Not Proper Enough (A Reforming the Scoundrels Romance) (15 page)

“I know why you feel about her as it seems you do. I even know why she’d admire and respect you.”

“Thank you. I think.” Aigen lifted his eyebrows. “Am I meant to be flattered?”

“You and I, we have a great deal in common. I don’t like many people, but I consider you a friend.”

Aigen’s smile hinted at an internal irony. “If you had a sister, I swear to you I’d marry her in an instant. But you haven’t.”

“You don’t need to marry for money.”

“No.” Aigen flashed a more natural smile. “But it never hurts to have more, does it? Mountjoy is deep in the pockets. Besides, my grandfather has ordered me to marry a rich English girl. What choice do I have when he’s only days left to live?” He picked up his port while Fox chuckled. “She’d be a good choice for me, Mountjoy’s sister. Young but not wet behind the ears. A pretty woman with the mettle to face down the laird of the castle.” He laughed. “Truth is, I wouldn’t have to pretend to fall in love with her.”

And that, Fox thought, was exactly why he was here. “Don’t let things get that far.”

He hefted his glass and set it down untouched. “And if it’s too late?”

He met Aigen’s gaze. “Is it?”

“I wonder,” Aigen said after too long a silence, “where that leaves us if it is.”

“Fair warning.” He sighed and leapt into the abyss. “I have business that will take me out of London for a week or two. I hope not much longer.”

Aigen understood that perfectly. “Bad luck for you.”

“The timing is particularly poor, I admit.” He smiled. “Thus, I have come here to drink your port and tell you bluntly that I am no longer young and stupid, and I won’t step aside this time.”

Six days later. The Italian Opera.

T
HE BACK OF
E
UGENIA’S NECK PRICKLED WHEN
someone entered the Duke of Camber’s box at the Italian Opera. Earlier in the day, a footman had delivered Camber’s invitation, and of course—of course—she and Hester had accepted. He hadn’t merely sent them tickets to a production of
Don Giovanni
, which tickets he included with the delivery of his invitation—the tickets alone would have been triumph enough—but Camber himself had engaged to escort them.

As it happened, that evening both the House of Lords and the House of Commons sat late, such that Eugenia and Hester took their own carriage to the Haymarket. Shortly after they’d taken seats in the box with Camber’s other guests, Parliament had finished its business for the night and the men who’d been delayed made their appearances. Camber arrived half an hour after the start of the opera.

The duke sat beside Hester, and that choice, for there were two other seats open, did not go unremarked by anyone with a view of the box. Opera glasses everywhere flashed. As usual, the two had endless notes to exchange about violets and soil and pollination and something about dividing
roots and southern exposures. Frankly, when they got started, Eugenia stopped listening. Lord Monson arrived next, and he took the seat beside his wife, leaving the only open seat the one to Eugenia’s left. Camber’s box was in one of the two columns of boxes set directly on the left side of the deep stage, mirrored by the two columns on the opposite side. Prime seating. It was far easier to see the boxes across from them than it was to see the actors. Which was, come to think of it, the entire point.

Another person came in, and Eugenia turned with everyone else to see who it was. She expected Aigen and it wasn’t him.

Her heart stuttered. Even in the dimness of the box, she recognized the man’s silhouette immediately. Not Aigen. Fenris. He’d been away from London these last several days, attending to business on his father’s behalf, so Camber had told them. She hadn’t known he’d returned. She hadn’t allowed herself to admit she cared. He was back from wherever he’d been, and she sat in her seat and the evening was no longer ordinary. She tried to settle herself, to regain the feelings she’d always had about Fenris. That he was a cold, unpleasant man who could hardly dislike her more than she disliked him. She couldn’t. No matter what she told herself, from the moment he walked in, she felt as if the floor had fallen away.

He made his way toward the front of the box and greeted his father and Hester with a nod. Lady Monson received a kiss on the cheek. The point of attending the opera, as Eugenia well knew, was not so much enjoyment of the performance, but to see and be seen. At the moment, Fenris was making sure he was seen. He put a hand on Lord Monson’s shoulder and said a word or two to the man. He had yet to glance in her direction.

Why should he? They weren’t friends, precisely. They weren’t lovers, either. Not really. Not proper lovers, at any rate. But he’d been away for days, and so much had happened between them before he left. Though she understood he was trying not to make himself hateful to her, the uncertainty of where they stood and what she felt was going to drive her
mad. The leap of her pulse at his entrance lingered still, and what was she to conclude from that?

“Ah,” said Lord Monson, lifting his opera glasses and contorting his upper body to survey the stage. “The Incomparable appears?”

Fenris laughed.

Lady Monson elbowed her husband, and that made Eugenia stare at Fenris. As usual, his expression gave nothing away. The Incomparable? She’d heard that sobriquet thrown in Fenris’s direction before, Dinwitty Lane chief among those making the reference.

Camber harrumphed, but he, too, trained his opera glasses on the stage. Eugenia twisted about to see for herself. On stage, a dance sequence had just ended, and the ballet girls in their shockingly short gowns were now gracefully turning and leaping with tiny cat steps toward the exits. Catcalls from the pit and the very upper boxes where the public was jammed in tight filled the air. There were calls as well from the boxes that contained the very best of London society. Not one of the ballet girls, that she could tell, appeared aware of the hundreds of men and gentlemen ogling them.

Fenris remained standing. There was only one available seat in the box now, and it was beside her, inconveniently situated next to the wall. Her reticule happened to occupy the chair. She expected that Fenris, if he stayed, would rather remain on his feet than sit beside her where one’s view of the stage and the Incomparable, whom she now suspected was quite possibly an actual mistress as opposed to a former lover of his, would be restricted.

