Chapter 19

CHAPTER19

“Icannot breathe in this gown!” Agnes rasped while sitting upon the velvet squabs of Lady Finch’s carriage. She tilted her waist from side-to-side, curving her spine back and forth to try and find a single position that did not feel like she had a giant hand wrapped around her upper body, slowly squeezing her toward suffocation.

Lady Finch chuckled; her wrinkled hands clasped over the large bead of green glass that topped her cane. “You look resplendent, Lady Agnes, and sometimes, such beauty comes with a price. Tonight, that is your ability to take full breaths. Remember, how you present yourself is a reflection upon both your sister and I, so please, do not be huffing and puffing when the carriage halts outside the opera house.”

“The lady’s maid… pulled too… tight,” Agnes continued to complain, though she suspected it was the half-corset itself that was the problem. It was a new purchase, and the boning kept jabbing into her skin, the structure much stiffer and more uncomfortable than her usual stays.

Rose rested her head against her sister’s shoulder. “You really do look beautiful, sister. I am certain you will breathe again once you have grown accustomed to the sensation.”

“I hope you will write that upon my gravestone,” Agnes muttered. “Here lies Lady Agnes Weston, suffocated in the pursuit of fashion.”

Lady Finch tutted. “You are so very macabre, Lady Agnes. I worry for you.”

“Worry for my poor ribs,” Agnes retorted, astonished that Rose was suffering no ill effects from her own newly purchased stays. Annoyingly, the younger woman looked like she could run a marathon without so much as wincing.

She is numbed by love, Agnes guessed, bringing her hand up to lightly stroke her sister’s hair. How glorious that must be.

For Agnes was in torment, trudging through a mire of doubt and desire, swamped by an infatuation that clung to her legs like sucking mud, continuously dragging her down no matter how hard she tried to climb out using distractions and self-imposed lectures in front of the mirror.

“Lord Morton promised he would be waiting for me upon the steps of the opera house,” Rose sighed contentedly, weaving her arm through Agnes’. “What a dashing sight that shall be.”

Agnes smiled. “Very dashing, though you ought to be cautious of how you approach him. Do not be too familiar.”

“Quite right,” Lady Finch agreed. “I know you favor him, Lady Rose, but the season has only just begun, and I should hate for you to stake a wager upon the wrong horse so early in the race. You might find, after attending several more balls and gatherings, that there are better, even more dashing prospects to be discovered.”

Rose stifled a quiet sniff. “Of course, Lady Finch. I will behave properly, just as I have been taught.” She peered up at Agnes, but her happy smile had faded. “I shall not disappoint you, sister.”

“You never could,” Agnes told her, pulling her into a reassuring embrace.

If you love him, I will champion you both to the bitter end… but if you cannot persuade Mother and Lady Finch, then I fear that end shall be very bitter indeed. She held her tongue, not wanting to scare Rose, but if Rose and the Baron did pursue a courtship, Agnes knew a difficult conversation would be necessary. But not yet. Not while Rose was still riding the wave of her tremendous debut.

A short while later, the carriage came to a standstill outside the grand colonnades of the King’s Opera House. Other carriages ahead and behind were relieved of their passengers, and as two footmen leaped down to open the door, the three ladies were helped down so they might join the flow of the eager elite.

“There he is!” Rose squealed, gripping Agnes’ arm so tightly that there would surely be crescent indents left upon the skin.

Agnes followed her sister’s gaze though she could have spotted the Baron from a mile away. He did not look real, standing there between two towering pillars, dressed in black and swathed in an opera cloak that billowed in the wind that whipped through London. Ladies stared, open-mouthed, as they passed him, but he continued to gaze stoically out like a sailor upon the bow of a ship, searching for dry land.

That was until he saw Rose. Agnes knew the precise moment he had spied the woman he had been waiting for as his stern mouth spread into a wide, eager grin, and his right hand lifted up in the subtlest of waves.

“I always thought an opera cloak would look silly, but… he looks remarkable,” Rose swooned. “Is he not the most handsome gentleman you have ever beheld?”

Agnes chuckled. “I have not held him in any capacity, nor would I wish to. His handsomeness is entirely for you, and that is all I shall say of him.” She flashed her sister a sly wink. “I hope he is as beautiful inside as he is outside.”

