true intimacy when what was there was only a masterful imitation.
She lectured herself while he led her in the direction the group had come from, to the recently vacated seats at the far end of the rearmost row.
Though she’d prefer to sit closer to a door, for an easy escape, this was preferable to any place she’d have found for herself earlier. With reduced crowding, air could circulate, and when the doors opened for departing audience members, cooler night air drifted in.
Having a large, strong male nearby—even the kind who was dangerous to a woman’s peace of mind—helped keep her calm, too.
Since she truly didn’t want to listen to the poetry, and it was unintelligent to dwell too much on the large, strong male, she let her attention drift about the room. She counted twenty-two Maison Noirot creations. That was a good showing. Maybe writing the article for Foxe’s Morning Spectacle wouldn’t be so difficult after all.
Among the ladies in Maison Noirot dresses were Lady Clara and— Oh, yes! Lady Gladys Fairfax had worn her new wine-colored dress! A victory!
Leonie smiled.
Her companion leaned nearer. “What is it?” he whispered.
She felt the whisper on her ear and on her neck. Thence it seemed to travel under her skin and arrow straight to the bottom of her belly.
“An excess of emotion from the poetry,” she murmured.
“You haven’t heard a word Swanton’s uttered,” he said. “You’ve been surveying the audience. Who’s made you smile? Have I a rival?”
Like who, exactly? Apollo? Adonis?
“Dozens,” she said.
“Can’t say I’m surprised.” But his green gaze was moving over the crowd. She watched his survey continue round the hall, then pause and go back to the group sitting in the last row, as they were, but to their right, nearer to the doors.
“Clara,” he said. “And Gladys with her. I never saw them when we came in, thanks to the gentleman desperate to drag his family away. But there’s no more room on that side, in any event, and so we’re not obliged to join them—oh, ye beneficent gods and spirits of the place! Well, then . . .” He tilted his head to one side and frowned. “Not that I should have known Gladys straightaway.”
He turned back to Leonie, his green eyes glinting. “She isn’t in rancid colors for once. Is that your doing?”
Leonie nodded proudly.
He turned back again to look. “And there’s Valentine, roped in for escort duty, poor fellow.”
Lord Valentine Fairfax was one of Lady Clara’s brothers. Unlike Lord Longmore, who was dark, Lord Valentine was a typical Fairfax: blond, blue-eyed, and unreasonably good-looking.
“He’s been here the whole time, unfortunate mortal,” Lord Lisburne said. “Whiling away the hours weaving luscious fantasies of killing himself, I don’t doubt. Or, more likely, Val being a practical fellow, his dreamy thoughts are of ways to kill Swanton without getting caught.”
“If the men dislike the poetry so much, why do they come?” she said.
“To make the girls think they’re sensitive. ”
She smothered a laugh, but not altogether successfully or quickly enough. A young woman in front of her turned round to glare.
Leonie pulled out a handkerchief and pretended to wipe a tear from her eye. The girl turned away.
The audience wasn’t as hushed as it had been earlier in the evening, when Leonie had peeked through the door. Though many occupying the prime seats on the floor sat rapt—or asleep, in the men’s case—others were whispering, and from the galleries came the low hum of background conversation that normally prevailed at public recitations.
The increased noise level didn’t seem to trouble Lord Swanton. Someone had taught him how to make himself heard in a public venue, and he was employing the training, his every aching word clearly audible:
. . . Aye, deep and full its wayward torrents gush,
Strong as the earliest joys of youth, as hope’s first radiant flush;
For, oh! When
She lectured herself while he led her in the direction the group had come from, to the recently vacated seats at the far end of the rearmost row.
Though she’d prefer to sit closer to a door, for an easy escape, this was preferable to any place she’d have found for herself earlier. With reduced crowding, air could circulate, and when the doors opened for departing audience members, cooler night air drifted in.
Having a large, strong male nearby—even the kind who was dangerous to a woman’s peace of mind—helped keep her calm, too.
Since she truly didn’t want to listen to the poetry, and it was unintelligent to dwell too much on the large, strong male, she let her attention drift about the room. She counted twenty-two Maison Noirot creations. That was a good showing. Maybe writing the article for Foxe’s Morning Spectacle wouldn’t be so difficult after all.
Among the ladies in Maison Noirot dresses were Lady Clara and— Oh, yes! Lady Gladys Fairfax had worn her new wine-colored dress! A victory!
Leonie smiled.
Her companion leaned nearer. “What is it?” he whispered.
She felt the whisper on her ear and on her neck. Thence it seemed to travel under her skin and arrow straight to the bottom of her belly.
“An excess of emotion from the poetry,” she murmured.
“You haven’t heard a word Swanton’s uttered,” he said. “You’ve been surveying the audience. Who’s made you smile? Have I a rival?”
Like who, exactly? Apollo? Adonis?
“Dozens,” she said.
“Can’t say I’m surprised.” But his green gaze was moving over the crowd. She watched his survey continue round the hall, then pause and go back to the group sitting in the last row, as they were, but to their right, nearer to the doors.
“Clara,” he said. “And Gladys with her. I never saw them when we came in, thanks to the gentleman desperate to drag his family away. But there’s no more room on that side, in any event, and so we’re not obliged to join them—oh, ye beneficent gods and spirits of the place! Well, then . . .” He tilted his head to one side and frowned. “Not that I should have known Gladys straightaway.”
He turned back to Leonie, his green eyes glinting. “She isn’t in rancid colors for once. Is that your doing?”
Leonie nodded proudly.
He turned back again to look. “And there’s Valentine, roped in for escort duty, poor fellow.”
Lord Valentine Fairfax was one of Lady Clara’s brothers. Unlike Lord Longmore, who was dark, Lord Valentine was a typical Fairfax: blond, blue-eyed, and unreasonably good-looking.
“He’s been here the whole time, unfortunate mortal,” Lord Lisburne said. “Whiling away the hours weaving luscious fantasies of killing himself, I don’t doubt. Or, more likely, Val being a practical fellow, his dreamy thoughts are of ways to kill Swanton without getting caught.”
“If the men dislike the poetry so much, why do they come?” she said.
“To make the girls think they’re sensitive. ”
She smothered a laugh, but not altogether successfully or quickly enough. A young woman in front of her turned round to glare.
Leonie pulled out a handkerchief and pretended to wipe a tear from her eye. The girl turned away.
The audience wasn’t as hushed as it had been earlier in the evening, when Leonie had peeked through the door. Though many occupying the prime seats on the floor sat rapt—or asleep, in the men’s case—others were whispering, and from the galleries came the low hum of background conversation that normally prevailed at public recitations.
The increased noise level didn’t seem to trouble Lord Swanton. Someone had taught him how to make himself heard in a public venue, and he was employing the training, his every aching word clearly audible:
. . . Aye, deep and full its wayward torrents gush,
Strong as the earliest joys of youth, as hope’s first radiant flush;
For, oh! When
Similar Books
