“Indeed,” the duchess weighed in. “It will do you good to spend an evening as a daughter of this house should, and not giving yourself eyestrain scribbling yet more lists.”
“It’s very kind of Perigord to make the offer,” her father drawled.
Meg heard the unstated in her father’s tone, that Gaston was, in noble terms, her father’s equal, and a guest under his roof. As Gaston had requested her company on such an unexceptionable outing, she would need a very good reason to refuse.
Gaston’s smile deepened a fraction; from this angle, she couldn’t tell whether his eyes were twinkling, but she rather thought they were. “You told me yourself that your work with the wedding is done.”
So she had; the memory of the fleeting satisfaction she’d seen in his eyes at the time had her narrowing hers.
He made a graceful gesture. “Consider the outing as an expression of thanks from Robert’s family.”
And that was the nail in the coffin. There was, patently, no reasonable excuse she could offer for not accepting. Matching him for graciousness, she inclined her head. “Thank you, monsieur le duc. I will be pleased to accompany you.” Glancing at the clock—noticing he did the same—she then met his eyes over the table. “If we want to catch the farce, I suggest we leave now.” She rose, and the men rose with her. “If you will excuse me for a moment, I’ll fetch my cloak.” She dipped her head to her parents. “Mama. Papa.”
Turning from the table, she walked from the room.
June 17, 1820, 9:00 P.M.
Private box, Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, London
The tickets Gaston had were for a coveted private box in the second tier; it commanded an unparalleled view of the stage.
They’d arrived just after the commencement of the farce, and had taken their seats at the front of the box in the muted light from the stage. Meg was watchful, wondering, thrown off-balance yet again and left with no notion what to think.
Could this truly be the coincidence Gaston and everyone else seemed to expect her to believe it was, or was it part of some devilish scheme on his part?
She couldn’t imagine how he might have learned she’d so wanted to see this show, but the silliness of the farce distracted her, then, when the curtain came down and the lights strengthened, she discovered that Gaston had arranged for champagne to be served.
A bare instant after she took her first sip, a tap on the door of the box heralded the first of the curious ton who, presuming on acquaintance with her, wished to make the acquaintance of her so-interesting host. Long- and well-drilled in the ways of society and diplomacy, she stood beside Gaston and made the introductions. Grateful that he could hold his own once that had been done, she merely lent an ear to the conversations, ready to step in if required, otherwise enjoying the truly excellent champagne.
She was, of course, interested enough to note that Gaston’s responses to the numerous probing questions over his involvement with the French court never deviated from what he had told her. It seemed he had truly retired from court life, and was now deeply involved with furthering not just his own estates, but the commerce of the region in which they lay. Several rueful remarks as to his lack of a direct heir confirmed that his commitment to his brothers, his family, and to the task of securing his wife, was quite genuine.
At last the lights dimmed, and those still in the box made hurried farewells and departed.
Seating her again, then sliding into the chair beside her, Gaston smiled. “Thank you, mignonne. I knew I was right in asking you to accompany me—I would never have been able to weather that barrage without your assistance.”
Eyes fixed on the rising curtain, she sipped, then said, “Consider it repayment for your assistance with the wedding.”
He merely inclined his head. A sidelong glance showed her that his attention, too, was now fixed on the stage.
When Kean appeared, everyone applauded, then fell silent. Fell under the man’s spell, one he wove with consummate mastery.
Meg was wholly caught. At one point she felt Gaston lift her empty glass from her slack fingers, then his hand returned to close, warm and anchoring, around hers.
She shouldn’t have allowed the familiarity, but couldn’t summon sufficient willpower to sever the contact. Through it, she sensed that he, too, was captured by the veteran actor’s performance, that he, too, felt the sudden tensions elicited by the plot.
As the drama unfolded, she shifted closer, let her shoulder lean comfortably against his as together they watched, rapt, trapped in the moment.
When the play finally ended and Kean took his bow, they rose as one—with most of the rest of the audience—to applaud and call their bravos.