Caroline Linden (17 page)

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Authors: What A Woman Needs

BOOK: Caroline Linden
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“Will I do?” He spun around to see her coming down the stairs. “You said to dress conspicuously.”
Stuart stared. She wore red silk that clung to her curves yet swayed with every step. Ropes of pearls hung around her neck, dipping into the generous cleavage revealed by the gown’s low neckline. Her dark curls were pinned in a loose tumble atop her head, more pearls twined through them. She stopped in front of him, adjusting her long white gloves.
“Mr. Drake,” she admonished, a wry smile pulling at her mouth. “You’re staring.”
Stuart blinked. “Am I? How terribly rude.”
“I suppose I must forgive you, since that was the desired effect. We want everyone to notice us, correct?”
“They’ll notice you, at any rate.” This was a call to arms, to Stuart’s way of thinking. He wasn’t a cad, but he also wasn’t a monk, and she knew it. All right, so it had been his idea to go out tonight, and he had encouraged her to dress elegantly, but surely any other woman would have managed it without being this ... entrancing. Or maybe not; Stuart was beginning to acknowledge his peculiar weakness for this particular woman. He draped her velvet cloak around her shoulders with great care, and she gave him a sleepy-eyed smile that seemed to confirm his instincts. Whether he imagined things or not, this looked to be a very promising evening.
Stuart had secured an invitation to join the Duke of Ware in his box, one of the most prominent in the Royal Opera. He told her he had already spoken to the duke about their hopes for the evening, and when they arrived at the opera, he led her up to the box directly.
When they reached it, Charlotte took the foremost seat without hesitation. She even tugged it closer to the railing, in the process leaning over and giving anyone watching a spectacular view of her bosom. By the time Stuart took the seat beside her, she had taken up a pair of opera glasses and was scanning the crowd. “Have you any idea where he might be?”
Stuart leaned forward and took the glasses from her. “He needn’t be here himself, although that would of course be very convenient. We need the gossips to see us, and that they will.”
Charlotte snatched the glasses back. “Then you don’t think he’ll be here?”
“He may. All I want to do is establish your presence in town.” She still frowned at him, annoyed. “Suppose he does attend the opera,” he said in exasperation. “Suppose he is here tonight in this very building. How the devil would we know?”
Charlotte turned her back to him, raising the glasses again. Perhaps she had made a mistake choosing the opera. It had been her choice, but she ought to have tried to think what a kidnapper might prefer. Still, people
were
noticing them. She saw a pair of women, heads together and fans shielding their mouths, their eyes fixed on her. In another box sat a man and woman, the man reclining in his seat and watching her with heavy-lidded eyes as the woman spoke directly into his ear, her eyes also on Charlotte. Other people in other boxes were aware of her, some with avid curiosity, some with contempt. Charlotte knew exactly how she looked, and she reminded herself she wanted to inspire their interest, whether good or ill.
She put down the glasses. “What do we do now?”
“Enjoy the opera, I hope.” He was sitting very close to her.
“Do you enjoy opera?”
“I might. This is my first.”
Charlotte almost fell off her chair. “Your first?”
He looked out over the crowd in the pit. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Not all of us have your cultural experiences, m’dear.”
“There is an opera house in the heart of London,” said Charlotte dryly. “I believe it has stood there for many years.”
He affected surprise. “Has it? How extraordinary.”
Charlotte shook her head in disbelief. “What entertainments do you prefer then?” He gave her a smile so beatific it was obscene, and she threw up one hand. “I do not wish to know after all. Please do not tell me.”
“As you wish. I have always preferred to be a man of actions, not merely words.” His voice dropped into a soft rumble, and his blue eyes gleamed.
Charlotte stiffened. His words alone had left her twisted almost double with desire; heaven preserve her from any actions. She started talking just to prevent him from doing so. “The first time I heard opera was in Venice. Everyone went; the opera house was filled with people of all stations. I was assured no one paid much mind to the production onstage until someone began to sing, and in the main this was true. But when the prima donna came onstage, the entire hall grew quiet. I had never heard anyone sing so beautifully, like the angels in heaven must sing. She made the audience weep with her, laugh with her, and care for her with their whole hearts. My only thought from that night on was to see and hear more, and I never missed a performance by that soprano.” She stopped, remembering again how mesmerized she had been that night, how completely swept away by the passion in the music.
She looked over the growing crowd toward the stage, where the heavy curtains still hung closed. Lucia had said it was like waiting for a new lover, those minutes backstage before the curtain opened: a mixture of nervous apprehension and sheer elation. Charlotte was acutely conscious of Stuart beside her, dangerously attractive in his eveningwear. She felt that apprehension very strongly, but also some of the elation; she should not be so intrigued by him. Lucia, no doubt, would say it was an omen that she was with him for his first opera. Charlotte wondered if Stuart would be as moved by the music as she had been.
“Your friend,” said Stuart quietly. “Madame da Ponte?”
Charlotte started, jerking her thoughts away from new lovers and omens. “Yes. I have still never heard anyone sing as beautifully as she did.”
“Does she no longer sing?”
“No.” He said nothing, and for some reason Charlotte told him why. “That is my fault. I introduced one of my husband’s companions to her, and he was instantly besotted. In trying to win her favor, he gave her some Turkish tobacco, and then she was instantly besotted—with the tobacco. She began smoking it several times a day, and her voice was never the same. Other singers, younger and more grasping, contrived to take her roles. I invited her to come to England when I got word of my brother’s death, and she accepted, I believe, to salvage her fame before it was entirely gone.” He said nothing, but she felt his eyes on her, and abruptly changed the subject. “This box is ideally situated for our purposes,” she observed, leaning forward again for a view.
Stuart let his gaze rove over her back. Her gown was even lower in back than in front, and his eyes traced the line of her spine up to the heavy knot of dark curls. Her shoulders were entirely bare, and he wondered what she would do if he leaned forward and kissed the back of her neck, right at the necklace clasp as he undid it and let the pearls slide down ...
She sat back, squaring her shoulders. The pearls settled in a wide arc that caught just on the edge of the red silk. “You are not to blame for the tobacco,” said Stuart, willing them to slip into her cleavage, not that he needed any other excuse to look there. He could hardly look away from her at all. “It was her choice to smoke it.”
She flicked open her fan, no longer looking at him. “I do not suffer from terrible guilt, Mr. Drake. I merely think it a great pity. Have you never regretted the unforeseen consequences of your actions?”
He was spared a reply by the arrival of their host. The orchestra was beginning, and Charlotte had turned her attention toward the stage and her back toward him. Stuart gave one last lingering glance at the necklace clasp, acknowledging that this was not the place. But what would Charlotte do, if he acted on his impulse? He suspected part of her would welcome it. The other part of her would undoubtedly pull a pistol on him, though, and Stuart had had enough of that. His entire acquaintance with Charlotte had been one of unintended consequences, but Stuart couldn’t say he regretted it.
 
