And then she had been escorted—on this, the most important night of the London theatrical season—to the Duke of Rivington’s personal box, where she was to be the personal guest of the dowager duchess, the future duchess, and the duke himself. For this evening, the Allendale box would stand empty; the Earl and Dowager Countess of Allendale and Callie would view the opera from the Rivington box—showing the world that Juliana was accepted by two of the most powerful families in Britain.
And, as if all that weren’t enough, Ralston and St. John had arrived—giving the matchmaking mamas of the ton even more gossip to feed upon. The elusive twin brothers were rarely seen at such blatantly social events as this one, and even more rarely seen together. Callie turned her attention to them, standing sentry, side by side, several feet behind their sister, thoroughly intimidating in their identical height and handsomeness.
Callie’s pulse quickened as she studied Ralston. He was impeccably dressed, forgoing the brilliant waistcoats preferred by the dandies of the ton in favor of perfectly tailored black breeches and dress coat over a classic white waistcoat without a single crease. His cravat was perfectly starched, and his boots gleamed, as though he had arrived via some magical route other than London’s muddy streets. He was flawless. That is, until one noted the tightly coiled tension in his square shoulders, the fisted hands at his sides, the tiny muscle that flexed in his jaw as he watched his sister navigate her way through the intricate dance of London’s social scene. It was clear that he was prepared to do battle to ensure his sister’s acceptance this evening.
As though sensing her attention, Ralston turned his head to look at her. She inhaled sharply as their gazes collided, trapped by his glittering blue eyes, intent and unreadable. He tipped his head, almost imperceptibly. She understood the meaning implicitly. Thank you.
She mirrored the action.
Not trusting herself to disguise her emotions, she turned back to stare unseeingly at the crowd building in the theatre, impatient for the opera to begin and distract her from his presence in the box.
The performance should have begun a half an hour earlier, but, sadly, society rarely attended the Theatre Royal for the opera…most certainly not on the opening night of the season. No, one attended the opera to see and be seen, and the owners of the theatre knew well how to keep their patrons happy.
Callie returned her gaze to Juliana, watching with pride as she spoke gracefully to the dowager duchess and, in full view of the entirety of London society, made the older woman laugh. Perfect.
“You appear rather proud of yourself.”
A flutter of excitement coursed through her at the rich, amused voice so close to her ear. Willing herself to be calm, she met Ralston’s blue eyes, and said, “Indeed, I am, my lord. Your sister is doing exceedingly well, don’t you think?”
“I do. The evening could not have been more perfectly arranged.”
“It was Mariana’s idea to use Rivington’s box,” Callie pointed out. “Our sisters seem to have become fast friends.”
“Due, in large part, to your intervention, I imagine.”
Callie dipped her head in silent acknowledgment.
“Very well done.”
She quashed an odd desire to preen at the praise as the theatre’s chimes rang, signaling the beginning of the performance. On cue, the visitors took their leave, and Ralston offered Callie his arm. “May I accompany you to your chair, Lady Calpurnia?”
Callie slid her hand along his arm, accepting his escort, attempting to ignore the sizzle of awareness that shot through her as they touched. It was the first time they had seen each other since the evening in the tavern. In the carriage. The first time they had touched since she had been in his embrace.
Once she was seated beside Benedick, Ralston claimed the seat next to her, his nearness overwhelming her senses. She was enveloped by his scent, a combination of sandal-wood and lemon and something thoroughly male. She resisted the temptation to lean toward him and breathe deeply. That certainly wouldn’t do.
She searched for a conversation that would distract her from his nearness. “Do you enjoy the opera, my lord?”
“Not particularly.” His words were laced with indifference.
“I am surprised to hear that,” she said, “I was under the impression that you enjoyed music. After all, you have a pianoforte—” She stopped short, darting a quick glance around the box to determine if anyone were listening to their conversation. She couldn’t well discuss his pianoforte in mixed company.
He raised an eyebrow at her statement, saying dryly, “Indeed I do, Lady Calpurnia.”
The man was taunting her. She would not rise to it. “Well, of course everyone has a pianoforte these days.” She pressed on, refusing to look at him, instead babbling, “I have heard that the performance tonight is unparalleled. The Barber of Seville is a lovely opera. I am particularly fond of Rossini. And I have heard that the singer portraying Rosina is brilliantly talented. I cannot remember her name…Miss…” she trailed off, comforted that they were on safer conversational ground.
“Kritikos. Nastasia Kritikos,” he provided.
The words washed over her. Nastasia. Understanding dawned.
I had not wanted to make this more difficult than it had to be, Nastasia.
Dear Lord. The opera singer was his mistress. She looked up at him, meeting his calm, unreadable gaze.
“Oh,” she said almost inaudibly, unable to contain the syllable.
He remained silent.
What did you expect him to do? Announce to all within hearing that the mezzo-soprano was his mistress? The same mistress for whom he mistook you on the evening you arrived indelicately in his bedchamber?
No, it was for the best that he not pursue the conversation, she decided. Cheeks aflame, she leaned forward in her chair and looked over the edge of the box, wondering if she would survive an escape attempt over the side. Likely not, she thought with a sigh. She turned back, meeting his now-amused gaze. He was enjoying her embarrassment!
“Too far to jump, I should think,” he said conspiratorially.
He was infuriating.
Luckily, she was saved from having to respond by the rising curtain. She turned her attention resolutely to the stage, willing herself to stop thinking of Ralston.
Of course, that was impossible, particularly when the opera began in earnest, and Nastasia Kritikos appeared. The Greek singer played Rosina, the beautiful woman upon whom the entire plot of mistaken identity and love at first sight hinged, and she was the perfect choice for the role, all unparalleled buxom beauty. Callie could not stop imagining the glamorous woman in Ralston’s arms, could not shake the vision of his dark hands on her pale, flawless skin, could not staunch the vicious envy that burned deep within as she cataloged the actress’s remarkable attributes against her own.
As if the singer’s incredible beauty were not enough, it appeared that she also had the most magnificent voice to grace the stage—likely ever.
There was no way a man could resist this paragon of womanhood.
The positioning of the Rivington box was such that audience members seated there could see into the wings of the theatre and, at several points, Callie was certain that Nastasia Kritikos was looking at Ralston, as though waiting for him to return her attention. Was it possible they had resumed their acquaintance? Callie closed her eyes against the thought, only to open them and steal a glance at Ralston. She had to give him credit for discretion; his concentration did not appear to waver from the stage.