A bell clanged in the corridor. He reached for her arm and guided her to the remaining chair at the front of the box. She threw him a skeptical glance, then sat. He drew the fourth chair around, set it to her left, angled toward her, and settled to watch the performance.
It was worth every penny of the small fortune he’d paid. His eyes rarely strayed to the stage; his gaze remained on Leonora’s face, watching the emotions flitting across her features, delicate, pure; and, in this setting, unguarded. Although initially aware of him, Edmund Kean’s magic quickly drew her in; he sat and watched, content, perceptive, intrigued.
He had no idea why she’d refused him—why, according to her, she had no interest in marriage at all. Her aunts, subjected to his most subtle interrogation, had been unable to shed any light on the matter, which meant he was going into this battle blind.
Not that that materially affected his strategy. As far as he’d ever heard, th
ere was only one way to win a reluctant lady.
When the curtain came down at the end of the first act, Leonora sighed, then remembered where she was, and with whom. She glanced at Trentham, was unsurprised to find his gaze steady on her face.
She smiled. Coolly. “I’d very much like some refreshment.”
His eyes held hers for a moment, then his lips curved and he inclined his head, accepting the commission. His gaze went past her and he rose.
Leonora swiveled and saw Gertie and Mildred on their feet, gathering their reticules and shawls.
Mildred beamed at her and Trentham; her gaze settled on his face. “We’re off to parade in the corridor and meet everyone. Leonora hates to be subjected to the crush, but I’m sure we can rely on you to entertain her.”
For the second time that evening, Leonora’s jaw fell slack. Stunned, she watched her aunts bustle out, watched Trentham hold the heavy curtain aside for them to escape. Given her earlier insistence on avoiding the ritual parade, she could hardly complain, and there was nothing the least improper in her and Trentham remaining in the box alone; they were in public, under the gaze of any number of the ton’s matrons.
He let the curtain fall and turned back to her.
She cleared her throat. “I really am quite parched…” Refreshments were available by the stairs; reaching the booth and returning would keep him occupied for a good portion of the interval.
His gaze rested on her face; his lips were lightly curved. A tap sounded by the doorway; Trentham turned and held the curtain aside. An attendant ducked past, carrying a tray with four glasses and a bottle of chilled champagne. He placed the tray on the small table against the back wall.
“I’ll pour.”
The attendant bowed to her, then Trentham, and disappeared through the curtain.
Leonora watched as Trentham eased the cork from the bottle, then poured the delicately fizzy liquid into two of the long flutes. She was suddenly very glad she’d worn her midnight blue gown—suitable armor for this type of situation.
Picking up both glasses, he crossed to where she still sat, swiveled on her chair so she sat sideways to the pit.
He handed her one glass. She reached for it, somewhat surprised that he made no move to use the moment, to touch her fingers with his. He released the glass, caught her gaze as she glanced up.
“Relax. I won’t bite.”
She arched a brow at him, sipped, then asked, “Are you sure?”
His lips quirked; he glanced out at the patrons milling in the other boxes. “These surrounds are hardly conducive.”
He looked back at her, then reached for Gertie’s chair, turned it so its back was to the throng, and sat, stretching his long legs out before him, elegantly at ease.
He sipped, his gaze on her face, then asked, “So tell me. Is Mr. Kean really as good as they say?”
She realized he would have no notion; he’d been away with the army for the last several years. “He’s an artist without peer, at least at the moment.” Deeming the topic a safe one, she related the highlights of Mr. Kean’s career.
He put a question here and there. When the subject had run its course, he let a moment pass, then quietly said, “Speaking of performances…”
She met his eyes, and nearly choked on her champagne. Felt a slow blush rise to her cheeks. She ignored it, lifted her chin. Met his gaze directly. She was, she reminded herself, an experienced lady now. “Yes?”
He paused, as if considering not what to say but how to say it. “I wondered…” He raised his glass, sipped, his lashes screening his eyes. “How much of an actress are you?”
She blinked, let her frown show in her eyes, let her expression convey her incomprehension.
His lips quirked self-deprecatingly. His eyes returned to hers. “If I were to say you’d enjoyed our…last interlude, would I be wrong?”