The singing resumed. With the ballet girls and the Incomparable no longer on stage, the catcalls died away. Fenris continued greeting the others in the box. He lingered over each of the women. Eugenia was the only person he did not approach, and she was by turns relieved and in despair because of it.

When he was done making sure everyone in the auditorium saw him, he took a step back and looked idly around the box. Eugenia watched him from the corner of her eye.
She would be as calm and sedate as he was. If life was about to murder him, he looked so bored, then she would give that same impression. He held the brim of his hat in both hands and leaned his shoulders against the opposite wall, resplendent in trousers, a dark coat, a saffron waistcoat, and a cravat that tread at the edge of too plain.

During one of his disinterested, sweeping glances around the box, his gaze landed on her. Unfortunately, at the same time she’d just risked a full-on glance in his direction. Caught. She didn’t smile or nod or give any sign that she saw him. She did not wish to be reminded of how she had behaved with him, or for him to think she recalled even a second of that time. If he didn’t care, then neither did she.

Their gazes locked. My God, one look at him and she was breathless with the impact. She remembered the thrill of his embrace. Touching him. His arms around her. His mouth covering hers. The weight of his body on hers.

Fenris didn’t acknowledge her smile, but neither did he look away. Beast. Now they were in a contest to see who would give in first. Slowly, insultingly, he dropped his attention below her chin. She ought to be offended, but she wasn’t. Butterflies took flight in her stomach again.

God help her, she knew in her soul that Fenris would be magnificent in bed. Would it be so awful to enjoy him for that?

Eugenia faced forward and pretended to be absorbed by the production, though she had a good view of only the front of the stage. Let him stand there and expire of boredom while he tried to disconcert her. On the stage, the tenor launched into an aria. A ripple of anticipation flowed through the auditorium as male attention once again focused on the stage. Eugenia craned her neck and saw that, yes, the ballet girls were back. Fenris moved to get a better view of the stage, then stepped away from his vantage point. He bent over Mrs. Gloster’s hand, facing toward the front of the box so that Eugenia, had she been looking at him directly rather than twisted about and from the corner of her eye, would have had an excellent view of his face. He kissed the air over Mrs. Gloster’s
gloved hand and exchanged a murmured greeting with the woman. The man was too charming for his own good. He straightened again and glanced toward the exit. Would he stay? Or did he mean to leave? He did not continue on his way out.

She consulted her program, but her skin prickled with the awareness that he’d looked at the empty chair beside her. The only available seat in the box. She did not want him to sit beside her. Did she? Her pulse raced. Fenris, however, did not move. The chair was lacking. Or was the problem the woman he would have to sit beside?

Hester straightened on her seat, leaning toward the duke. The two were whispering again, and for the merest instant she mistook the way the duke listened to Hester for something more than avuncular sentiment. He might be Fenris’s father, but Camber was no white-haired old man. She gave herself a mental shake. He smiled more around Hester and paid her more attention than any other woman, but Camber was more than twice Hester’s age, for heaven’s sake. All they ever talked about was plants and experiments. Horticulture was not the language of amour. If they’d been talking poetry or art, she might have reason to worry, but no one succumbed to love over botany. Plain as anything, Camber thought of Hester as the daughter he’d never had. Fenris had her seeing intrigue everywhere.

Fenris had left Mrs. Gloster and was now moving behind her row of seats. Her nape itched even more. She stared straight ahead. He was here. Back from wherever he’d been, and she could not stop the frisson of arousal that slid down her spine. He worked his way to the end of the row until he was directly behind her, leaning against the wall again so as not to block the view of the people behind her.

She no longer heard the opera. Nor did she hear Hester and Camber whispering. Fenris’s presence was a weight, a breath of air across the back of her neck. As if he’d touched her, when he hadn’t. He bent and rested his hand lightly on her shoulder. Since he’d taken off his gloves, his bare fingers touched her skin. She steeled herself. She was not going to let him guess how she reacted to his presence.

“Pardon me, Mrs. Bryant. May I sit?”

She wanted to tell him no.

“Certainly, my lord.” She picked up her reticule and moved to the chair by the wall, leaving her seat for Fenris, and him with a place beside Hester.

From here, her view of the stage was reduced to a slice of the very top of the stage. She could see nothing of the scenery unless she leaned over the railing and craned her neck. She could, however, see directly into the box on the opposite side of the auditorium, and that proved a welcome distraction. Two of the occupants had opera glasses trained on their box, and one of the two men was Mr. Dinwitty Lane.

Fenris took the seat she’d vacated and immediately turned to Hester. Eugenia put down her opera glasses and contented herself with staring at the occupants of the box across the way. Mr. Lane had his glasses trained on Hester.

“Miss Rendell,” Fenris said in a melting voice. How could she have forgotten how entrancing his voice could be? The huskiness was really just patently unfair. A man could seduce a woman with just that voice alone. “How lovely you look this evening.”

Hester smiled at him, but it was plain her thoughts remained with whatever she and Camber had been discussing. “Thank you, and good evening to you, my lord. I hope you’re well.”

“I am. You? Experiments going well?”

Hester nodded with more enthusiasm than she ought to have shown. “We are gathering our data. It’s crucial, you know, that we take exact measurements. Is that not so, your grace?”

“It is.”

“Since your father is an accomplished artist, we are not merely taking daily sketches of our respective plants. We paint them.”

“Brilliant idea of hers,” Camber said. “Takes extra time but well worth it when we examine and compare past data.”

“We do not know if the watercolors are stable. We have added to our record keeping in case they’re not.”

Eugenia did not understand their captivation with documenting
the daily growth of their plants. She’d once made the mistake of asking, and Hester had obliged with an answer so long and detailed she was cross-eyed and suffering from a megrim by the time the explanation was over. Horticulture and botany were not subjects that fascinated her.