Thoughts of Emily haunted him, warning him against all interest in anyone. The recollection of her stabbed into him painfully. He saw her thin, fine-boned face, one blonde brow raised as she gave her haughty smile. She’d fallen in love with his cousin, overlooking him because of his scar. He’d believed in her protestations that she didn’t notice it, but it hadn’t been true. She was lying. And she had been a good woman, someonehe trusted.
I can’t trust her,he thought, glancing sideways at the woman who walked beside him. Just like he couldn’t trust Emily.
She was looking at the floor and he wanted to smile, a bitter sort of smile. At least she wasn’t pretending.
As he walked to the door with Lord and Lady Rothendale following them, the chaperone trailing behind them both, it occurred to him that she had smiled; such a friendly, welcoming smile. He pushed the thought away.
She’s not to be trusted.
He took her hand, wincing at the feeling of her petal-soft skin against his gloved one. The gloves were silk, and he could feel the warmth and softness of her skin easily enough through it.
“Miss Rowland,” he murmured politely as he helped her into the coach.
“Lord Blackburne.”
He winced at the grip of her hand on his. Not just because he feared she might feel the scars through the fabric, but because of the heat that flooded through him at her touch.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said softly as he helped her in. Her voice was low and shy. He felt the tone of it resonate inside him and drew a breath, heart thudding, mind a whirl of confusedfeelings.
He withdrew his hand and waited for the chaperone to slip in to sit on the seat beside her, and then he swung up and sat down.
“Ride on,” he called to the coachman, doing his best to ignore the two women who sat opposite him. The chaperone was staring at him, but Miss Rowland was looking at the silk slippers on her feet as though they were the most interesting thing in the world. He looked away. He was sure she was trying to avoid staring at his scarred face and his stomach twisted sourly.
“Onward! On!” Mr. Rayden, the coachman, yelled, and the coach set off, the horses moving briskly down the street. Nicholas leaned back, turning his face away. If he looked out of the window, they could see less of the scar.
“My! Miss, it’s crowded out there,” the chaperone whispered. Nicholas wanted to laugh in spite of himself. It was usual for chaperones to be silent, but this one apparently felt the need to talk.
“Yes. Yes, it is,” Miss Rowland whispered softly. Nicholas hid a grin. Miss Rowland was clearly a kind soul—she could have reprimanded her companion for talking when she was supposed to be silent, but instead she was trying to quiet her without reprimanding her for it.
He pushed the thought away no sooner than it arrived. Compassionate she might be, but nobody’s compassion was going to extend to him. Nobody had yet succeeded in ignoring the scar, and nobody would. He had to believe that.
He couldn’t let himself be fooled by anybody else.
He looked out at the streets, which were, as the chaperone commented, crowded, and tried to ignore the women who watched him covertly from across the coach. He focused out of the window, sweat trickling down his back at the thought of another two or three hours like this in the theater.
At least the actors will be talking. I don’t have to.
They stopped after a few minutes and he jumped down, ready to take Miss Rowland’s hand.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Nicholas tensed. He could still smell the faint scent of her that had tormented him in the coach—a floral, rosewater-like smell that set his senses swooning. He tried to ignore the feelings that swirled through him. They would only torment him worse.
She certainly didn’t return them, after all.
He walked up the steps, feeling the uncomfortable sensation of people watching and looked straight ahead, trying to ignore them. Knowing that people stared at him always put him on edge. He knew they were whispering behind their hands about him. He was used to it, but he still found it hard to bear.
“Where will we sit?”
Nicholas blinked, realizing Miss Rowland was addressing him. He had become accustomed to her quietness, as sheseemed to say nothing except for what was polite. He hadn’t expected her to speak to him at all, and he had no answer ready.
“The box,” he said at once. Seeing her confusion, he felt annoyed at himself for not explaining better. “The Lockwood family box, of course. We’ve owned it for decades.” His voice came out angry and impatient. He winced, seeing her recoil.
“Yes, my lord,” she murmured distantly.
He shut his eyes for a moment, hating himself. He hadn’t meant to scare her. But then, she was already scared.
“We will reach it in a moment,” he said softly, trying to make her feel less frightened.
