Chapter Five

A nthony stood on the theater steps, regretting his decision to come. Theatre. Usually boring. Always predictable. Frighteningly unpredictable in bed. He shook off the memory of his "touched" actress and made his way up to his box.

He hadn't been in attendance in over a year, and his box was slightly dusty. Evidently the theatre owner didn't consider the son of an Earl important enough for the box to be spotless. He should cancel his box entirely. It was a waste of his money and his time. But perhaps tonight it would finally pay off.

He sat and surveyed the audience. The young Dowager Countess of Arlington and her son-in-law were seated in the box to the right of him and he made a polite nod in their direction, hiding a snigger. Everyone knew the Earl was bedding his younger step-mama. It was the talk of the disreputable half of the ton, though to give the Earl and his widowed mother-in-law credit, they had managed to keep gossip out of the papers. Anthony wondered how much money that had cost. Not that he would ever need to know. He enjoyed reading about his exploits in the gossip rags. Notoriety and infamy had a certain sweet appeal that privacy could not match.

He almost laughed out loud when he saw Darling and his scandalous Spanish mistress in another box. His friend was giving the courtesan's shoulder a lingering kiss as he helped her to her seat. Apparently Darling was making the most of what was perhaps his last night with his lovely Jacinta. Now there was a man who courted scandal and the gossip rags with even more ferocity than Anthony himself. Darling fairly fed off the unending stories of his debauches.

Anthony was so caught up in his amusement over his friend that his eyes nearly scanned over the beautiful woman taking her seat alone in the box directly across from him. It was her dress that caught his eye first. This one complemented her tall, statuesque figure even more than the deep purple one she'd worn two nights ago. Her body was swathed in billowing crimson silk, the V shaped neckline of her bodice creating a striking frame for her décolletage. This was a dress designed to incite the male imagination, he noted with appreciation. His Amazon was certainly well aware of her charms.

She was an enchanting vision, sitting so still and placid in the glow of the theatre's lamps. Her red hair was twisted on top of her head. A single proud red feather crowned the chignon. He was reminded of a Da Vinci painting, the Spartan and simple lines of her adornment allowing the shadows and light of her surroundings to paint her in chiaroscuro like one of the demure maidens in the Italian masters' paintings. The elegance suited her well. Mysterious and classical.

She drew a painted silk fan from her reticule as she looked around at the gathering audience. Her air was relaxed, but he recognized the look on her face: one of urgency masked by unconcern. It was the same look he'd doubtless worn a moment ago when he was looking for her. She, however, wore it with a much more anxious undertone. While his searching had been motivated by lust, hers was motivated by something more sinister. He tried to place the look in her eyes. Fear? No, too confident. Hope? Not happy enough. Anger? Impatience? Disgust? Perhaps.

The play began. Anthony's eyes remained on his target, scrutinizing her every motion. She watched the play with distracted disinterest for a while, then took to observing the audience again. She folded and unfolded her fan. She absentmindedly picked at the feather in her hair. She frowned slightly, glanced back at the play, then back at the audience. Something in a box below Anthony's caught her eye. For a moment she stared across the theatre, then slowly shook her head as if to say no . She snapped her fan shut and shoved it into her reticule. She clenched and unclenched her hands, flexing her fingers against the sides of her chair.

On stage, a character screamed, drawing Anthony's attention for a moment. When he looked back to the woman's box, she was gone. He hesitated a moment, then exited his own box and headed for the foyer. She was nowhere to be seen. He hailed an usher.

"You, boy, did a woman in crimson pass through here?"

"No, Sir," the lad answered.

"Come." Anthony led the usher up to his box and pointed across to the box where the woman had been sitting. "Whose box is that?" he demanded.

"It's an open box, Sir. A Lady rented it for the evening."

"What was her name?"

"She didn't give one, Sir."

"Damn," Anthony growled. "Not even a family name?"

"No, Sir."

"Damn," he said again, grabbing his cloak and hat. "Fetch my carriage, boy. I'm leaving."

She invaded his dreams again, still and cold as stone, lying immobile in the center of his bed. He ran his fingers tentatively between her pert breasts, kissed their colorless tips. Her skin was hard and dusty under his hands. A faint heartbeat fluttered under her marble surface. He reached between her legs, seeking her warmth, and she rolled away from him. Anthony reached out to catch her…

…and fell off the bed.

"Damn," he swore.