Page 55 of Counting on a Countess
Chapter 14
Any rake of value knew that the theater was the prime place to find mischief. Like other young men of breeding, Kit had stalked many of London’s playhouses. He’d gather with other bucks in the lobby, trading barbs and posturing, all the while on the lookout for pretty, available women. Then it would be on to the pit and even more roguery.
Despite his long history of pleasure seeking at the theater, a new excitement pulsed just beneath the surface of his skin as he escorted Tamsyn through the doors of the Imperial Theatre.
He paid little attention to the elegant lobby, or the smartly dressed crowd milling around before the first performance. All his attention was focused on his wife.
She held on to his arm as she looked with wide-eyed fascination at the exhilarating milieu. Her gaze was never at rest—staring at a puffery of dandies posturing near a column, following the progress of some daringly clothed courtesans as they tried to catch the attention of the dandies, or lingering on a well-to-do matron’s elaborately dressed hair. Voices clashed together and reverberated off the lobby’s low ceiling, and all around was the press of many bodies as everyone fought to see and be seen.
A thread of apprehension wove up his back, but he tried to ignore it even as the sound crushed him and the walls loomed close.
Push it back. Don’t give it room to breathe.
Damned war. Since its end, large, noisy crowds could inspire notes of uneasiness in him. Only when he tracked an escape path did the concern fade.
It was an irritating habit, yet he managed to live with it. He made himself focus on the delights of the evening rather than give any more attention to his darker thoughts. He donned the mask of a man fully at ease with himself and the world.
“Are you all right?” Tamsyn asked with concern.
How had she seen through his disguise? No one else ever had, not even Langdon.
“Never better,” he answered.
Despite his disquiet, his gaze lingered on Tamsyn’s lips while his body revisited the kiss they’d shared last night. He’d gone to bed hard and aching, wanting more of her. But he would go as slowly as necessary, moving forward incrementally, until she came to him willingly.
Tonight was for her enjoyment. He’d mulled over ideas about what she’d like, what would bring her pleasure—and then he’d come up with this plan. A novel kind of nervousness danced along his limbs as he escorted her through the theater. Would she like what he’d arranged for her? Would it bring them closer together?
“Don’t mind the crush,” he said into her ear, trying to be heard above the din. He caught her floral fragrance and it acted as a balm to the edginess he felt in crowds. “Some prefer Theatre Royal or the Haymarket,” he replied, guiding her around another clutch of young bucks. “But they can get tiresomely overcrowded.”
“This isn’t?” she asked. “Any more people packed in here and I think the roof will pop right off.”
He grinned. “The Imperial’s grown more popular since Mrs. Delamere, the playwright, married the Viscount Marwood and became a viscountess. Helps, too, that she writes a damned fine burletta.”
“Is one of her burlettas on the bill tonight?”
“Oh, yes.”
He was about to elaborate on the talent of the viscountess when a male voice cried out, “Beggar me, is that Blakemere?”
“So it is,” Kit said smoothly as he turned to a ruddy-faced gentleman moving toward him. Several other finely attired men followed, their faces also flushed from heat and—more likely—imbibing a healthy amount of wine before the performance. “Hatfield, how the deuces are you?” He stuck out his hand.
Edwin Hatfield shook his hand with the same eagerness with which he did everything. His gaze moved appreciatively over Tamsyn, lingering on her face and the low neckline of her peach gown.
Kit’s chest tightened and his jaw went rigid. “My dear, may I introduce Mr. Edwin Hatfield. This is my wife, scoundrel, so keep your ogling to a minimum else we’ll have an appointment at dawn.” He realized a moment later that he’d said this only half in jest.
Tamsyn offered her hand and Hatfield bowed over it. He said gallantly, “The luck that kept Blakemere alive on the Continent must have surely followed him here, to marry such a gem as yourself.”
“Perhaps, on both counts, it was more strategy than luck,” she answered.
Hatfield laughed heartily, his laughter followed a moment later by his hangers-on.
Kit quickly ran through introductions to the set of young men he’d recently been a part of.
“Will you be joining us in the pit?” Hatfield pressed. Men of leisure almost always paraded their way through the theater’s pit, boasting, flirting with ladies of fast reputation, and generally making nuisances of themselves.
At Hatfield’s query, Tamsyn looked at him, her brows lifted in a question.
“My days of shouldering through that mob have passed,” Kit said without much regret.
