Page 32 of Felicity Cabot Sells Her Soul
Caught off-guard by the approachable address, Felicity’s tight grip upon his arm loosened just a bit, and she muffled a small laugh with the tips of her fingers. “I’m afraid I might make poor company,” she said to Louisa as Mr. Jennings held the door for them. “I truly do enjoy Shakespeare, and I’ve never had the opportunity to attend the theatre before now.”
“Oh, have you not? Well, the performances are always very fine indeed. And we shall have a magnificent view. It is just Shakespeare that bores me.” Louisa gave a little sigh, shrugging out of her pelisse to hand over to one of the theatre attendants. “I suppose I could constrain myself to chatting only at the interlude, if I might prevail upon you to nudge me awake should I begin to snore.”
“She’s in jest,” Mr. Jennings spluttered, his cheeks going ruddier still. “Your coat, Mrs. Carlisle?”
Felicity froze, one hand clutching at the collar of her drab grey coat, which lay over an ever more drab black dress. “Oh, I—I—”
“She’d prefer to keep it,” Ian said to him, squeezing Felicity’s hand. “My wife is headmistress at Mrs. Lewis’ Seminary for Young Ladies. Evening wear would hardly have suited her role there, and there simply wasn’t time, between the conclusion of her duties at the school and our evening engagement, to make the trip home to change.” It was no one’s business but her own if she presently did not have better to change into.
Another soft, subtle release of the tension that had drawn her so stiff at the ready excuse provided for her. Her shoulders sank to a more natural slope, a slight sigh of relief whisking across her lips.
“Mrs. Lewis’,” Louisa echoed, her brows lifting. “I have got a cousin who attends. You must be familiar with her—Dorothea White?”
“Dorothea is your cousin? Yes, of course I know her.” Felicity’s fingers slipped away from his arm as she took a step toward Louisa. “She is—well, she’s—”
“A holy terror?” Louisa suggested wryly as she threaded her arm through Felicity’s.
“I was going to saystrong-willed,” Felicity said sheepishly.
“Strong-willed!” Louisa tittered behind her hand. “What a talent you have for turning condemnation into flattery.”
“Oh, but she is a lovely girl,” Felicity insisted. “That is to say, when she isnot—”
“Intent upon driving one utterly mad?”
By the soft laugh Felicity gave, Ian imagined she could only agree. But her smile was genuine now, unforced. As if she had forgotten the awkwardness of only a few minutes prior entirely.
“Will you mind terribly if I make off with your wife, Mr. Carlisle?” Louisa asked.
“I would,” he said. “But she wouldn’t. And Felicity does as she pleases.”
“How delightfully accommodating of you,” Louisa said approvingly. “Would that all gentlemen were so obliging. Felicity—may I call you Felicity?”
“Oh—of course.”
“There’s champagne waiting, and ten minutes left until the curtain rises. If I am shortly to lose your company to Shakespeare, I would welcome the opportunity to chat for a few minutes in advance of it,” Louisa said. “Shall I show you to the box?”
“Yes. Please.” The relief in her voice was a palpable thing. And as the two of them swept away together toward the stairs, Ian supposed he might as well let Mr. Jennings’ attempted matrimonial coup pass without comment, given that something good had come of it.
Felicity was going to enjoy herself after all. Perhaps she would even come away with a friend.
Chapter Twelve
Felicity hadn’t paid much attention to the conversation which had been taking place at the rear of the box during the performance, though shehadnoticed Louisa’s soft snore which had begun halfway through the second act. The woman had not understated her boredom with Shakespeare, and Felicity had held up her end of their bargain with a discreet nudge.
But Louisa had proved an amiable companion, kind and engaging. More so than Felicity had expected. “You must have married quite recently,” Louisa said as she led Felicity toward the retiring room at the interlude.
“Oh. Yes. A few weeks, now.”
“I suppose that must explain it, then,” Louisa said on a sigh as she ushered Felicity through the retiring room door. “There’s no zeal quite like that of the newly converted.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That glare your husband gave to Papa when you arrived,” Louisa said. “Did you not notice? Here, let me fix your hair.” With both hands, she redirected Felicity to face the mirror and began to pluck pins from her hair.
The whole mass came spiraling down, and Felicity held very still as Louisa raked her fingers through it, picking apart curls. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “He glared?”
“Sucha glare,” Louisa said. “Of course he had to have known at once that Papa meant to fling me at his head.”
