Tonight, for example, he could have been relaxing in his office at the coffee house and drinking some fine Madeira while he read the profit and loss statement for the racing stables he owned with Hart in York. Just because he was consumed with the idea of building a spa here in Bath didn’t mean he could afford to neglect his other ventures. They needed his attention as well. He wouldn’t risk handing over complete control of these businesses to someone else and take the chance that they might run them into the ground. He grew up having nothing to call his own. He would never allow that to happen again. That’s why he was very selective about where he chose to invest his time and money.
But now, instead of scrutinising the expenses of the stables, he was making his way up the stairs to Mrs Sommersby’s box to see a play that would probably bore him so much he would fall asleep in the middle of it. Why in the world did he ever agree to this?
The one saving grace in coming here tonight was that he would be spending the evening alone with Mrs Sommersby. At least that was what he thought until he entered her box in the theatre.
Standing next to Mrs Sommersby, only a few feet from him, was the woman he had spoken to at the Pump Room days before. She was about the same height as Mrs Sommersby—however, the large white plume in her turban reached at least six inches higher. Considering she was a woman with such an elevated title, he was surprised that she gave him a friendly smile while he stood frozen in the doorway.
Mrs Sommersby, on the other hand, appeared almost relieved to see him and took a step closer. ‘Mr Lane, I’m so glad you are here. I hope you had no trouble getting the token from the box office.’
This was not what he expected—none of it. If it weren’t poor form to turn on his heels and leave, he would have been thinking of an excuse. ‘It was no trouble at all.’
She turned briefly towards the Duchess. ‘This is Mr Lane. You may recall speaking with him in the Pump Room a few days ago by the fountain. Mr Lane, may I present Eleanor, the Dowager Duchess of Lyonsdale.’
Lyonsdale? The very name sent an uneasy tingle up his spine. Her grandson knew of his background. He knew that Lane was an unwanted bastard. If she knew that Lane was a business associate of her grandson, she might mention she’d met him. Suppose Lyonsdale told her of Lane’s background. She might decide to share that information with Mrs Sommersby.
There was something about Mrs Sommersby that took him away from obsessing about his work and relieved some of the pressure he felt on a daily basis. While he knew he should be home reading that report, he found his chest felt lighter when she was around—and he liked that. The idea that she might cut all ties with him should she find out that he was born on the other side of the blanket, probably to a servant girl, made his stomach drop. His pride had already been dented this week by his disagreement with Lyonsdale. He wasn’t about to take another blow. The Dowager didn’t need to know that he knew her grandson.
While Lane lowered his head in a respectable bow, he spotted a man and a woman sitting in two of the chairs in the front row of the box. How was it possible that he had assumed he would be spending the evening alone with Mrs Sommersby and she had an entirely different evening planned? He tried to recall her exact words when she invited him to join her tonight, but couldn’t.
‘It is a pleasure to formally make your acquaintance, Mr Lane,’ the Dowager said with a warm smile, reminding him how surprisingly affable she had been when they stood around the fountain. ‘I hope you found the water you drank to be beneficial in some way.’
‘My morning at the spa was very beneficial. Thank you.’
‘Capital! You should try bathing in it. It can be very restorative. Isn’t that right?’ she said, turning to Mrs Sommersby.
‘I’ve found it to be.’
Once more the image of Mrs Sommersby in the hot spring bath popped into his mind and once more he wished he was spending the evening alone with her.
The Dowager took a step back. ‘If you two will excuse me, I think I’ll take my seat. The production should begin shortly.’
As the older woman walked to the front of the box, Mrs Sommersby moved closer to him.
‘Shall I be wary of your disposition tonight? Your brow is all wrinkled.’ She waved her hand in the direction of his face and he consciously relaxed the muscles in his forehead.
‘My disposition is fine.’
‘So you say, but I am not quite sure I believe you.’
He couldn’t admit all the thoughts going through his head. He would sound like a love-struck fool to admit he was disappointed they were not going to be alone together. ‘You’ll have to trust me.’
