Until You
Page 82
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She must have miscounted, she thought wildly, and began to count each box, searching the aristocratic faces of its occupants. Each box was separated from its neighbor by a slender gold pillar, and from each pillar a cut-glass chandelier was suspended. Sherry counted and recounted them, then she looked at her hands in her lap, clasping them tightly to stop their trembling. He wasn't coming tonight. He'd given his box to others. It would be another week before she could come again, providing she saved enough money to buy another ticket.
The orchestra gave out a blast of sound, the crimson curtains swept open, and Sherry mentally counted the minutes, ignoring the music she had once loved, glancing up compulsively at the two empty seats in the box, willing to see him there, and when she didn't, praying that he would be there when she looked again.
He arrived between the first and second acts, without her seeing him enter the box or take his seat—a dark spectre from the mists of her memory who materialized into the realm of her reality and made her heart thunder. Her eyes clung to his hard, handsome face, memorizing it, worshipping it, as she blinked away the sheen of tears that blurred her vision.
He hadn't loved her, she reminded herself, torturing herself with the sight of him, she'd merely been a responsibility he'd mistakenly assumed. She knew all that, but it didn't stop her from looking at his chiseled lips and remembering how softly they had touched hers, or from gazing at his rugged profile and remembering how his slow dazzling smile could transform his entire face.
Sheridan was not the only woman whose attention wasn't on the performance. On the opposite side of the theatre, in the Duke of Claymore's box, Victoria Fielding, Marchioness of Wakefield, was staring hard at the occupants of the pit, searching for the young woman she'd glimpsed earlier making her way into the opera house. "I know the woman I saw was Charise Lanc—I mean Sheridan Bromleigh," Victoria whispered to Whitney. "She was in the lines going into the pit. Wait—there she is!" she exclaimed in a low voice. "She's wearing a dark blue bonnet."
Oblivious to the curious looks of their husbands, who were seated behind them, the two friends peered hard at the woman in question, their shoulders so close together that Victoria's auburn hair nearly touched the glossy dark strands of Whitney's.
"If only she didn't have that bonnet on, we'd know her in a minute by the color of her hair!"
Whitney didn't need to see the color of her hair. For the next half hour, the woman in question never looked anywhere but at Stephen's box, and it was confirmation enough. "She hasn't stopped looking at him," Victoria said, her voice filled with some of the same confusion and sorrow that Whitney felt about the sudden disappearance and behavior of Stephen's fiancée. "Do you suppose she knew he would be here tonight?"
Whitney nodded, willing the young woman to look in her direction for just a moment, instead of the opposite one. "She knows Stephen comes here on Thursday nights and that he has that box. She was here with him a few days before she… vanished." Vanished was the least damning thing Whitney could say at the moment, which was why she chose the word. Victoria and Jason Fielding, who were also friends of Stephen's, were two of the very few people amongst the ton who were privy to most of the full story because they'd been invited to attend the small celebration that had been planned for after the private affair.
"Do you think she intends to meet him 'accidentally' for some reason?"
"I don't know," Whitney whispered back.
Behind them, their husbands observed the pretty pair who were ignoring a rather excellent performance. "What is that all about?" Clayton murmured to Jason Fielding, tipping his head toward their two wives.
"Someone must have the gown of the century on."
"Not if she's down there in the pits," Clayton pointed out. "The last time Whitney and Victoria indulged in a similar huddle, it was because Stephen's mistress was in his box with him and Monica Fitzwaring was in the next box with Bakersfield, trying to look as if she didn't know who was one narrow pillar away from her shoulder."
"I remember," Jason said with a grin. "As I recall, they were on the side of Helene Devernay that night."
"Whitney laughed all the way home," Clayton said.
"Victoria declared it the most diverting three hours of the entire Season," Jason added, and leaning forward he whispered jokingly, "Victoria, you are in imminent danger of toppling out of this box."
She sent him an abashed smile but did not cease her scrutiny of whatever they were watching.
"She's leaving!" Whitney said, feeling both relieved and crestfallen. "She didn't wait for the performance to end, and she didn't leave her seat between acts, which means she doesn't intend to meet him here accidentally."
As puzzled as he was amused by their girlish whispering, Clayton leaned sideways, scanning the rows in the pit, but he waited until they were on their way to their next engagement—a lavish midnight supper—before he brought the subject up to his preoccupied wife. "What were you and Victoria doing all that whispering about tonight?"
Whitney hesitated, knowing he would not be pleased that Sheridan Bromleigh had reentered their sphere or be interested in the reasons. "Victoria thought she saw Sheridan Bromleigh tonight. I couldn't get a good enough look at her face to say for certain that Victoria was correct." Clayton's brows drew together into a dark hostile frown at the mention of the woman's name, and Whitney decided to let the subject drop.
The following Thursday, after seeing that their husbands were occupied elsewhere, Victoria and Whitney arrived early at Covent Garden, and from the vantage point of their box, scanned the faces of every new arrival who entered the pit and the gallery, searching for one particular face. "Do you see her?" Victoria asked.
"No, but it's a miracle you noticed her in the crowd at all last week. It's impossible to see everyone's features clearly from up here."
"I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed," Victoria said, sitting back in her chair when the curtain went up, and they still hadn't had a glimpse of the woman they'd thought was Sheridan Bromleigh last week.
Whitney sat back too, silently sorting out her own reaction.
"Your brother-in-law just arrived," Victoria said a few minutes later. "Is that Georgette Porter with him?"
Whitney looked across the theatre at Stephen's box and nodded absently.