 
The opera was not the best production Charlotte had ever heard. Between acts Stuart brought wine, but they remained in the box, highly visible. A few men stopped by, but only those who knew Stuart or the duke. Charlotte was relieved when the opera began again, and Stuart resumed his seat beside her.
The prima donna was an Italian woman with strong, heavy features. Charlotte thought she might have heard the woman sing in Italy once, a minor role in Rome. Her inflection was florid and her tone slightly nasal, nothing like the clean pure beauty of Lucia’s voice before the cigarettes had stolen it. Letting her mind drift from the overwrought arias, Charlotte wondered what Lucia was doing, and if Mr. Whitley had made enough progress to persuade her to begin singing again. If Lucia came to London with even a shadow of her voice restored, she would be a sensation.
Since she wasn’t paying attention to the opera, her ears gradually became attuned to the low voices behind her. Stuart, who had sat in perfect silence through the first acts, had begun a quiet conversation with the duke, who sat behind him. Without meaning to, she began listening.
“I received a notice from Barclay yesterday,” murmured Ware.
A long pause. “Ah,” said Stuart simply, but Charlotte sensed a great deal of dismay in that small word. Who was Barclay? And why would Stuart be upset by mention of him?
“I expect he simply didn’t know where to reach you,” added the duke. “He had already sent to Oakwood Park.”
A longer pause. “I cannot afford to pay him yet,” said Stuart, his voice somewhat strained.
“I understand.” A very long pause. “I do not mind,” said the duke so softly Charlotte could barely make out the words.
“No,” said Stuart more harshly. “
I
mind. I’ll find a way.”
The opera ended, and everyone applauded. Charlotte turned her head just enough to see him from the corner of her eye; his face was set, his eyes melancholy. He didn’t notice her watching for a moment, and when he did the sadness disappeared at once.
“Simply brilliant,” he said, leaning forward to rest his arm along the back of her chair. “What was the story? Ware and I have a wager: is it secret lovers?”
“All Italian opera revolves around secret lovers,” said the duke with a faint smile.
“In this instance, you are wrong.” The Duke of Ware was the most beautiful man Charlotte had ever seen. Tall and golden-haired, his face appeared sculpted by Michelangelo himself. Charlotte had to remind herself not to stare every time he spoke to her. His eyes were a mesmerizing mixture of blue and gray, but his smile barely touched them. He had been formal and polite to her, and although he and Stuart were clearly old friends, there was a reserve about him that made Charlotte wonder how the two of them had ever gotten along. “The lovers are not secret,” she said. “They are to be married. The other characters try to cause trouble between them.”
Stuart turned to the duke. “I was counting upon an evening of lovers’ laments. How disappointing.”
“As you do not speak a word of Italian,” teased Charlotte, “you may persuade yourself you have had one. Perhaps I did not tell you the truth.”
He shifted, nearer. His arm rested lightly against the back of her shoulders. “But I know you did.”
“Absolute trust?” The duke’s eyebrow went up as he turned to Charlotte. “That is a rare thing indeed to give another person.” Disconcerted, she looked away, right into Stuart’s eyes. For a moment, neither moved, and she knew in that moment the duke had put his finger on it. She did trust Stuart. It left her delighted, and uneasy, and more than a little surprised. Was it natural to trust him now, when she had so recently distrusted him completely? Was it wise, to depend so much upon him after she had done so much to make him dislike her? Or was she fooling herself, persuading herself he was a better man than she’d thought simply because it would allow her to justify other feelings?
“Yes,” she said, tearing her eyes from his. “Exceedingly rare.” There was a moment of silence. “I am sorry there were no lover’s laments, for the sake of your wager,” she said to fill it. “I enjoyed it all the same.”
“As did I,” murmured the duke. Charlotte looked up to see he was regarding her with a strangely intense expression. For a moment those magnetic blue gray eyes searched her face, almost hungrily, as if looking for some particular resemblance or feature. She wanted to look away but somehow couldn’t.

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