The Courtesan. Julia Justiss
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onstage.
Worse, though she never glanced at him to confirm it, somehow she could feel his gaze on her, further eroding her concentration. By the time the interval arrived, she was irritated, restless, and tempted to simply go home.
As the audience began milling about, she turned back to Watson. “Remember, I wish to admit no one.”
Mae put a hand on her arm. “Please, Belle, Lord M and Sidmouth just waved. Can we not let them in?” She added in a low voice, “Darlington and some gents are in the box opposite. I’d hate for ’em to see me here all alone.”
With a sigh, Belle capitulated. “Of course you may receive your friends.”
“Thank you!” Mae said, beaming at her.
But even as Belle resigned herself to an interlude filled with noisy chatter, she felt unaccountably more relaxed. As she suspected, when she cautiously looked in his direction, the soldier was no longer in his seat.
Mae’s two gentlemen appeared promptly and Belle moved to let the men take the seats nearest her. As she settled into a chair near the back rail, she heard a deep, unfamiliar voice addressing Watson.
Once again, sparks sputtered along her nerves, and somehow she knew the speaker must be her soldier. Sternly repressing the impulse to sneak a closer look at the man, she kept her attention on the stage.
Watson’s gravelly reply was followed by another exchange, after which he called to her, “Lady Belle, be ye wishful of receiving a Captain Carrington?”
She felt at once an inexplicable need to flee and a strong desire to tell Watson to let the caller enter. Instead, she said, “I don’t know a Captain Carrington.”
“But she does know me,” a familiar voice interjected. “Will you not allow me in, mon ange?”
“Egremont!” Belle exclaimed with delight, turning instinctively toward the sound of his voice. “I thought you were still in the country. Please, do join me.”
As Watson stepped aside to admit the earl, Belle caught a glimpse of the dark-haired captain behind him. In those few seconds before the door closed, she got an impression of broad shoulders, an intelligent face—and a gaze even more compelling over the short distance now separating them.
With a little shiver, she turned her attention to the gentleman, his dark hair silvered at the temples, taking the chair beside her. “When did you return?”
“Just this morning. You look ravishing, as always, mon ange,” he said, bringing her hand up to kiss. Retaining her fingers in a light grasp, he studied her face. “How are you faring? I didn’t hear of Richard’s death until two weeks ago. I wish I had been here to help.”
“I fare quite well, thank you. And there wasn’t much to do as I was not, of course, involved in the funeral arrangements.” She took a deep breath. “Having been his friend long before you were mine, you may think it despicable of me, but I’m glad he suffered the fatal attack at his club, rather than in Mount Street.”
Egremont squeezed her fingers. “Not despicable at all, my dear. Given how things stood with his family, it would have been most awkward and unpleasant for you, had he breathed his last under your roof. And I hope I’ve always been a good friend to you both.”
Belle’s eyes stung with tears. “Indeed you were. I don’t know what I should have done, had I not had you to discuss literature and art and politics with me, to escort me to the galleries and concerts in which Bellingham had no interest. To laugh with me.” Her throat tight, she added, “You treated me as ‘Belle’s lady’ from the first time we met. I can’t tell you how much that meant.”
“How could I do otherwise? You are elegance and gentility down to your bones, mon ange.” After a moment, he added, “I see you are not wearing black.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “No. I suspect half those watching will censure me for not displaying a proper respect at the death of my protector. Whereas the other half would condemn me for effrontery, did I dare to wear mourning.”
“Would you wear it, could you do as you wish?” he asked, once again studying her face.
“No,” she said bluntly. “Our relationship, as you surely observed, was…complex and often acrimonious.” Lifting her chin, determined to tell the truth even if it lowered her in his regard, she continued, “Though I would not have wished his death, I am not sorry to be free.”
He nodded, apparently pondering that comment. “What do you intend to do now?”
“I’m not certain yet.”
“You have adequate funds?”
“I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”
“So you don’t intend to—”
“No,” she said quickly. “Not again. Not ever.”
Massaging the hand he still held, he cleared his throat.
Something about his hesitancy, the pressure of his fingers on hers, filled Belle with the dismaying suspicion that this man who had been her one friend among Bellingham’s cronies, the only man who’d not, openly or by innuendo, treated her as Bellingham’s whore, was about to ruin that friendship by offering her carte blanche.
“My wife and I have long had an arrangement,” he began softly. “She despises London. Over the years, she has been content to remain at our country estate, tending to the house and the children, allowing me to go my own way as long as, eventually, I return to her. For an arranged marriage, it hasn’t worked out too badly, and for most of those years, I was content. Until I met you.”
“Please, don’t,” she begged, trying to pull her fingers free, dreading to hear the words.
He let them go. “I don’t mean to distress you, my sweet. I’m not immune to your attraction, despite being several years your senior, and if I thought I could persuade you to become my mistress and make you happy, I should beg you to do me that honor. But I know how much you hated the notoriety Richard thrust upon you.”
He gave her a wry smile. “We have rubbed along comfortably, my wife and I, these many years, and even had I grounds for a divorce, which I do not, I would not do that to her. Since I cannot offer you what you desire most—a legitimate relationship—I beg only that you will allow me to remain your friend.”
He did understand. The poignancy of that affirmation helped to mitigate her discomfort at discovering that even Egremont, whom she’d considered more in the light of an elder brother, felt a carnal attraction to her.
At least he did not intend to act upon his desire, indifferent to her preferences.
“I have few enough friends that I want to lose one—especially not one as dear to me as you,” she replied.
“Good, that’s settled. You will let me know if I can help you in any way? With no obligation, of course.”
“I will, and thank you again.”
“Then I am forgiven?”
Tilting her head in inquiry, she said, “For what?”
He drew one hand back and kissed it. “For not cherishing you with a purely platonic affection. You are so heart-breakingly lovely, a man cannot help but yearn, you know. Now, how are you finding the play?”
Though his avowal left her still a bit uncomfortable, she was addressing herself to his question when raucous laughter from Mae’s group drowned out her words.
Whether because she wished to impress her former lover with her gaiety or because she was in unusually high spirits, Mae, it seemed to Belle, was behaving more outrageously than usual. Giggling at Sidmouth’s extravagant compliments, she allowed him to remove her glove and kiss her wrist, while Lord Mannington, who’d stolen her fan, drew the ivory sticks down over the heavy swell of one breast and was now toying with the nipple. Given the loudness of their laughter