Carys hastened along the near-deserted corridor. As she passed one of the decorative alcoves lining the walls a gloved hand caught her elbow and she was unceremoniously hauled behind the velvet drapery into a dimly lit passageway reserved for the opera servants and staff.
“Shhh.” Howe chuckled at her outraged gasp.
Carys glared at him. “Let go of me.” She shook herself free of his hold and pressed back against the wall, as far away from him as the narrow passageway allowed.
He probably thought he looked handsome in his evening clothes, but the past few years of dissipation were starting to show on his face. His blond hair had lost its golden luster and there were dark circles beneath his bloodshot blue eyes.
How on earth had she ever thought him attractive?
He sent her a chiding, amused glance. “Tsk. Don’t be like that, Carys. We were good together. Don’t you remember?” He stroked his finger down her arm in a casual caress. “We could be again.”
She shuddered in revulsion. “Never.”
“Is it because of Victoria?” he murmured. “You needn’t feel guilty on her account. She and I have an understanding. She’s not interested in what I do.”
“Neither am I.”
He snorted. “You would have married me in a heartbeat two years ago.”
Her blood ran cold at the reminder. It was true. She’d been a besotted idiot two years ago, flattered by his attention. Thank God the scales had fallen from her eyes. The charm she’d once found so attractive now struck her as practiced and insincere.
“Get your hands off me,” she hissed, struggling to keep her voice low so they wouldn’t be overheard.
He dropped his hand and the seductive façade fell away with it. His eyes hardened. “Fine. Do you have my money?”
She snapped open her reticule, withdrew the folded notes, and thrust them at him with a look of loathing. The sly satisfaction on his face made her feel nauseous. How had it come to this? Being blackmailed by this snake.
“This is the last time, Howe. I’m not doing this anymore.”
His low laugh made her grind her teeth. “Oh, we both know that’s not true. We’ll keep doing this until I say we stop, and this little arrangement is working perfectly well for me.”
“But not for me.”
“You don’t get a say in the matter, my love. You know what will happen if you don’t pay up. I’ll tell everyone you’re used goods, no better than those tarts out there on the stage.” He smirked. “I’ll say you threw yourself at me, begged me for it.”
His smile was so sweetly mocking that she curled her fingers into her palm and fought the urge to punch him. God, if she were a man she’d break his nose.
“Let’s not forget the words of the minister James Fordyce,” he said with mock piety. “From his Sermons for Young Women. ‘Remember how tender a thing a woman’s reputation is; how hard to preserve, and when lost how impossible to recover.’”
Carys glared at him in disbelief. “You hypocrite! God, you disgust me.”
Anger burned a hot ball in her chest: fury at her own impotence, her own youthful stupidity. Tears threatened, but she forced them back. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
“Just take your money and go!” she growled.
Howe plucked the banknotes deftly from her fingers and slipped them into his jacket.
“I don’t like doing this, you know. But I have debts of my own that I need to repay.”
“To Lord Holland?” she hazarded, recalling what James had said at the fair.
Howe narrowed his eyes. “Among others. But yes, he’s my most pressing creditor. And believe me, he’s far more unpleasant to deal with than I am.”
Carys curled her lip. “You expect me to feel sorry for you?”
Howe shrugged. “A pleasure, as always.” He pretended to tip his hat to her, then slipped back through the curtain and out into the corridor.
Carys expelled an unsteady breath and sagged back against the wall. She was perilously close to tears. A cauldron of simmering resentment bubbled inside her, a combination of self-recrimination and hatred.
She closed her eyes. The sound of the orchestra was muffled, but the joyous trills only served to mock her own black misery. She tried to take a deep breath, but her stays were too tight to allow any real relief and she was beginning to get a headache from all the pins that had been jabbed into her scalp to create her elaborate hairstyle.
God, she wished she were back in her bedroom at home, or—even better—back in Wales, far from the problems of her life here in London. At Trellech she could go corsetless and barefoot. Here she was confined in an elegant cage of pins and combs, whalebone and lacing, rules and regulations.
Howe had likened her to the actresses out there on the stage. He’d meant, of course, to imply that her morals were as loose as those of the opera singers, who were infamous for their affairs. But that was not where the similarity lay. Carys was like them because she, too, was capable of putting on an extraordinary performance. But whereas the opera on the stage concluded neatly in the space of three hours, her own performance had to last the entire social season.
Would it have to last her entire life?
She tried to gather herself, but she felt brittle, as if she would snap at any moment. Her life was a charade and she was so tired of having to deal with it alone.
With her eyes still closed, she inhaled a shaky breath. She couldn’t fall apart here. Not in public. “Polite” society had a thousand inquisitive eyes; her upset would be noted—then gossiped over and speculated about ad infinitum. She didn’t need that kind of scrutiny.
She would return to her box and smile. Even if she was breaking inside.