Chapter 11

Seeing how crowded the theatre was made Matthew grateful for his box away from the masses below. Tabitha sat on his right; Miriam was to his left. Behind him sat Lord and Lady Mayhew, along with Matthew’s own mother.

The two women were discussing a new German dye, which was said to be the brightest green that anyone had ever seen. Matthew glanced at Tabitha. She would look lovely in green; the thought came unbidden. He should not consider her beautiful, not when Rosemary had just been found.

Might have been found. He needed to remember the might. Matthew sighed at his own lack of control. Despite telling himself many times that he would not allow his thoughts to speculate on what would happen when—if—Rosemary returned, he was failing miserably.

“Why sigh so sadly?” Tabitha asked.

He looked askance at her. In the flickering candlelight, her gray eyes took on a silvery shine. “Nothing,” Matthew replied. “I was simply thinking about some affairs that need tending to.”

“You do not sound eager to tend to them.”

“No man would be.”

She looked expectant, likely anticipating some elaboration. Matthew supposed he could give her some lie about how he was dealing with some disgruntled tenants, but he would rather say nothing than tell her a falsehood.

“Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris,” she muttered.

Misery loves company.

Matthew smiled despite himself. “The company is pleasant,” he said. “It is nothing that you need to worry about. I shall handle it.”

“Of course, you shall.”

Something about the statement seemed accusatory, though Matthew could not determine precisely what. He supposed that she ought to be vexed with him, though. Of late, he had been unkind to her. That was a bitter realization.

The curtain rose, and Matthew straightened in his chair. While many attendees talked throughout performances, he preferred to remain quiet, devoting his full attention to the show. Besides, the troupe was performing The Taming of the Shrew, which had been Rosemary’s favourite play. He had not quite understood her fondness for it, but he liked it because he enjoyed seeing Rosemary’s smile when she watched it.

“Are we meant to read this choice of play as a rhetorical choice, Tabby Cat?” Lord Mayhew murmured so low that Matthew barely heard him.

Tabby Cat?

He glanced at Tabitha, who smiled slyly at that precise moment. The pet name oddly fit her.

“It is not. How dare you?” Tabitha whispered, her voice playful.

Matthew felt a strange flush of embarrassment. He had not considered how the choice of play might appear to Lord and Lady Mayhew. Shortly after wedding their daughter, he decided to take her to a play about a man taming a shrewish woman and eventually marrying her, and it was surely apparent to Tabitha’s parents that she was not the usual lady of the ton. Matthew would not call her a shrew ever, but some men might interpret her that way. Tabitha was direct and brazen in a way that young ladies often were not.

“My husband has no control over what this troupe performs, or we would be watching Titus Andronicus,” Tabitha said, grinning.

Titus Andronicus? That was the least popular Shakespearean play because it was filled with so much blood and violence that it bordered on indecent. How had she become exposed to such a violent play?

“I do not know that one,” Lady Mayhew murmured.

“Nor do I,” the Dowager Duchess said. “Is it any good?”

“Not really,” Tabitha said. “It is, I think, an early work. Shakespeare makes some errors, as all writers do.”

Matthew had to admit that Titus Andronicus was not the Bard’s best work; it was more of a spectacle than anything else. Still, to hear a lady say so that brazenly was another thing entirely.

He shook his head and tried to focus on the play before him. The Taming of the Shrew opened with a drunkard named Christopher Sly being tricked into believing that he was a nobleman. The scene opened as flamboyantly as Matthew had expected. Sly—being played by a tall, thin man with bright red hair—stumbled about the stage, waving what was clearly meant to be a bottle of spirits.

“Except for Marlowe,” Lord Mayhew said. “Everything that Marlowe wrote was perfect.”

Tabitha laughed. “That unfashionable man?”

Matthew glanced at them in time to see Lord Mayhew give his daughter a look of mock offence. “Unfashionable? Underappreciated talent!” her father declared.

“I find them both rather dull,” Lady Mayhew said, tilting her head towards Matthew’s mother. “I think we ought to try and have some more French performances. I heard about the loveliest showing of Pamela in France.”

“Oh?” His mother, a great admirer of Pamela and every other work written by Samuel Richardson, looked at Lady Mayhew with interest. “What did you hear of it?”

“Excuse me,” Miriam murmured. “I will be back in just a moment.”

His sister left before anyone could ask why. Matthew frowned.

“Clarissa is the superior work,” Tabitha said. “That is the novel that proved that Mr Richardson is capable of understanding the female mind.”

Matthew looked incredulously at her. “I would have never imagined that you would say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because the novel is about a young lady suffering,” Matthew said. “How could a woman like you possibly find anything likeable about it?”

“A lady like me?” Tabitha asked. “Whatever do you mean?”

Lord Mayhew chuckled. “I think you know, dear.”

Tabitha smiled sweetly. “Mr Richardson shows what the world is like for women,” she explained. “All Miss Clarissa Harlowe wants to do is live a single life and be charitable. She is so very good and would do amazing things if it were not for every man in her life trying to control her.”

