Constance laughed at the fulminating look from her friend.
“We are only going to the opera, Char, and you will be right there. I do not think it possible for me to be ravished under your watchful eyes. Though I doubt Lucan is interested in doing any ravishing at all.”
Charlotte released a gusty sigh. “I am still very uncomfortable traveling without your mother.”
“Mother has a headache, and we will not make her feel guilty. You know she would push herself to travel with us when it is hardly necessary.”
Charlotte harrumphed and pulled on her gloves.
They descended the stairs, hurrying out the door and into the waiting carriage Lucan had sent. Constance dispatched a swift prayer to the heavens, hoping tonight was the night she would be able to unravel his intentions.
…
Lucan held himself rigid beside Constance in the plush private box situated above the rest of the auditorium. She was a brave thing. He could feel the tension sifting along her frame. The stares and the whispers were obvious, and he could see it pained her. A pang of regret sliced through him.
He had sworn he could be cool and detached, no matter what temptation she offered. That resolve had faltered when he first saw her this evening. He had waited for her beneath the archway at the lobby entrance, watching as the crowd milled about in front of the theatre. She had alighted from the carriage, looking reserved and more than a little bit nervous. Her lushly curved body clad in a green silken gown only a few shades darker than her eyes. Diamonds dripped from her ears and throat, but the pleasure that lit her eyes and the radiance of her smile upon seeing him, had made his mouth dry. It was genuine.
Now to see her discomfort when she should be enjoying herself affected him. Acting on impulse, he slipped his hand over hers and laced her fingers through his. Her head dipped, and she stared at their intertwined fingers for long frozen seconds.
Lucan considered her bent head, wondering if he had made a gross miscalculation. Probably his attentions were not as welcome as he had thought. He had seen wariness in her eyes on more than one occasion and that would not do at all. He needed her close, vulnerable, not hiding behind any protective walls. She lifted her head, and the smile she bestowed upon him punched him in his solar plexus. It was the only explanation for how the breath escaped from his lips.
She subtly shifted closer to him, and he felt when the tension leaked out of her frame. He was very conscious of Lady Ralston seated behind him, and he was happy for her presence, for he could see himself doing something highly inappropriate in the darkened box. Like trailing his hands beneath Constance’s petticoats to find out if the passion she exuded when dancing and kissing extended to everywhere. He could imagine her, spread wantonly, tangled in the sheets on his bed beneath him, making those aroused sounds as he drove deep into her. He grimaced as his trousers tightened in discomfort. He determinedly pushed the images from his mind and examined the many ladies aiming disapproving stares their way.
Many matrons of society shone their opera glasses and blatantly ogled them. Lucan knew he was gossiped about and that many wondered about him. But it had never been as obvious to him as tonight. For tonight he was sharing his box with the Beautiful Bastard. A sharp sense of uneasiness plagued him. It affected him too deeply, knowing of her pain.
The curtains drew, and she sat forward, a soft smile tilting the corners of her lips. He thought back to the report he had on her. When the season had opened, her family had made a show of support, and everyone had stepped out. Calydon and his duchess, Lord Anthony and Lady Phillipa, and Lord and Lady Radcliffe. Yet Constance had not stayed in London. After only a few outings, she had retreated to the country. Where she apparently only took long walks, visited her brother’s tenants, and became a patron to a kind and charming old couple that cared for unwanted children.
Lucan could not identify with the pain she felt at society’s shunning. Society’s opinion had never mattered much to him. But it certainly had mattered to his sister. Marissa’s many letters of how society had treated her when it had been revealed she was Calydon’s mistress had been filled with pain and grief. Friends had stopped calling on her, her husband had beaten her and turned her away, cutting off her allowance. She’d had no one, and those letters reached him months after she had needed him. That familiar feeling of rage started to creep over him and with cold determination he pushed those memories away.
The play started and after a few minutes he found himself immersed in the raw talent of the people below. He chuckled at the irony, as the play itself revealed to be one of revenge and lost love. How apt. He was able, for almost an hour, to leave the cares of the world behind and relax into a world of greasepaint and artifice.