“Oh, he is!” Rose insisted, hopping from foot to foot, much to the obvious concern of Lady Finch.

Thus far, Agnes’ investigation into the Baron of Morton had been rather uneventful. He hailed from the respectable Neal family, who held a long and fortuitous legacy in a quiet corner of Devon where the Baron and his predecessors seemed to be beloved. Moreover, the Baron had made several excellent speculations over the past five years which had bolstered his historical wealth, leading Agnes to suspect that he was just a very handsome, very pleasant, very respectable gentleman who happened to be smitten with her sister.

“Might I greet him?” Rose asked desperately, glancing between Agnes and Lady Finch.

The latter wrinkled her nose. “In passing, but do not pause for too long. Your debut has made you a celebrated addition to society, and I daresay that, even now, you are being observed.” She softened her voice. “I do not mean to dampen your enthusiasm, Lady Rose, but the ton can be delightful to your face and cruel behind your back. I should hate for you to accidentally unravel your triumphs.”

“As would I,” Rose insisted, nodding though it was clear she was not listening properly: the Baron was too distracting.

Ascending the steps, the three women slowed their pace as they walked by the gallant, handsome gentleman. He touched his fingertips to the rim of his top hat, and Rose dipped her head in return—a discreet bow and a curtsy for a couple who could not risk conversing in front of an audience.

I am sorry, Rosie. It broke Agnes’ heart as, with a light tug on Rose’s arm, she had to lead her sister away from the gentleman. All their lives, the sisters had been told the story of how fate had brought their mother and father together, prompting them to believe that was how love should be. Yet now that it seemed to have happened in the same way for Rose, greater forces were conspiring to keep the couple apart.

To Agnes, that seemed far crueler than anything the ton could say behind her sister’s back.

* * *

Amidst the red velvet and the babble of an excited crowd, George observed from the corner of the grand foyer. William had vanished for reasons unknown, leaving him to put on a familiar performance of brooding gentleman, waiting in the wings. That night, however, his grim expression was not a performance, for the opera always made him miserable.

I should greet Lady Finch, make my excuses, and take myself back to Beckett’s Club, he mused, more ill at ease than usual. He kept waiting for the customary glances of shy young ladies who had read all about him, but they were few and far between, making him wonder if he looked foolish in his opera cloak, or if his fatigue, and the wear of it upon his face, was making him less desirable to the female eye.

The real reason soon became clear as he noticed a cluster of giddy young ladies staring across the foyer in so blatant a manner that their chaperones began to hiss scolding words. George followed their wide-eyed gazes to a figure who seemed to have stolen his practice of standing in shady corners, looking mysterious.

I know you… George squinted at the obscenely tall, devilishly handsome gentleman who had diverted the feminine attention that was ordinarily reserved for him. The fellow’s white-blond hair did not look real, nor did his wolf-like blue eyes. Indeed, nothing about the gentleman looked real as if he had been painted or sculpted instead of birthed into the world.

George searched his mind for the name to put to the face, for while he had begun to struggle with the names of his conquests, he never forgot the name of a man who might be a rival.

He is the one who danced with Lady Rose, George realized. Is he the reason she has not responded to the notes of intent? Perhaps, his investigation into Lady Rose’s ongoing silence with the gentlemen of society would be simpler and quicker than he had anticipated; the answer was standing right there.

He could well understand how such an ethereal-looking gentleman might overwhelm a young lady’s heart, stealing the whole of it, but George had never trusted impossibly good-looking gentlemen. Being of fortunate looks himself, he knew the liberty and confidence that came with such a gift—the self-assurance that one could do anything and get away with anything if one wanted to, breaking hearts and flying too close to the sun when it came to ruining reputations.

Straightening up and sweeping a hand through his hair, George headed toward the tall, blond man who held the concentration of every woman in the foyer.

“I do not believe we have been introduced,” George said, putting out his hand.

The man frowned down at the offered hand and took it hesitantly. “Perhaps not, but I know of you, Your Grace.” He bowed his head in due reverence as he shook George’s hand. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance though I cannot say I understand why I have drawn your attention.”

“You danced with Lady Rose at her coming-out ball, did you not? I doubt I am mistaken, for you are very… unique to behold,” George replied, refusing to be intimidated by the man’s handsome appearance. Close up, the fellow was even more astounding.

