“Supper boxes,” the marquess said to her unspoken question. “Since the evening is warm and”—he looked up at the dusky sky—“it does not look like rain, we will be dining here tonight.”
“Where does one go if it rains?” she asked. “The mansion?”
“No. That is actually the proprietor’s home, although there are private dining rooms to be had.” He gestured past it. “In inclement weather, events are held at the rotunda. It is actually quite impressive to see.”
“Perhaps you could show it to me later?”
He nodded. “There is usually an intermission, so that would give us time.”
“Wonderful.” She looked at the people standing around. “Whatever do you suppose is holding up the line?”
The marquess smiled. “Everyone is waiting for the lights.”
She frowned slightly. “Lights?”
“You will see.” He looked at the sky again. “As soon as it gets a bit darker.”
They didn’t have long to wait. A whistle sounded from somewhere and she saw a group of liveried men run in three different directions. A second whistle sounded minutes later and, a moment after that, the first lamps along the three tree-lined avenues leading to the open areas were lit. She gasped when what looked like a streak of lightning snaked to the second and third lamps in each row and then farther until the lanes were ablaze with what must be at least a thousand lamps.
“How did they do that?” She gazed at them in wonder. “It is like magic!”
“Not magic,” he said. “Science.” When she gave him a quizzical look, he continued. “There is a thin cotton-wool fuse that leads from one oil lamp to another. Each afternoon, the workers replace that fuse so once the first lamp is lit in the evening, the fire travels quickly to the next.”
“That is fantastic.” Certainly different than anything she and Fiona would have seen had they come here during the day, although she might have been able to see the actual cotton fuses in the light. Maybe it was better they hadn’t come. She liked to think the lights were magical.
“Shall we go?” Randolph asked as the line ahead of them began to move.
“Yes, of course.” She’d lost sight of Melissa and Alasdair in the crowd but saw them again as they approached the box where Lord and Lady Mount Stuart were standing.
“This is ours.”
As they stepped inside, Lorelei gave an involuntary gasp. The back wall of the box had a life-size mural of several girls in simple village dresses, dancing around a maypole in the middle of a field. The two side walls were painted with twining vines and an assortment of flowers in vivid colors.
“’Tis like being in the country in the middle of the city,” Fiona said.
“It is.” Lorelei agreed. “I would like to see the park surrounding this place, too. It is supposed to be beautiful.”
“It is, in the daytime,” Randolph replied. “At night, most of it cannot be seen.”
She remembered her dream of Alasdair pulling her into one of those paths where lovers met for trysts, safe in the darkness. The dream where he had told her she was the one he wanted… Her breath hitched and she squashed the memory.
Obviously that dream had been delusional on her part. Alasdair MacGregor had made his choice and she was looking at it as he and Melissa sat down across from her and Randolph.
It seemed this evening wasn’t going to be magical after all.
…
Alasdair resisted the urge to check his timepiece, since he’d already done so twice this evening. For a supper that consisted basically of an assortment of cheeses and cold meats along with desserts, it had gone on for an interminably long time. It was half ten by the time the waiters had removed the plates and the entertainment had begun.
He probably would have enjoyed the musical numbers and the humorous attempts from the mistress of ceremonies, who kept her remarks a hairbreadth away from risqué, if it had not been for the fact that he’d had to watch Lorelei with Westwood. They’d turned their chairs around when the entertainers began, but he noticed that the marquess’s chair was closer to Lorelei than it had been while they were eating. And, although she kept her voice low to not disturb others—damn it, he couldn’t hear what she was saying—Westwood seemed enthralled. After briefly nodding to Alasdair and glancing at Melissa when they first sat down, he had turned his attention to Lorelei. And she seemed equally captivated by him. Even worse, he’d had to act as though he were interested in whatever Melissa was saying, since both her parents were sitting next to her.
At long last, a thirty-minute intermission was announced. He stood, determined to speak to Lorelei. Earlier, Fiona had shaken her head subtly to let him know that either she hadn’t said anything to Lorelei or that Lorelei was still not ready to talk. Either way, this dissembling needed to stop. He would be thwarted in his efforts no longer.
People emerged from supper boxes and the stands somewhat like a herd of horses that had discovered a fence down. In no time at all, they were milling about, mingling and chatting. Thankfully, a number of people wanted to speak with Melissa’s parents and it seemed she was expected to stay with them. Thanking God for small favors, he quickly moved away so he wouldn’t be seen securing Lorelei’s attention.
Where was she? He scanned the crowd, spotting Louisa and her mother, along with Fiona, talking with two matrons that he recognized from Almack’s, but Lorelei was nowhere to be seen.
Neither was Westwood.
