attract his lordship’s notice. He, however, glowered at them all and announced the marriage. Ella swore she’d seen it with her own eyes, and had a piece of stationery with the bishop’s own letterhead to prove it.
Suddenly, everyone remembered what a lady their Margot had always been. They knew all along that she was fated for a gentler life than treading the boards. And if she could better herself to such a degree, their happy shouts and applause seemed to say, then so could they. Someone found a bottle of champagne, and the lead actress, Mrs. Martin, was so relieved that the popular songstress would be leaving in two weeks, she sent out for a cake.
The theater manager was as obsequious as an under-butler. Not only was Ryder leery of incurring such a well-connected and well-muscled nob’s displeasure, but having a viscountess as a warbler could only help ticket sales. The pit was already starting to fill on rumors from the gentlemen’s clubs alone. The mingle-mangle marriage was sure to be the most talked of event in Town, and the world would want to catch a glimpse of Woodbridge’s second bride in two days. Finally, everyone recalled that they still had to don costumes and makeup for the evening’s performance. The show would go on, even if the audience only wanted to see Margot. She went off to change, escorted by Ella and the two footmen, and his lordship went off to gloat. His whiskey-risen idea was working even better than he’d planned, and his hastily chosen replacement bride was proving delightful, as nice as she was notorious. The only worry Galen had, as he returned to his house to change to formal evening wear, was how he was to survive two weeks of letting every loose screw in London ogle his wife. Perhaps he could convince her to cut the engagement short. But no, he had promised not to interfere with her career. He’d also promised to leave her untouched for six months, damn it. Surviving that could be deuced harder.
*
Margot’s function was to entertain the audience during the intermission between the second and third acts. Acrobats and jugglers had the other intervals, and a chorus sang somewhat bawdy lyrics between the drama and the farce. They were all supposed to captivate the theatergoers enough that they would not grow impatient while the stagehands and cast changed scenery and costumes. The wealthy box-holders took the intermissions as an opportunity to visit back and forth, promenade in the halls, or send for refreshments. They were there less to see the play anyway, and more to be seen in their silks and satins and sparkling jewels. The patrons in the pit, however, had been known to grow rowdy when they were bored, hard to control once the actors had retaken the stage.
Not tonight. No one left their seats, not the Quality in the tiers, not the choice spirits in the cheap seats. Every pair of opera glasses was trained on the stage, every tongue was whispering the question of the night: Was it true? The Duke of Woburton’s box was dark, as was Lord Cleary’s, not unexpected for two families suffering such a disgrace as a publicly misfired marriage. But if the viscount had fled, where were all the rumors coming from? And could he actually have committed such a shocking, stunning, shameful sin of marrying a common singer?
Well, she was not precisely common, they conceded after Margot stepped from behind the curtain. Those who were seeing her for the first time—or paying attention to her for the first time—admitted she was more than passably pretty. And she was dressed in the first stare of fashion, showing less bosom than many of the beau monde’s beauties. That bright gold of her hair could not be natural, some of those same belles complained to one another. And surely she wore cosmetics, the coquette. Their own judicious use of the hare’s foot could not be compared. If a few of them pinched their cheeks to add a touch more color to their complexions, or bit their lips to emulate
Suddenly, everyone remembered what a lady their Margot had always been. They knew all along that she was fated for a gentler life than treading the boards. And if she could better herself to such a degree, their happy shouts and applause seemed to say, then so could they. Someone found a bottle of champagne, and the lead actress, Mrs. Martin, was so relieved that the popular songstress would be leaving in two weeks, she sent out for a cake.
The theater manager was as obsequious as an under-butler. Not only was Ryder leery of incurring such a well-connected and well-muscled nob’s displeasure, but having a viscountess as a warbler could only help ticket sales. The pit was already starting to fill on rumors from the gentlemen’s clubs alone. The mingle-mangle marriage was sure to be the most talked of event in Town, and the world would want to catch a glimpse of Woodbridge’s second bride in two days. Finally, everyone recalled that they still had to don costumes and makeup for the evening’s performance. The show would go on, even if the audience only wanted to see Margot. She went off to change, escorted by Ella and the two footmen, and his lordship went off to gloat. His whiskey-risen idea was working even better than he’d planned, and his hastily chosen replacement bride was proving delightful, as nice as she was notorious. The only worry Galen had, as he returned to his house to change to formal evening wear, was how he was to survive two weeks of letting every loose screw in London ogle his wife. Perhaps he could convince her to cut the engagement short. But no, he had promised not to interfere with her career. He’d also promised to leave her untouched for six months, damn it. Surviving that could be deuced harder.
*
Margot’s function was to entertain the audience during the intermission between the second and third acts. Acrobats and jugglers had the other intervals, and a chorus sang somewhat bawdy lyrics between the drama and the farce. They were all supposed to captivate the theatergoers enough that they would not grow impatient while the stagehands and cast changed scenery and costumes. The wealthy box-holders took the intermissions as an opportunity to visit back and forth, promenade in the halls, or send for refreshments. They were there less to see the play anyway, and more to be seen in their silks and satins and sparkling jewels. The patrons in the pit, however, had been known to grow rowdy when they were bored, hard to control once the actors had retaken the stage.
Not tonight. No one left their seats, not the Quality in the tiers, not the choice spirits in the cheap seats. Every pair of opera glasses was trained on the stage, every tongue was whispering the question of the night: Was it true? The Duke of Woburton’s box was dark, as was Lord Cleary’s, not unexpected for two families suffering such a disgrace as a publicly misfired marriage. But if the viscount had fled, where were all the rumors coming from? And could he actually have committed such a shocking, stunning, shameful sin of marrying a common singer?
Well, she was not precisely common, they conceded after Margot stepped from behind the curtain. Those who were seeing her for the first time—or paying attention to her for the first time—admitted she was more than passably pretty. And she was dressed in the first stare of fashion, showing less bosom than many of the beau monde’s beauties. That bright gold of her hair could not be natural, some of those same belles complained to one another. And surely she wore cosmetics, the coquette. Their own judicious use of the hare’s foot could not be compared. If a few of them pinched their cheeks to add a touch more color to their complexions, or bit their lips to emulate
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