She narrowed those amber-coloured eyes at him and her pert nose seemed to twitch. ‘Very well. Time will tell if that is a wise decision. Let me introduce you to Mr Greeley. He’s a guest of the Dowager’s. Then you can say hello to Miss Collingswood. Just please don’t frighten the girl.’
‘I never frighten people.’
‘I think you underestimate your abilities.’
After he shook the young gentleman’s hand in a firm grasp, he could see how wide Miss Collingswood’s eyes were as she waited for him to address her before she glanced quickly at Mrs Sommersby. She had to be about twenty years of age and looked like the ideal debutante with her dewy skin, white muslin gown and the pale blue satin ribbon in her red hair. Her appearance was a sharp contrast to the sophisticated and alluring look of Mrs Sommersby, who was wearing a deep blue satin gown that hugged the curves of her breasts and showed a good amount of her décolletage with the low-cut neckline of the gown.
Thankfully, Miss Collingswood was tucked into the corner beside Mr Greeley in the last seat in the row, so he didn’t have to worry that anyone was considering him as a potential suitor for her. Over the years he had come to realise that there were those people who assumed, because he was a bachelor, that he was looking for a wife. He had been abandoned once in his life by a woman. He was not eager to put himself in a situation where it could happen again. At seven and thirty he had become very skilled at avoiding the matchmaking mothers who valued his wealth over the circumstances of his birth.
As they went to sit down, it was Mrs Sommersby’s turn to wrinkle her brow when she took note that the two vacant chairs were on the other side of the Dowager. ‘We could sit behind Miss Collingswood and Mr Greeley,’ she offered.
‘Or we could sit in the front row and have a better view of the stage.’
‘Oh, quite right. I just thought this might be more conducive to conversation.’
‘Do you frequently talk during a performance?’
‘Well, no. Do you?’
‘I can’t recall the last time I went to the theatre, but I doubt I spent much time talking.’
‘Now that I can believe,’ she replied over her shoulder in a teasing tone as she made her way to the chair beside the Dowager.
Just as Lane took his seat next to her, the red-velvet curtain on the stage came up. With everyone’s attention fixed on the actors, Lane closed his eyes and hoped that his head wouldn’t bob if he nodded off to sleep. He had been up well before sunrise today, observing the delivery process of the coffee and sugar at the coffee house and reviewing with his manager the amounts ordered. No matter what type of business they purchased, Lane always saw to it that he knew everything he could about it.
‘I didn’t invite you here tonight so you could fall asleep beside me.’
The air around him had the faintest scent of roses and the warm breath of her whisper caressed his cheek. How he wished he could stay like this to savour the sensation.
‘I know you are not asleep, sir.’
‘I never said I was.’ Just to see what she would do, he kept his eyes closed.
‘You will miss the play if you continue to do that.’
‘I was content to listen to it, but there appears to be a persistent buzzing in my ear.’
He peeked at her out of one eye and felt satisfaction when she let out an exasperated breath.
‘You are impossible, Mr Lane.’
The sound of her voice was replaced by those of the actors on the stage and, instead of being lulled to sleep, Lane found he wanted not only to hear but to see what was going on. The story was a comedy of manners about a courtship of a young woman in which a suitor pretended to be someone he was not. There were times Lane pretended to be a gentleman from a respectable household, as he was doing right now with Mrs Sommersby—only he wasn’t attempting to court her. Mr Greeley, however, appeared to be besotted by Miss Collingswood.
Because the box was located so close to the stage, Lane had to look past the profile of Mrs Sommersby to see it and his gaze would periodically shift from the actors to Mr Greeley, who was watching the animated reactions of Miss Collingswood.
‘I’m glad to see you’ve not fallen asleep,’ Mrs Sommersby said after a time, low enough for only him to hear. ‘She really is a lovely woman.’
‘Who?’
‘Miss Collingswood.’
