patron of the arts,” replied the marquess, dismissing the unfortunate modiste with a careless wave of his white-gloved hand. “How else could she expect me to follow the play with such an Incomparable seated beside me?”
    Relief flooded Miss Darby’s countenance, and beneath the much-maligned black velvet bodice, her heart beat faster. “Fie on you, my lord,” she scolded playfully. “And how can I watch the play, with you turning my head so shamelessly?”
    “Harrumph!”
    Olivia turned to find a disapproving Lady Hawthorne emerging from the cloak room, followed by a wide-eyed Georgina.
    “Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Hawthorne. I should have waited for you.”
    “No doubt you were busy,” replied the old lady, glowering at Lord Mannerly.
    As the quartet took their places in Lord Mannerly’s box, Sir Harry discovered there was a price to be paid for his earlier coup in procuring a seat beside Olivia, for Lord Mannerly, having thus been forewarned, was forearmed against this maneuver. He was careful to seat grandmother and granddaughter together in the front of his box, leaving himself to sit beside Miss Darby in the rear. Sir Harry, who was well aware of the shadows cloaking the back of the box, and who, over the course of his checkered London career, had had more than one opportunity to steal a kiss under the cover thereof, was understandably less than pleased with this turn of events.
    “Surely you cannot wish to sit in the back, my dear,” he protested in his best falsetto. “Exchange places with me, Miss Darby, so that you may have a better view of the stage.”
    “No, no, this is quite all right,” insisted Olivia, although the ostrich plumes adorning Sir Harry’s powdered wig did in fact obscure much of the stage. “I remember your remarking on how long it has been since you have been to the theater, my lady, and I could not bring myself to deprive you of your excellent vantage point.”
    Having used this very excuse to procure an invitation to join the party, Sir Harry could hardly inform his betrothed that he had visited Covent Garden less than a se’ennight earlier, and had already seen the company’s production of Twelfth Night. Thus hoist on his own petard, he had no choice but to accept the seating arrangements without further