The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp
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toward the front of the box. “You must sit right up front.”
“Or we could be further back.” She nodded toward the rear of the box, away from public view. “It doesn’t matter to me where we sit.”
“It matters to me.” He thumped the seat cushion. “You should have a full view of the stage. And the rest of the audience should have a full view of you.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t order that gown just so you could hide in the shadows. This is your introduction to London society as the Duchess of Ashbury. You are going to be seen. Not only seen, but admired.”
“Yes, but—”
But that means you might be seen as well.
“Tonight,” he said, “you will shine like a jewel. A ruby. An extraordinarily big ruby.” He cocked his head. “You’d be the world’s largest ruby on record, I suppose. One with . . . arms.”
“Was any of that intended as a compliment?”
He sighed curtly. “Let’s begin again. You’re my duchess. You’re beautiful. Everyone should know it.”
As she took her seat, Emma tucked his words away to treasure later. And treasure them she would.
You’re beautiful.
No matter what happened, she’d always have that. And the part about the jewel with arms, she supposed.
She peered over the edge of the box, taking in the splendor of the theater. “What play is this?” she asked, suddenly realizing she didn’t even know.
“Titus Andronicus.”
“Shakespeare?” She smiled.
“Not one of the better ones, unfortunately.”
Her puddle of a heart began seeping down toward her toes. He’d brought her to a play he’d no doubt read several times, and it wasn’t even one he particularly liked. The gown, the champagne, braving the crowds . . .
He’d done it for her, and she loved him for it.
She loved him.
She’d known it already, but tonight was the hammer pounding a duke-shaped peg into her heart. It hurt like the devil, but there would be no removing it now. Not without a great deal of bleeding.
Despite all the effort he’d undertaken, he didn’t seem to be enjoying the evening. He was restless throughout the play, tapping his fingers against his knee with impatience and grumbling about the players.
Only two scenes into the fourth act, he leaned over to murmur in her ear. “This performance is both dreadful and interminable. I’ve had enough. I’m going to order the carriage.”
“What about the end of the play? I want to know what happens.”
“The nurse is stabbed. Mutius is stabbed. Bassianus is stabbed. Saturninus is stabbed. Martius and Quintus are beheaded. Tamora dies of a stomach ailment—the cause of which you really don’t want to know—and Aaron is buried to his neck and left to starve.”
She turned to him in disbelief. “Why would you spoil the ending?”
“I didn’t spoil it. It’s a Shakespearean tragedy. They’re all that way. Everyone dies; the end.” He reached for her hand. “Let’s be going.”
“Why do you want to leave so badly?”
“You should want to leave, too.” His voice darkened. “Unless you want to lift your skirts and sit on my lap so I can take you right here in the box.”
So she was the source of his distraction?
“You are always making these suggestions as though they should be threats. Meanwhile, I’m only intrigued.” With nonchalance, she laid a hand on his thigh. Then stroked a single fingertip in lazy circles.
His thigh tensed beneath her touch. “Woman, you are killing me.”
She shrugged. “As you said, it is a Shakespearean tragedy. Everyone dies; the end.”
“Enough.” He launched to his feet. “I am ordering the carriage, and we are going home. To bed. And you are going to die no fewer than ten ‘little deaths’ before I’m through with you.”
Very well. If he insisted.
Once he’d left, Emma tried, rather unsuccessfully, to return her attention to the play. The players might as well have been speaking Latin. The dialogue coasted in through one of her ears and left through the other, making no impression in between.
After a few short minutes, she rejoiced to hear the sound of the door opening. She drew to her feet, eager to leave, no longer caring about the characters’ tragic demises.
But it wasn’t the duke who’d entered the box.
It was Miss Annabelle Worthing.
“Miss Worthing.” Emma was so shocked at the intrusion, she curtsied deeply—before recalling that she was a duchess now, and Annabelle Worthing should properly curtsy to her.
“Are you enjoying your evening, Emma?” she asked.
“Very much so.”
“It’s so amusing, isn’t it? I could never have guessed we would cross paths in such a circumstance.”
“Nor I, Miss Worthing.” Emma eyed the woman warily. “Forgive me, was there something you wanted?”
“Am I not permitted to greet an old friend?”
An old friend?
A man’s formerly intended bride wouldn’t wish to become friends with the man’s new wife. Moreover, Emma knew this formerly intended bride wasn’t precisely brimming with kindness and generosity.
“You must be quite dizzy with it, Emma. Having climbed so high, so quickly.”
“If you’re here because you believe me to be a schemer, or someone who took advantage of your broken engagement . . . I will assure you, you are mistaken. The duke proposed our match. His offer took me completely by surprise.”
“Oh, I know that. But I suspect you don’t know why he offered for you.”
Emma was too surprised to deny it. She couldn’t deny it. She’d insisted from the first that it made little sense for him to marry her.
“I know the reason. Everyone will. I don’t like to say it, but you deserve to know, too. That’s why I’ve come to tell you, as a friend.” Annabelle moved closer, lowering her voice. “He has married you to spite me.”
“What?”
“Simple retribution. I’m sorry for it, but I know the man. We were betrothed for more than two years. He’s furious about the broken engagement. So he married my seamstress to have a laugh at my expense. Has he shown you that yet? His cruel sense of humor? Ashbury’s always had an ugly side, since long before his injury.”
“I’m well aware that my husband”—Emma leaned on the word “husband,” claiming what was now hers—“is imperfect. I’m also aware that he is honorable and brave. He incurred his wounds while defending England. If you could not appreciate the honor in his scars, he was fortunate to be rid of you. Our marriage is none of your concern.”
“He has made your marriage my concern.” A sharp edge entered Annabelle’s voice. “Parading you before London society, humiliating me in full view of the ton. For your own sake, I advise you not to acquire any airs. You may have wed a duke, but every lady of the ton knows you as a seamstress who once knelt at their feet.