"She's exceedingly lovely," Victoria added in the tone of one who is trying very hard to find and give encouragement about a situation that is not particularly encouraging at all. She liked Stephen Westmoreland very well, and he was one of a very few people whom her husband considered among his close friends. She had also felt an instantaneous liking for Sheridan Bromleigh, who, like herself, was also an American.
The orchestra gave out a blast of sound, the crimson curtains swept open, and Sherry mentally counted the minutes, ignoring the music she had once loved, glancing up compulsively at the two empty seats in the box, willing to see him there, and when she didn't, praying that he would be there when she looked again.
He arrived between the first and second acts, without her seeing him enter the box or take his seat—a dark spectre from the mists of her memory who materialized into the realm of her reality and made her heart thunder. Her eyes clung to his hard, handsome face, memorizing it, worshipping it, as she blinked away the sheen of tears that blurred her vision.
He hadn't loved her, she reminded herself, torturing herself with the sight of him, she'd merely been a responsibility he'd mistakenly assumed. She knew all that, but it didn't stop her from looking at his chiseled lips and remembering how softly they had touched hers, or from gazing at his rugged profile and remembering how his slow dazzling smile could transform his entire face.
Sheridan was not the only woman whose attention wasn't on the performance. On the opposite side of the theatre, in the Duke of Claymore's box, Victoria Fielding, Marchioness of Wakefield, was staring hard at the occupants of the pit, searching for the young woman she'd glimpsed earlier making her way into the opera house. "I know the woman I saw was Charise Lanc—I mean Sheridan Bromleigh," Victoria whispered to Whitney. "She was in the lines going into the pit. Wait—there she is!" she exclaimed in a low voice. "She's wearing a dark blue bonnet."
Oblivious to the curious looks of their husbands, who were seated behind them, the two friends peered hard at the woman in question, their shoulders so close together that Victoria's auburn hair nearly touched the glossy dark strands of Whitney's.
"If only she didn't have that bonnet on, we'd know her in a minute by the color of her hair!"
Whitney didn't need to see the color of her hair. For the next half hour, the woman in question never looked anywhere but at Stephen's box, and it was confirmation enough. "She hasn't stopped looking at him," Victoria said, her voice filled with some of the same confusion and sorrow that Whitney felt about the sudden disappearance and behavior of Stephen's fiancée. "Do you suppose she knew he would be here tonight?"
Whitney nodded, willing the young woman to look in her direction for just a moment, instead of the opposite one. "She knows Stephen comes here on Thursday nights and that he has that box. She was here with him a few days before she… vanished." Vanished was the least damning thing Whitney could say at the moment, which was why she chose the word. Victoria and Jason Fielding, who were also friends of Stephen's, were two of the very few people amongst the ton who were privy to most of the full story because they'd been invited to attend the small celebration that had been planned for after the private affair.
"Do you think she intends to meet him 'accidentally' for some reason?"
"I don't know," Whitney whispered back.
Behind them, their husbands observed the pretty pair who were ignoring a rather excellent performance. "What is that all about?" Clayton murmured to Jason Fielding, tipping his head toward their two wives.
"Someone must have the gown of the century on."
"Not if she's down there in the pits," Clayton pointed out. "The last time Whitney and Victoria indulged in a similar huddle, it was because Stephen's mistress was in his box with him and Monica Fitzwaring was in the next box with Bakersfield, trying to look as if she didn't know who was one narrow pillar away from her shoulder."
"I remember," Jason said with a grin. "As I recall, they were on the side of Helene Devernay that night."
"Whitney laughed all the way home," Clayton said.
"Victoria declared it the most diverting three hours of the entire Season," Jason added, and leaning forward he whispered jokingly, "Victoria, you are in imminent danger of toppling out of this box."
She sent him an abashed smile but did not cease her scrutiny of whatever they were watching.
"She's leaving!" Whitney said, feeling both relieved and crestfallen. "She didn't wait for the performance to end, and she didn't leave her seat between acts, which means she doesn't intend to meet him here accidentally."
As puzzled as he was amused by their girlish whispering, Clayton leaned sideways, scanning the rows in the pit, but he waited until they were on their way to their next engagement—a lavish midnight supper—before he brought the subject up to his preoccupied wife. "What were you and Victoria doing all that whispering about tonight?"
Whitney hesitated, knowing he would not be pleased that Sheridan Bromleigh had reentered their sphere or be interested in the reasons. "Victoria thought she saw Sheridan Bromleigh tonight. I couldn't get a good enough look at her face to say for certain that Victoria was correct." Clayton's brows drew together into a dark hostile frown at the mention of the woman's name, and Whitney decided to let the subject drop.
The following Thursday, after seeing that their husbands were occupied elsewhere, Victoria and Whitney arrived early at Covent Garden, and from the vantage point of their box, scanned the faces of every new arrival who entered the pit and the gallery, searching for one particular face. "Do you see her?" Victoria asked.
"No, but it's a miracle you noticed her in the crowd at all last week. It's impossible to see everyone's features clearly from up here."
"I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed," Victoria said, sitting back in her chair when the curtain went up, and they still hadn't had a glimpse of the woman they'd thought was Sheridan Bromleigh last week.
Whitney sat back too, silently sorting out her own reaction.
"Your brother-in-law just arrived," Victoria said a few minutes later. "Is that Georgette Porter with him?"
Whitney looked across the theatre at Stephen's box and nodded absently.
"She's exceedingly lovely," Victoria added in the tone of one who is trying very hard to find and give encouragement about a situation that is not particularly encouraging at all. She liked Stephen Westmoreland very well, and he was one of a very few people whom her husband considered among his close friends. She had also felt an instantaneous liking for Sheridan Bromleigh, who, like herself, was also an American.
