Woodbridge’s guest. She would not let him pretend such a thing for the staff, even if the truth offended his sense of dignity. “Oh, after. I could never face an audience on a full stomach. Where would the butterflies go?”
She could not tell if she had lost the high-stickler’s regard as he bowed again and left them, his back as rigid as a lamp pole. Galen patted her arm as he led her down the hall. “Don’t worry. Old Fenning disapproves of me, too. But he’ll come around. I’ll send him to the theater one night so he can see what a gift you have, to be shared. I cannot help noticing, however, that you do not seem to enjoy performing in public. If your nerves are overset at facing the theater audience, you do not have to do it. I can pay off your contract, you know.”
“What, because I suffer foolish stage fright? No, a replacement is too hard to find at such short notice. Besides, how could we make that big splash in society’s fishpond if I do not perform?”
“I am thinking that you’d cause enough of a ripple if we drove in the park. No one could conceive that I’d be wearing the willow for Florrie, not when I have you on my arm. The newspaper announcements are enough, though, so you do not have to put yourself on display.” Suddenly the idea of all the other men in London ogling his bride was not as attractive. “But the choice is yours, of course.”
“I sing.” Margot had left his side to examine the paintings that filled the niches between the crimson draperies of the vast drawing room. She’d seen the artwork of Italy, of course, and visited the Royal Academy in London once, where the pictures were so badly displayed that she could not see the half of them. But this was a veritable treasure trove of masterpieces—Italian, French, Flemish, like a huge illustrated book of great artworks. Skippy had been right, Galen’s house was like a museum, only better. Now she could admire the paintings whenever she wished, with her spectacles on. “My brother will be thrilled.”
He nodded, studying her as she walked around the room, delighted that she seemed to admire and appreciate his collection. “We’ll start with the solicitors tomorrow about changing his guardianship. I’d like to have the law on my side before I confront your uncle, but I will not leave the boy with him either way.”
“I have every confidence you will do what is best for Ansel.” She was too rapt in the artwork to notice that Galen had poured tea and filled a plate of elegant cakes and tarts for her. She nibbled at what he put in her hand as she moved around the parlor, asking about this artist, that school. He couldn’t wait to show her the portrait gallery and the paintings in the rest of the house. Unfortunately, she would not be viewing the Vermeer in his bedroom any time soon.
“We’d better save the rest of the collection for another day, my dear, if you are determined to perform tonight. I am sure you need some rest after this eventful day. Meantime, I will try to decide which of our own artists I should approach about painting your portrait to join the other Viscountesses Woodbridge.” He thought he just might commission a few, for he doubted he’d ever get tired of looking at his beautiful new wife. Hell, he might even try painting her himself.
Chapter Seven
Whoever said that all the world’s a stage would have been particularly proud of the cast that evening.
Margot entered the theater by the stage door late that afternoon on the arm of her new husband, followed by two sturdy footmen who were to stand guard outside her dressing room. This earned her dark looks from the male actors, who felt she’d sold her favors to the highest bidder after summarily scorning their offers of a free but honest tumble. Half the female members of the cast snickered, that Miss Prunes and Prisms was no better than she ought to be, and no better than the rest of them after all. The other half were too busy trying to
She could not tell if she had lost the high-stickler’s regard as he bowed again and left them, his back as rigid as a lamp pole. Galen patted her arm as he led her down the hall. “Don’t worry. Old Fenning disapproves of me, too. But he’ll come around. I’ll send him to the theater one night so he can see what a gift you have, to be shared. I cannot help noticing, however, that you do not seem to enjoy performing in public. If your nerves are overset at facing the theater audience, you do not have to do it. I can pay off your contract, you know.”
“What, because I suffer foolish stage fright? No, a replacement is too hard to find at such short notice. Besides, how could we make that big splash in society’s fishpond if I do not perform?”
“I am thinking that you’d cause enough of a ripple if we drove in the park. No one could conceive that I’d be wearing the willow for Florrie, not when I have you on my arm. The newspaper announcements are enough, though, so you do not have to put yourself on display.” Suddenly the idea of all the other men in London ogling his bride was not as attractive. “But the choice is yours, of course.”
“I sing.” Margot had left his side to examine the paintings that filled the niches between the crimson draperies of the vast drawing room. She’d seen the artwork of Italy, of course, and visited the Royal Academy in London once, where the pictures were so badly displayed that she could not see the half of them. But this was a veritable treasure trove of masterpieces—Italian, French, Flemish, like a huge illustrated book of great artworks. Skippy had been right, Galen’s house was like a museum, only better. Now she could admire the paintings whenever she wished, with her spectacles on. “My brother will be thrilled.”
He nodded, studying her as she walked around the room, delighted that she seemed to admire and appreciate his collection. “We’ll start with the solicitors tomorrow about changing his guardianship. I’d like to have the law on my side before I confront your uncle, but I will not leave the boy with him either way.”
“I have every confidence you will do what is best for Ansel.” She was too rapt in the artwork to notice that Galen had poured tea and filled a plate of elegant cakes and tarts for her. She nibbled at what he put in her hand as she moved around the parlor, asking about this artist, that school. He couldn’t wait to show her the portrait gallery and the paintings in the rest of the house. Unfortunately, she would not be viewing the Vermeer in his bedroom any time soon.
“We’d better save the rest of the collection for another day, my dear, if you are determined to perform tonight. I am sure you need some rest after this eventful day. Meantime, I will try to decide which of our own artists I should approach about painting your portrait to join the other Viscountesses Woodbridge.” He thought he just might commission a few, for he doubted he’d ever get tired of looking at his beautiful new wife. Hell, he might even try painting her himself.
Chapter Seven
Whoever said that all the world’s a stage would have been particularly proud of the cast that evening.
Margot entered the theater by the stage door late that afternoon on the arm of her new husband, followed by two sturdy footmen who were to stand guard outside her dressing room. This earned her dark looks from the male actors, who felt she’d sold her favors to the highest bidder after summarily scorning their offers of a free but honest tumble. Half the female members of the cast snickered, that Miss Prunes and Prisms was no better than she ought to be, and no better than the rest of them after all. The other half were too busy trying to
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