‘Greeley seems to think so. Are they engaged?’
‘Greeley and Miss Collingswood? No, they just met this evening. I don’t even know if she likes him.’
‘Ah, so it truly is a matter of art imitating life. Well, you have nothing to fear. You seem to have made a good match.’
Her eyes widened as she brought her fan up to her chest. ‘You misunderstand. I am not trying to foster a match between them.’
None of the women he knew were matchmakers. At least he hadn’t witnessed any attempting such a feat. And if they did, he doubted they would have confessed as much to him.
‘Are you saying I’m Mrs Malapropism in this scenario?’ she continued with low indignation. ‘The one who in that scene was just accused of being an old weather-beaten she-dragon guarding her charge? The one who was accused of being vain with coarse features? The one who uses words incorrectly?’ Her voice was low, but sharp, and there was a distinct possibility she was about to hit him with her fan.
Although they were in a crowded theatre, it felt inexplicably as if they were all alone. He leaned his head close to hers and she did not back away. ‘You are far too young to be accused of being old and weather-beaten.’
‘But I am still a vain she-dragon with coarse features? That makes it all so much better.’ She rolled her eyes at him before snapping open her fan so sharply that he had to lean back or it might have struck his nose.
‘I assure you that no one would accuse you of any of those things.’
‘I believe, Mr Lane, that I prefer you when you say very little.’ There was a teasing lilt to her voice that he was growing accustomed to.
She focused her attention back on the stage and he shifted in his chair so that he was resting his elbow on the left armrest, mere inches away from her torso and her very shapely breast. They stayed that way for what felt like an hour, until the fan that had been resting on her lap slipped to the floor when she moved her leg.
Instinctively he bent to pick it up just as she lowered her arm to the floor. The abruptness of the movement made him stop—and their cheeks almost brushed against one another. The warmth from her skin was tangible and he didn’t want to move away. She turned to look at him and her gaze slid to his lips, which were now aching to brush against hers. Tucked behind the low wall of the box, they had more privacy sitting where they were than most people in the theatre. Just a few more inches and he could kiss her. Just a few more inches and he would be able to see if her lips really were as soft as they looked. No one would even be able to see them.
A loud burst of applause rang out around them, causing both of them to jerk apart. The moment was lost—and the realisation that the Dowager was just on the other side of Mrs Sommersby struck him.
‘What a lovely performance,’ she declared, turning to them both. ‘I cannot believe we are already at the interval. I didn’t even need wine to get through it.’ The wrinkles on her brow deepened. ‘What are you two doing down there?’
They both straightened up and thankfully Mrs Sommersby had the fan in her hand. He had forgotten all about it.
‘My fan had fallen.’ As if the Dowager would not have believed her, she held it up to show her for good measure. ‘The production has been wonderful so far.’
The Dowager shifted her attention between the two of them before settling on Lane. ‘And are you enjoying it?’
He tried to swallow away the dryness in his mouth. ‘Quite, thank you.’ It would have been more enjoyable if his moment with Mrs Sommersby hadn’t been interrupted and even more so if they had been alone. It was hard to stop imagining her soft lips against his.
‘Oh, it is simply a wonderful play,’ Miss Col-lingswood exclaimed, practically jumping into the seats behind them with Mr Greeley. ‘Don’t you agree, Mrs Sommersby? Thank you for asking me to join you here tonight. I am so thrilled that I did not have to miss it.’
‘I’m glad that tonight has brought you so much joy,’ Mrs Sommersby replied with what almost appeared to be a pleased maternal expression.
‘And you, Mr Greeley,’ the Dowager addressed the man who was younger than Lane. ‘Are you enjoying the play?’
‘Yes, Your Grace. Mr Sheridan has done a fine job capturing the foibles of courtship.’
‘Let us hope all courtships aren’t like that,’ she replied. ‘I would like to believe that most people are not filled with artifice.’
‘But don’t you think most are, in some way?’ Lane chimed in.
