“So your parents are no longer with us?” He scoured the recesses of his mind in an attempt to think of a family with the name Flint.
“My mother died five years ago, and my father quickly followed.” She bit down on her bottom lip and blinked rapidly. Water filled her eyes, and she tried to shake it away. “It was a long time ago. One day life is full of hope and possibility. The next … well, suffice to say things have not gone entirely to plan.”
Oliver placed a gloved hand on her arm. “They say time is a great healer, but often our memories are as raw as the day they were created.” He spoke of his mother’s death, not his father’s. Like Rose, she had been a bright light in the darkness. A bearer of truth, not deceit. For the first time since he’d buried all the painful memories, he felt a sharp stab to his heart. “Loved ones are often missed, but never forgotten.”
She covered his hand with her own. Though vastly smaller in size, the heat from her palm seeped through his gloves to soothe him. Most ladies would have pressed for an explanation. But she simply looked into his eyes and communicated a sense of togetherness, of solidarity.
He’d wanted to bed her since their first meeting at the manor. But he’d been thinking with his cock. Now every fibre of his being needed to join with her so desperately.
“Well,” she said with a sigh. “We cannot stand here all night dredging up the past. If we’re to go to the theatre, I must find something to protect my modesty. Do you think I’ll receive a few disapproving glares if I wear a shawl?”
He imagined the scenario if she bared all. Every scoundrel would seek an introduction merely to appraise the newcomer. With sleight of hand, they would pass their calling cards, make sure she knew exactly where to find them. The more dissolute would se
ek an opportunity to capture her on her own, pull her into their box and press their advances. After all, a man’s mistress was fair game.
God damn, he’d be sparring in the stalls before the play had even begun. He’d be brawling in the pit with any man who so much as looked at her in the wrong way.
“Market sellers wear shawls,” he said bringing his thoughts back to the present. “Ask Beth to find you a silk wrap to drape over your shoulders. See if she can secure it with a brooch.”
“A brooch?” Nicole narrowed her gaze. “Did you not say that a mistress was supposed to expose her bounties to the world? Is one not required to dress scandalously?”
He had said that. Numerous times. But he was a damn fool. And the thought of declaring Nicole his mistress seemed distasteful to him now.
She deserved so much more than that.
Chapter Thirteen
Nicole had heard talk of the lavish interior of the Haymarket Theatre. Jeremy and Rowena were frequent visitors when the cards were kind, and his creditors appeased. But their family box was now the property of Lord Callum. Won in a game of faro along with Jeremy’s racing curricle and an Arabian horse named Chance, of all things.
And so, Nicole had only ever glimpsed the resplendent building from the outside.
Rowena’s obsession with Parisian fashions meant there were few modistes in London willing to extend them credit. A new gown for Nicole came far down on the list of necessities. Below her sister-in-law’s subscription to La Belle Assemblée. Below the two pugs that saw Rowena sobbing on Jeremy’s shoulder, insistent she would simply die if she didn’t have them. What was the point of wasting funds on Nicole when Lord Mosgrove had already offered an extortionate sum for her hand?
Lord Mosgrove was a man besotted. With an estate that boasted ten thousand acres, he had no need of a dowry. Many ladies were willing to overlook his foul breath, hooked nose and sunken eyes. Yet, to her misfortune, the gentleman had developed a passion for fiery hair and an impertinent tongue.
But six months had passed since Jeremy insisted she marry. With any luck, Lord Mosgrove had found another woman to paw over, had found another ear for his lewd remarks.
“Have you been to the Haymarket before?” Oliver’s rich voice pulled her out of her reverie.”As a gentleman’s daughter, you must have had the opportunity.”
“Never.” Nicole averted her gaze, keen to avoid making eye contact with any of the patrons lingering in the crowded foyer. She pulled the silk wrap tightly across her shoulders. “I am sure it will be a rather enlightening experience.”
Taking possession of her elbow, Oliver directed her to a flight of stairs to their right. The smell of stale tobacco, mingled with the sickly sweet scent of spirits, assaulted her nostrils. They passed ladies with ostrich feathers in their hair, the decorations tall enough to catch light on any one of the candles in the chandelier.
Sneaking the odd glance from beneath hooded lids, Nicole noted numerous gentlemen incline their head to the earl. Some, particularly those with a wicked glint in their eyes and a sly curl of the lip, looked upon her like a thirsty man would a glittering oasis. But Oliver refused to stop and make conversation despite being prompted to do so many times.
“We’ll make our way to the box before we're trampled to death by those eager to claim their seats. The last thing I want is to lose you in the panic. As I’m incapable of finding one lady, it will be impossible to find two.”
All thoughts turned to Rose.
Oliver had charged a groom with the responsibility of riding to Morton Manor. Once there, he was to carry out an extensive search of the surrounding area and befriend the servants at The Talbot Inn.
It was all that could be done.
Even so, how were they to sit at their leisure and enjoy the performance?
Nicole caught herself. They were at the theatre to catch the fake Miss Flint, not to partake in flirtatious conversation while watching the entertainment.
They moved along the corridor leading to the private boxes. The vibrant crimson walls, gilt mouldings and wall sconces created an atmosphere of opulence fit for a king. Some of the doors to the boxes were open, giving her an ample view out over the huge auditorium.