Vixen In Velvet. Loretta Chase

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СКАЧАТЬ knew better than to let it work on her. The trouble was, it truly was insidious. One was drawn closer without realizing. One believed one had found a true intimacy when what was there was only a masterful imitation.

      She lectured herself while he led her in the direction the group had come from, to the recently vacated seats at the far end of the rearmost row.

      Though she’d prefer to sit closer to a door, for an easy escape, this was preferable to any place she’d have found for herself earlier. With reduced crowding, air could circulate, and when the doors opened for departing audience members, cooler night air drifted in.

      Having a large, strong male nearby—even the kind who was dangerous to a woman’s peace of mind—helped keep her calm, too.

      Since she truly didn’t want to listen to the poetry, and it was unintelligent to dwell too much on the large, strong male, she let her attention drift about the room. She counted twenty-two Maison Noirot creations. That was a good showing. Maybe writing the article for Foxe’s Morning Spectacle wouldn’t be so difficult after all.

      Among the ladies in Maison Noirot dresses were Lady Clara and— Oh, yes! Lady Gladys Fairfax had worn her new wine-colored dress! A victory!

      Leonie smiled.

      Her companion leaned nearer. “What is it?” he whispered.

      She felt the whisper on her ear and on her neck. Thence it seemed to travel under her skin and arrow straight to the bottom of her belly.

      “An excess of emotion from the poetry,” she murmured.

      “You haven’t heard a word Swanton’s uttered,” he said. “You’ve been surveying the audience. Who’s made you smile? Have I a rival?”

      Like who, exactly? Apollo? Adonis?

      “Dozens,” she said.

      “Can’t say I’m surprised.” But his green gaze was moving over the crowd. She watched his survey continue round the hall, then pause and go back to the group sitting in the last row, as they were, but to their right, nearer to the doors.

      “Clara,” he said. “And Gladys with her. I never saw them when we came in, thanks to the gentleman desperate to drag his family away. But there’s no more room on that side, in any event, and so we’re not obliged to join them—oh, ye beneficent gods and spirits of the place! Well, then …” He tilted his head to one side and frowned. “Not that I should have known Gladys straightaway.”

      He turned back to Leonie, his green eyes glinting. “She isn’t in rancid colors for once. Is that your doing?”

      Leonie nodded proudly.

      He turned back again to look. “And there’s Valentine, roped in for escort duty, poor fellow.”

      Lord Valentine Fairfax was one of Lady Clara’s brothers. Unlike Lord Longmore, who was dark, Lord Valentine was a typical Fairfax: blond, blue-eyed, and unreasonably good-looking.

      “He’s been here the whole time, unfortunate mortal,” Lord Lisburne said. “Whiling away the hours weaving luscious fantasies of killing himself, I don’t doubt. Or, more likely, Val being a practical fellow, his dreamy thoughts are of ways to kill Swanton without getting caught.”

      “If the men dislike the poetry so much, why do they come?” she said.

      “To make the girls think they’re sensitive.”

      She smothered a laugh, but not altogether successfully or quickly enough. A young woman in front of her turned round to glare.

      Leonie pulled out a handkerchief and pretended to wipe a tear from her eye. The girl turned away.

      The audience wasn’t as hushed as it had been earlier in the evening, when Leonie had peeked through the door. Though many occupying the prime seats on the floor sat rapt—or asleep, in the men’s case—others were whispering, and from the galleries came the low hum of background conversation that normally prevailed at public recitations.

      The increased noise level didn’t seem to trouble Lord Swanton. Someone had taught him how to make himself heard in a public venue, and he was employing the training, his every aching word clearly audible:

       … Aye, deep and full its wayward torrents gush, Strong as the earliest joys of youth, as hope’s first radiant flush;

      For, oh! When soul meets soul above, as man on earth meets man,

       Its deepest, worst, intensity ne’er gains its earthly ban!

      “No, dash it, I won’t hush!” a male voice boomed over the buzz of the audience.

      Leonie looked toward the sound. Not far from the Fairfaxes, a well-fed, middle-aged gentleman was shooing his family toward the door.

      “A precious waste of time,” he continued. “For charity, indeed. If I’d known, I’d have sent in twice the tickets’ cost and stayed at home, and judged it cheap at the price.”

      His wife tried to shush him, again in vain.

      “Give me Tom Moore any day,” he boomed. “Or Robbie Burns. Poetry, you call this! I call it gasbagging.”

      Lord Lisburne made a choked sound.

      Other men in the vicinity didn’t trouble to hide their laughter.

      “It’s a joke, it surely is,” the critic went on. “I could have gone to Vauxhall, instead of wasting a Friday night listening to this lot maunder on about nothing. Bowel stoppage, I shouldn’t wonder. That’s their trouble. What they want is a good physicking.”

      Gasps now, from the ladies nearby.

      “I never heard anybody ask your opinion, sir,” came Lady Gladys’s musical voice. “None of us prevented your going to Vauxhall. Certainly none of us paid for a ticket to hear you. I don’t recollect seeing anything on the program about ill-educated and discourteous men supplying critiques.”

      “Glad to supply it gratis, madam,” came the quick answer. “As to uneducated—at least some of us have wit enough to notice that the emperor’s wearing no clothes.”

      Lord Valentine stood up. “Sir, I’ll thank you not to address the lady in that tone,” he said.

      “She addressed me first, sir!”

      “Blast,” Lord Lisburne said. He rose, too. “Leave it to Gladys. Valentine will be obliged to call out the fellow, thanks to her.”

      Men were starting up from their seats. Lord Swanton became aware of something amiss. He attempted to go on reading his poem, but the audience’s attention was turning away from him to the dispute, and the noise level was rising, drowning him out.

      Leonie became aware of movement in the galleries. She looked up. Men were leaving their seats and moving toward the doors. A duel would be bad enough, but this looked like a riot in the making.

      Images flashed in her mind of the Parisian mob storming through the streets, setting fire to houses where cholera victims lived СКАЧАТЬ