Mrs Sommersby looked as if she were studying him. ‘I suppose. People tend to show only the best of themselves in the beginning, not wanting to do anything that will push the other person away.’
‘But is that truly artifice,’ the Dowager asked, ‘or is it simply being on your best behaviour?’
‘I think it might be more. Everyone has skeletons in their closets,’ he replied. ‘Some are better at hiding them than others.’
Mrs Sommersby’s gaze ran up his torso and settled on his face. ‘And what skeletons are you hiding, Mr Lane?’
He wondered if she liked what she saw. ‘I fall asleep at the theatre.’
‘But you did not do so during this performance so far.’
‘Maybe I’m practising artifice.’
‘Hmmm. Falling asleep at the theatre is a horrible trait. You made a wise decision to hide it.’ She shook out her fan and waved it near her neck.
Miss Collingswood’s eyes widened as she turned to him. ‘Do you truly fall asleep in the theatre, Mr Lane? I can’t imagine doing so. The building, the costumes, the orchestra—it is all so thrilling.’
‘I have not attended the theatre enough to know for certain. I surmise it has more to do with the quality of the performance.’
Her features softened as she nodded slowly while keeping her eyes on him. If he had frightened her the other day, she seemed to have overcome her fear now.
Mr Greeley leaned forward a bit, obstructing Lane’s view of Miss Collingswood. ‘I find living an honest life is one of the most noble things you can do.’
His comment was given rather abruptly and it took Lane a moment to remember that they had been discussing artifice. ‘Honest in what way?’
‘Honest in the eyes of God and the church.’
‘But would you say we are being dishonest when we do not reveal our foibles to the people we meet?’
Mr Greeley looked a bit confused by the question.
‘I think what Mr Lane means,’ Clara interrupted, ‘is if you have a habit of picking your teeth with your fork, should you disclose that to Miss Collingswood now for the sake of honesty or wait until a later date when you are confident that she has affection for you?’
Mr Greeley looked nervously at Miss Collingswood as if it had been revealed to the entire the
atre that the man did pick his teeth with his fork.
The orchestra struck up a few chords, letting the people milling about in the corridors and visiting other boxes know that the performance was about to resume, saving Mr Greeley from continuing the conversation. The noise in the theatre grew louder with the sounds of people returning to their seats and as the young couple moved back to their chairs, Lane exchanged a small smile with Mrs Sommersby.
‘One has to wonder if Mr Greeley does indeed pick his teeth with a fork,’ she said low enough so only he could hear her behind her fan.
‘With his truly honourable nature, he is probably confessing it to her as we speak.’
They both leaned out to see past the Dowager and watched the couple deep in conversation. Whatever they were discussing didn’t seem to bother Miss Collingswood since she still appeared to be in very good spirits.
The Dowager waved her gloved hand at Lane and Mrs Sommersby. The diamonds in her substantial bracelet sparkled in the candlelight. ‘Leave them alone, you two. We all have skeletons as Mr Lane has said.’
‘Yes, but mine do not have cutlery,’ he replied, sitting back in his chair and settling in, missing the amused expressions the ladies shared.
Chapter Eleven
Sitting this close to Mr Lane, Clara was able to smell the light scent of his cologne and for the past hour she realised that she liked the way he smelled. And she liked how he made her feel. They shared a similar sense of humour and he had a wonderful way of making her smile when she least expected it. And she felt comfortable with him, as you did with someone who you’d been friends with for a long time, which made no sense since they barely knew one another. Yet all of that had nothing to do with why her heart seemed to beat a bit faster when he was around.
A short while ago she actually thought he was going to kiss her. When they both reached for her fan after it had fallen to the floor, their faces were so close together she could feel the exhale of his breath skim across her lips. Foolishly, she felt her body lean closer towards him, as if they weren’t in a very public theatre with her friend sitting on her other side. She didn’t want another husband and she didn’t want the complications that would arise in her life if she took a lover. But she had desperately wanted to kiss Mr Lane.
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