Chapter 20

CHAPTER20

Agnes fidgeted with the opera pamphlet, leaning over the ornately carved balcony, etched with golden vines and cherubic figures, to peek at the audience all around her. There was a certain enchantment to an auditorium before a performance began; the stalls and boxes filled with excited chatter, the orchestra tuning their instruments while the amusing chaos of patrons squeezing past others to reach their seats played out against the accidental overture.

“I shall never fathom how they remember everything,” Rose whispered as if the performance had already begun. Her delighted eyes shone as they looked upon the stage, her hands clasped to contain her excitement.

Agnes chuckled. “I suppose it helps that most of the audience does not understand a word that is being sung. Even my knowledge of Italian failed me during the Marriage of Figaro. Although, I doubt it would be anywhere near as passionate or rousing if it were translated to English. There is something so… ordinary about our language. It certainly lacks romance.”

They had visited the opera once already in the week since their arrival, for the King’s Opera House had arranged a presentation of Mozart’s three operas. That night, they were to enjoy Don Giovanni, and Agnes assumed there were plans to attend Così fan tutte in the coming weeks, giving her ample reason to improve her Italian—a distraction that definitely had nothing to do with keeping thoughts of George and his searing touch upon her skin at bay.

“I do not think a comprehension of the language matters where opera is concerned,” Rose insisted so transfixed by the stage that it appeared she had not heard half of what her sister had said. “It is the feeling of it.”

Agnes eyed her sister, lowering her voice as she asked, “And what are you feeling, Rosie?”

“Pardon?” Rose’s gaze snapped away from the heavy red curtains that would soon be lifted.

“Lord Morton,” Agnes replied, casting a cautious look across the box to where Lady Finch was seated, but she was in deep conversation with a similarly wise and mature lady in the next box over.

Rose hurriedly raised her fan, flapping it furiously. “I… wish society was not so restricting in allowing a lady and gentleman to talk to one another. You do not know how it pained me to walk by him without saying a word.” Her voice hitched. “Agnes, I have dreamed of being back at the ball, dancing with him and only him, but…”

“You know you must heed the instruction of Lady Finch,” Agnes finished the sentence with a heavy heart.

“He is right here, dear sister, in this very building,” Rose murmured from behind her fan. “It is agony to be so close to someone and yet so far.”

I know precisely what you mean, Agnes wanted to say, but to do so would mean admitting something that she could not admit to herself. She did not even know if George was attending the opera that night, yet her eyes scoured the throng of bodies from the stalls to the upper circle, searching with a dangerous sort of hope.

Dwelling upon her sister’s words, Agnes drifted back to the shadows of the oak tree and the tantalizing feeling of George’s fingertips upon her bosom, teasing her with their daring touch. She swallowed at the memory of him bending his head closer as if challenging her to raise up on tiptoe and kiss him. If she had lingered there longer, her back pressed to the tree, his body almost flush against hers, would he have given up waiting and kissed her anyway? Her hand came up to caress the necklace she wore, making sure it was not askew.

“Agnes!” Rose hissed, grabbing her sister’s hand and jarring her out of her daydream.

Agnes blinked, disoriented for a moment. “Hmm? Is something the matter?”

Rose was not staring at the stage any longer but behind her, and her eyes were so wide that her eyebrows were halfway to the charming band of pearls that she wore in her hair.

Puzzled, Agnes turned to follow her sister’s gaze… and immediately joined Rose in possessing errant eyebrows. Agnes tried to coax them into a frown instead, if only to lower them, but they remained stubbornly arched, her eyes unblinking.

“Good evening, ladies,” George said in a silky voice that made Agnes’ legs feel unsteady which seemed rather bizarre to her, considering she was seated. It was not unlike the warmth that thrummed in her thighs whenever she imbibed a little bit too much wine.

But she rallied quickly, putting on a polite smile. “Good evening, Your Grace.” She glanced at the guest he had brought with him. “And a good evening to you, Lord Morton. Forgive us for not greeting you earlier—it was my fault, in truth, for I was struggling to breathe and foolishly thought that being inside an intolerably warm and stuffy auditorium would help matters.”

The Baron did not seem to know whether to laugh or gawp at the excuse. “There is no fault, and so there is no need for forgiveness, Lady Agnes.” He dipped his chin to his chest. “I trust you are able to breathe now?”