Matthew could not really disagree with that.

“Well said,” Lady Mayhew replied.

Tabitha and her parents seemed to have a rather close relationship, Matthew reflected. He looked back at the stage, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Perhaps it would behove him to learn a little more about Tabitha. It might dispel some of the awkwardness between them, and it was not as though he wanted his wife to detest him while he awaited Rosemary’s return.

Because as loathe as he was to admit it, Tabitha was his wife at the moment. He ought to treat her like one, and it was unkind of him to make her bear the brunt of all his guilt and frustration of being so close, yet so far, from Rosemary.

The play continued, and Tabitha and her parents grew a little quieter. It was unclear if their subdued conversation was because they were also engrossed in the play or if they realized he preferred silence and were trying to accommodate his desires.

Halfway through the play, he realized that Tabitha had not spoken for some time. He glanced at her fair face, trying to read her expression. She appeared … strange. Unsettled, he decided. Matthew glanced at the stage where the shrew Katherina was agreeing to marry Petruchio, a rather disagreeable and foolish man.

Matthew remembered the earlier question, spoken in jest, about if this play—about an unconventional woman being cruelly tamed by her husband—was intentional. Tabitha had laughed at the joke, but he wondered if, upon further reflection, she had seen something of a parallel between herself and Katherina.

“Tabitha,” he murmured.

She tilted her head towards him, indicating that she heard. Unthinking, Matthew placed a hand on her knee, rubbing careful circles with his thumb. The fine silk of her gown was soft and sleek beneath his fingers. He remembered her pet name of Tabby Cat and smiled to himself. Matthew turned his head, and she met his gaze. The flickering candlelight gave her skin a warm glow and emphasized the fine structure of her face. Her cheekbones and thin nose were thrown into sharp contrast, and he drew in a shuddering breath. She was so lovely.

He swallowed hard and drew his hand further up, resting his open palm against her thigh. Tabitha’s lips parted slightly, and her eyes were wide. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, sounding a little breathless.

That single word sent a jolt to his groin, and he stifled a groan. He watched her face as he leaned closer—concealing the movement of his hand from her parents—and let his hand drift to the inside of her thigh, his fingers sweeping over the silk skirts of her gown. Tabitha bit her lip and turned her attention to the stage.

“I hope I am not distracting you from the performance,” he said, keeping his voice low. “You seemed somewhat distressed.”

“Only by how poorly Petruchio is as an actor,” she said.

“I had not noticed,” he replied. “I suppose my attention was elsewhere.”

She tensed beneath his hand, and he smiled. It was difficult to see with the dim light, but he thought that he saw colour rise to her face. Certainly, her breathing became quicker. He saw readily the quickening rise and fall of her chest, the tops of Tabitha’s fine breasts straining against the material of her gown.

“Was it?” she asked. “Would you like me to explain what is happening on stage?”

“No, I am familiar enough with how the play progresses.”

Her parents and his mother were still seated behind them; he remembered that with a jolt of frustration. If he and Tabitha were alone, he could have done so much more. The box was dimly lit, and most of the theatre’s patrons were engaged in their own conversations or by the spectacle on stage.

If it were only he and Tabitha, he could have hitched up the skirts of her gown and slipped his hand beneath them. He could have trailed his fingers up her thigh with agonizing slowness until Tabitha squirmed beneath him and fought to contain her moans of pleasure.

He could have caressed between her folds and coaxed her into an orgasm there in the theatre, and he was willing to wager that no one would notice. Matthew withdrew his hand, trying to ignore the tightness of his trousers. Maybe he ought to finally join Tabitha in the marriage bed more fully.

“I fear I was wrong,” Tabitha said, her voice strained. “You have distracted me, Matthew.”

She pressed her thighs together, and a slow grin crept over Matthew’s face. There was no denying how flustered Tabitha was. She was probably glowing as brightly as an ember, and he was tempted to caress her face to feel the tell-tale heat rising on her cheeks.

He could not. If he did, he might be unable to refrain from insisting that the two of them leave at once and hasten to the nearest secluded place, which would likely be his coach. That was not exactly the romantic rendezvous that Tabitha imagined for their consummation.

He should not be thinking about consummating any marriage. Matthew knew that. But something about the theatre and that look on Tabitha’s face awakened all the desire and longing he had built up over a decade of monk-like chastity, waiting for Rosemary to return to him. Here was a young woman right before him, in the full bloom of her youth, and she responded so eagerly to his touch that it left him nearly breathless.

“I shall try to be less distracting,” he said. “This play is no Titus Andronicus, but I imagine you enjoy the witty dialogue.”

“As do you,” she replied. “I am certain of it.”

Her tone was difficult to determine. Matthew felt strangely uneven, unsure what this was now. It felt almost heated, the same way that his hand had felt on her thigh, and a shiver of excitement traced the path of his spine. This woman was going to drive him to madness. He knew that more than he knew anything else in the world.