She stood in the rain and looked at him.
“I shall be leaving on this infernal visit to a Norman church soon,” he said. “But I must see you this evening. Where? Your room? Or downstairs somewhere?”
“I have other plans for this evening,” she said.
“What?” He frowned at her. Water was falling in a steady stream from the brim of his hat.
“I have been invited out to dinner and the theater,” she said. “By neighbors.”
“Who is he?” he asked. “You had better not encourage him, Isabella. I would not like it at all.”
“Can you not conceive of a relationship of pure friendliness, Matthew?” she asked. Cold water was finding its way in a trickle down her back inside her cloak.
“Not where you are concerned,” he said. “Not with your looks, Isabella. We will stay here for a few weeks. But I expect a good portion of your free time. And I do not expect to have to deal with opposition. And that includes the duke. I hope he did not stay with you last night. For your sake I hope it.”
“I am wet and cold through to the bone, Matthew,” she said. “I am going indoors, if you will excuse me.”
He sketched her a bow and turned to run up the marble steps.
Fleur shivered as she let herself in through the servants’ doors. Yes, there was always that—the ultimate choice that she was going to have to make: either to marry Matthew, if indeed he did mean marriage, or to stand trial for murder and theft when the only witness was Matthew himself.
MR. CHAMBERLAIN’S CARRIAGE CAME for Fleur early in the evening. She looked down in some regret at her blue muslin dress and wished that she had had something else to wear. But she would not let anything spoil her evening. She was going to enjoy herself, she had decided earlier, especially after her talk with Matthew. If she had not had this invitation to honor, she would have been forced to spend the evening with him. Of course, there were tomorrow evening and the evening after that, but she would think of that when the time came.
Sir Cecil Hayward, a gentleman Fleur remembered seeing at the ball, appeared to have no conversation but what related to horses and hounds and hunting. But both Miss Chamberlain and her brother were lively conversationalists, and Fleur found herself very well entertained during dinner.
She had never in her life attended the theater, a fact that amused Mr. Chamberlain.
“You have never been near a theater, Miss Hamilton?” he said. “Amazing! How would the Shakespeares of our world survive if people were all like you?”
“But I did not say I had stayed away out of inclination, sir,” she said, laughing—and remembering a time when she had indeed been near a theater.
“This will be like taking the children out, Emily,” he said, smiling at his sister. “I suppose we can expect Miss Hamilton to be all agog and jumping up and down in her excitement.”
“I promise at least,” Fleur said, “not to shriek and squeal, sir.”
“Ah, then,” he said, “I suppose we can proceed on our way. You are willing to dispense with the port for tonight, Hayward?”
The theater was far smaller than Fleur had expected, the relationship between audience and players far more intimate. The audience hissed a singer who sang slightly off-key, whistled every time one actress with a particularly fine bosom appeared on the stage, cheered the villain, jeered the hero when he was abject with unrequited love, and applauded and catcalled through the final love scene.
Fleur loved every moment of it, action and audience both.
“Philistines all,” Mr. Chamberlain said into her ear. “They came here not to be entertained, but to entertain themselves. Of course, it must be admitted that there are more skilled actors somewhere in this country. I hope this experience will not give you a permanent disgust of the theater, Miss Hamilton.”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “It has been a lovely evening.”
Miss Chamberlain apparently did not agree. The heat and constant noise of the theater had given her a headache. And so after letting down Sir Cecil at his home close to Wollaston, the carriage took Miss Chamberlain home before proceeding to Willoughby Hall. Mr. Chamberlain insisted on accompanying Fleur there at such a late hour.
“Adam was not annoyed at my taking you from the house for a whole evening?” he asked.
“He told me that I might accept the invitation,” she said.
“Some people seem to think that their employees are their personal possessions and are not entitled to any free time,” he said, “let alone—heaven forbid—some social life. I might have known, of course, that Adam would be more enlightened. I have never known anyone who has succeeded in luring away any of his servants, though I have known those who have tried. Apparently he treats them more like family than employees.”