“If I were not, you might have entered into a rather more dramatic scene,” Agnes replied, chuckling to let him know she was jesting. “Although, what is the opera for if not for a spectacle? The audience would likely think it a performance before the performance if I were to faint in the Duke’s grand box.”

The Baron allowed himself a small smile. “I confess, I have never been anywhere so grand.”

“Shall I tell you a secret?” Agnes leaned over the back of her chair, transforming her voice into a stage whisper. “Neither have we.”

At that, the Baron appeared to truly relax, turning his shy attention toward Rose. “It is pleasure to make your acquaintance again, Lady Rose. I trust you have been well since the ball?”

“Very well, Lord Morton,” Rose squeaked, fanning herself.

It was fortunate that the Baron held all of Rose’s concentration, for if she had turned back around at that moment, she would have seen at least a thousand pairs of envious eyes upon her. Agnes, however, took it upon herself to scowl back at as many as she could. A theater box might have been a symbol of status, positioned where everyone could see the fine people within, but that did not mean that her sister and the gentleman she favored should not be allowed a modicum of privacy.

Vultures, all of you, Agnes scolded inwardly, rather pleased by the alarmed responses and the hurried turning away of coiffed heads that she gained with her pointed glares.

“Let us sit, my good man.” George ushered Lord Morton into the seat directly behind Rose while he took the chair behind Agnes.

She glanced over her shoulder at George. “Are you fearful that my repartee will be too exhausting if you are standing?”

“I had my concerns, yes,” he replied, smiling that irresistible smile that lit him up from within. “My legs cannot withstand your customary bombardment, for they are too bruised from our previous offensives.”

Agnes could not resist a grin. “So, you admit it, you do find me offensive?”

“Only on occasion.”

Lord Morton seemed horrified by the informal conversation between Agnes and George, looking anywhere but at the two of them. Nor did he seem able to set his gaze upon Rose though Agnes suspected that had nothing to do with him being horrified by her. Quite the contrary. If it would not have been unseemly for him to possess a fan, she was certain he would be fanning himself just as desperately as her sister was.

“Speaking of offense, I was just reading the synopsis for tonight’s performance,” Agnes continued, brandishing the pamphlet at George. “I do hope you have received some recompense from Mozart and Lorenzo Da Ponte.”

George arched a confused eyebrow. “Recompense, Lady Agnes?”

“Mm, yes, I assumed you must have been remunerated in some capacity for them turning your own history into an opera. Of course, they have taken some liberties, and I shall not spoil the ending for you, but if you do not change your ways, Your Grace, there might be a fiery eternity waiting for you.” She laughed, but he did not, and she could have sworn she heard Lord Morton emit a small, startled gasp. Even Rose was staring at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.

I have done what I promised I would not—I have embarrassed my sister and in front of the gentleman she desires. Agnes’ cheeks burned as she willed someone, anyone, to muster a chuckle or smile. Anything to let her wriggle off her humiliated hook, for though she knew she had gone too far, she did not know how to claw her way back to politeness.

“Keep away from statues, at least,” she added more quietly, unable to bear the thick silence when her stays were already making it impossible to breathe.

At last, George’s face cracked into a grin, the flinty edges of his blue eyes smoothed down to a sparkle of amusement. And as his grin widened further, a peal of laughter spilled from his tempting lips. He threw his head back, holding his stomach as wave after wave of hilarity crested through him until tears were streaming down his cheeks, and everyone was staring.

“George!” Lady Finch chided, drawn away from whatever she had been gossiping about with her neighbor. “You are making a spectacle of yourself!”

Wiping his eyes, George looked at his former childhood guardian, bursting into a fresh bout of laughter as he said, “What is the opera for if not for a spectacle?”

“My goodness, what is the matter with you? You see, my boy, this is why I do not invite you to the opera!” Lady Finch rolled her eyes, but his rowdy behavior could not have been new to her as she did not scold him again.

“I confess, I have never looked forward to an opera more,” George replied, his laughter fading to a few soft chuckles. “Had I known it could be so entertaining, I would have made greater use of my box.”

Lady Finch seemed bemused. “The opera has not yet begun.”

“No, but the revels have.” George caught Agnes’ eye, and in the wet glint of his gaze, she thought she saw something like hunger flash in those enticing blue pools for a moment.

Or, perhaps, it was merely her own hunger, reflected back.