Lucy moved to help her. “Well, I like him. In fact, I think he’s charming. I can’t understand why you were uncivil to him the other night.”
“I wasn’t uncivil, just...”
“Worried about how I was behaving?” Lucy suggested.
“Perhaps a little,” Alice admitted. “But now that I know why you did what you did, I think everything went quite well. You already have several admirers.” She gestured toward the bouquets that had arrived the morning after the party. They were still fresh.
Lucy wrinkled her nose, apparently unimpressed by the senders of the bouquets. Admittedly they were rather old. “The main problem was your nephew almost recognizing me.”
“Yes, well, I doubt we’ll see much of Gerald. Young bachelors don’t generally frequent the kind of events we’ll be attending, and you gave him no encouragement.” Alice picked up the tea tray. “And if we do run into him, we’ll just have to hope he doesn’t remember.”
“My lady!” Tweed said disapprovingly from the doorway. “That’s my job.”
Alice let him take the tray from her. She didn’t have nearly enough servants, and collecting a few teacups and plates to take to the scullery was hardly a job that was beneath her, but it clearly offended Tweed’s notions of what was proper.
Chapter Seven
Gerald lounged against the wall of the box, idly observing the comings and goings of the people in the stalls below. He wasn’t terribly fond of the theater, but Tarrant had invited him, and Gerald had nothing else planned.
Voices outside the box alerted him to the imminent arrival of the rest of Tarrant’s party. The door opened, Gerald straightened, and as the first person stepped into the box, she came to a dead halt. It was that girl. Her excited expression faded, and for a moment she looked dismayed.
Seconds later his aunt bumped into her. “Lucy, whatever are you doing—oh, Gerald. We didn’t expect—how lovely to see you.” She gently pushed the girl aside and came forward to greet him.
“Evening, Aunt Alice. I didn’t realize you were to be one of Tarrant’s party, either.” He nodded at the girl. “Good evening, Miss Bamber.” Swathed in a green velvet cloak trimmed with snowy swansdown and wearing a green-and-cream-striped turban, she looked like one of Persephone’s handmaidens.
She inclined her head graciously, all signs of dismay gone. “Lord Thorndike.”
“Thornton,” he grated. The wench was doing it deliberately.
She touched a white-gloved hand to the side of her face in an unconvincing gesture of regret. “Of course. So shatterbrained of me.” Her sherry-colored eyes danced.
Gerald eyed her balefully. She wasn’t the slightest bit shatterbrained. Or the least bit sorry. And he was sure he’d seen her somewhere before. That cheeky expression, those eyes, that attitude... That mouth... But where?
The orchestra began, and the audience settled—as much as it ever did. “Are we waiting for any more people to arrive?” Aunt Alice asked Tarrant.
“No, as I said, it’s a very small party.” He seated Aunt Alice and took the seat beside her. Gerald seated Miss Bamber and placed himself a little behind her. For some reason he felt he needed to keep an eye on her.
Tarrant hadn’t invited a party at all, Gerald realized. He was only interested in one person: Aunt Alice. He’d invited her goddaughter for the sake of propriety, and Gerald so he’d keep the girl occupied.
Tarrant was pursuing his aunt. But for what purpose? Men did chase after widows. But not Aunt Alice, surely. She’d always been the soul of virtue.
Tarrant. Gerald had always thought him a man of honor. The chivalrous type. A man of integrity. He’d make her a good husband.
But he’d told Gerald quite clearly that first night at the club that he had no intention of marrying again.
Aunt Alice was busy scanning the crowded theater through her opera glasses. Tarrant leaned back lazily in his seat, watching her with an indulgent expression.
What were his intentions? Gerald felt very protective of his aunt. She’d always been kind to him, and his family hadtreated her so unkindly. She was all alone. Someone had to look after her.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was watching him. He turned his head to find Lucy Bamber regarding him with narrowed eyes. She immediately switched her attention to the stage, pretending she hadn’t noticed him.
Something nagged at the back of his mind. Who the devil was she?
The play began, and she leaned forward, as if entranced. At first Gerald thought she was putting it on, but soon he realized she really was entirely caught up in the foolishness onstage—of course she would sympathize with the rebellious daughter. And then the comedy...
Her laughter was... distracting.
Most young ladies he knew tittered or giggled, or else cultivated a world-weary air of ennui, thinking it frightfully sophisticated to appear bored with everything.