The man lowered his gaze immediately, his pale, sculpted cheeks coloring a light shade of pink. “You are not mistaken, Your Grace.”

“Do you favor her?” George thought of Lady Finch, hoping he would not be chided for meddling. After all, she was the one who had asked him to help Lady Rose find her way through the traps and pitfalls of society.

The man blinked in surprise. “I mean no disrespect, Your Grace, but what concern is that of yours? Do you… also favor Lady Rose?” A strained note made his voice catch, like that was the very last thing he wished to hear. “Is she… um… familiar to you?”

So, he thinks himself unworthy, George realized, deciphering the change in the fellow’s voice. He must be of low station—a shame for a man such as him, no doubt.

“She is akin to my ward, at least for the season,” George explained. “As she is under Lady Finch’s care, and Lady Finch is always my concern, Lady Rose is also under my protection. So, I shall ask again, do you favor her?”

The gentleman nodded, mustering a nervous smile. “Very much, Your Grace.” He bowed his head again, clumsier than before. “I realize I have still neglected to introduce myself—Seth Neal, Baron of Morton.”

“A pleasure, Lord Morton.” George puffed his chest, satisfied that he guessed correctly about the fellow’s station. “You seem anxious. Are you, perchance, waiting for someone?”

Seth seemed to hesitate, like he was not certain he could trust George. “It is my first time at the opera,” he said after a few moments. “I am here alone, and I do not know how to present myself.”

“You came to the opera alone?” George snorted. “Why would you put yourself through such torture, you poor soul?”

He could deduce the reason, but he wanted to see if Seth would admit to it. And as George waited for the reply, he scoured the foyer for the young lady he assumed Seth was waiting for. Or, rather, George searched for the sister who would be accompanying Lady Rose.

Is she here already? He thought of all the darkened corners, secret passageways, and curtained boxes of the opera auditorium, and his throat constricted, imagining the possibilities. Perhaps, at the opera’s crescendo, he could steal Agnes away to one of those private hideaways where they might reach a crescendo of their own. It was a maddening, delicious thought with only one problem—after his behavior at the ball, he doubted Agnes would let him get close to her again.

“I have heard it is a most stirring event,” Seth answered, at last. “And while I am in London, I thought it wise to partake in all of the amusements that city has to offer.”

George arched an eyebrow. “All of them?”

“I do not know what you mean, Your Grace,” Seth replied, wearing a creased expression of genuine confusion, his head tilting to one side. “If you are referring to the theater and the galleries and the museums, I have not visited nearly as many as I should like, but I hope to by the season’s end. In truth, I hope to accompany…” He trailed off, chewing anxiously upon his lower lip.

“Lady Rose?”

Seth nodded discreetly. “As you are, in essence, her appointed guardian, I suppose it is you who I must speak with if I hope to call upon her.”

I must not lead you astray, George told himself, for he had been about to suggest that they both abandon the opera and explore the delights of Soho instead. He had often been an instructor to the fresh, wide-eyed gentlemen who were enjoying London for the first time, showing them all the places where they could indulge themselves without being seen by gossipmongers. But one thought of Agnes and her piercing, disappointed eyes was enough to hold him back from settling into old habits and potentially dragging this young gentleman along for the ride.

“Where are you seated tonight?” George asked instead.

Seth fumbled for his ticket. “The Upper Circle, I believe.”

“Nonsense. Tonight, you are welcome to join me in my usual box.” George smiled and nudged Seth in the arm. “You never know; we might find ourselves in the company of some welcome guests.”

“I could not,” Seth tried to protest, but George had made up his mind.

“If you do not accept, I shall be rather affronted. So, I shall leave it to you to decide if you wish to be rude, or if you wish to accept my invitation.” He walked off without looking back, weaving through the crowd with every confidence that Seth would be following.

Meanwhile, George’s mind leaped ahead to the opera box and who might be sitting there already or might be on their way at that very moment. He knew he ought to leave Agnes alone for both of their sakes, so why could he not stop his feet from pressing onward, right to where he hoped she would be?

Tonight, I fear I shall be the unwelcome guest, he considered, but when had he ever allowed that to hinder him before?