Cian didn’t enjoy the opera as much as Ben did, although he certainly didn’t suffer through the performance the way Jack and Will did, just to linger in the corridors outside, to talk to certain ladies and drink the inadequate house brandy the theatre offered. There was a precision to music that Cian enjoyed. He liked to identify the patterns in the chords and notes, to anticipate how the composer built themes. Wagner was particularly good at developing his patterns.
Because he was pre-occupied with the music, he didn’t participate in that other great opera tradition—namely, observing the audience—until the intermission, when Jack, Will and Ben all escaped to the front of the house as soon as the last notes sounded.
It left Cian sitting alone in the row of four chairs. He was in no rush to sample the champagne or the brandy and instead turned in his seat to see who he knew in the audience. Most of the faces were familiar, until he looked at the upper levels, where the middle class in their street clothes sat with their heads together.
He turned and scanned the other side of the auditorium. His gaze was halted on the second level, at the box three down from his mother’s and Raymond’s box. The Duke of Gainford’s box, Cian suspected, although he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her to check who sat beside her.
She was a stranger to Cian, and he thought he knew everyone in the Gainsford household. Certainly, he knew James, the heir.
Was she a friend of the family’s? A long lost cousin?
Who was she?
She sat at the far corner of the box in the first row, her gloved hands crossed and resting on the ledge, her fan beneath them. Dark hair…not quite black, he thought. A deep, rich brown, which was complimented by a golden yellow gown and cream gloves. Deeply arched brows over dark eyes.
She was beautiful. Not perfect, the way Jenny was gloriously lovely. The woman had high cheekbones, slender cheeks and a jaw that was a touch too sharp. She moved her head in a determined way that matched the line of her jaw, the angle of her neck and the straightness of her back. Her beauty did not arise from the symmetry of her face, but came from within. It was a part of who she was, not simply handed to her as a product of birth.
The woman’s gaze met Cian’s.
There were very few people sitting around him. There was no need to wonder if she was looking at him. He knew he was the object of her stare.
Invisible fingers walked up the length of his spine. He let out a slow exhale.
A gentleman wouldn’t stare. A gentleman would nod politely and turn his gaze away. Cian couldn’t move.
Her breasts beneath the unadorned edge of her golden dress rose and fell. She was not looking away, either. Unlike modest debutantes, she continued to stare at him openly and directly.
A man standing behind her chair bent to speak to her. She pulled her gaze away and looked at him.
The moment was broken.
Then she turned her head and nodded at Cian.
The man straightened to look at him, too. It was James.
Cian acknowledged his look with a bow of his head.
James bent to speak to the woman once more. He was telling her who Cian was.
For the first time, Cian felt an absurd pride in his rank and the family name and reputation. All the years his mother had worked to raise the estimation of the family amongst society came home to roost in this single moment. If this strange, beautiful woman was a friend of the Duke’s family, then Cian, as the son of an Earl and step son of a Marquis, would be a suitable match for her. She could not possibly protest that he was not of sufficient rank.
James straightened up again. Without looking at Cian, he moved out of the box once more, tugging on his gloves.
The woman was studying her fan, spreading the lace veins out for her inspection.
Cian’s heart thudded. Why would she not look at him again?
Ben threw himself into the chair beside Cian. He was scowling, his dark Welsh features thundery. Something had happened, but Cian didn’t care about that, not right now.
“Who is the woman in Gainsford’s box?” Cian asked. “Do you know? The one with the yellow dress?”
“What do I care?” Ben growled.
“I care,” Cian said, his voice low. “Look…without looking. Do you know her?”
Ben considered Cian for a minute. He tugged at his bottom lip, his mood lightening. “On the left, you say?”
“Gainsford’s box. Three down from my mother’s.”
“Aye, I know the one.” Ben looked at the orchestra pit for a moment, where the orchestra members were returning. Then he let his gaze slide around to his right, taking in the boxes there. Then, looking just as casual, he scanned the left.
He looked at Cian and whistled silently. “Oh, my Lord, Cian, if that’s who I think it is, she is far, far out of your reach.”
Cian’s heart jolted. “Why do you say that? Who is she?” Coldness gripped him.
“Lady Eleanore Neville. Second child and oldest daughter of the Duke of Gainford.”
“The daughter of a Duke…” Cian breathed. “She looks nearly our age. Why has she not been out for seasons already and snatched up by someone?”
Ben gave a wry smile. “She lives in Europe. She’s one of mother’s—Annalies’, I mean—one of her cousins. Gainsford is fabulously and filthy rich, so the family doesn’t have to marry for money.”
The woman—Lady Eleanore—would not look at him. Cian’s heart hurt as he willed her to lift her chin. He wanted to see her face properly once more.
“Why is she out of my reach?” he demanded hotly.
“If I am right, then she’s the one who has been promised to a European prince since she was three. Betrothed.”
“People still do that?” Cian asked, his jaw tight.
“Gainsford did.” Ben shrugged. “It ties his family to royalty.” He grinned. “Now you know how it feels.”
Cian tore his gaze away from her and made himself look at Ben. “How what feels?”
“Being told no, because your rank isn’t good enough.”
Cian ground his teeth together. “I have to speak to her.” He let himself look at her again.
She had been watching him. Her eyes were shining. The impact thudded against Cian’s chest, making his heart shudder. Was she crying?
Her fingers squeezed her closed fan. Then she looked away. She moved slowly as if she was deeply reluctant to pull her gaze from him.
Cian let out another breath. This one shook. “I must speak with her,” he breathed.
Ben gripped his arm. “Not now,” he said sharply. “Intermission has ended and she’s surrounded by family. You’ll raise too much of a fuss and draw attention if you try to speak to her now.”
Cian settled back in his seat. “Next intermission then, I will speak to her.”
He watched her from the corner of his eye throughout the act, oblivious to the singers on stage.
She didn’t once look at him, although a small voice in his mind told him she was aware of him, all the same.
Intermission could not arrive fast enough to suit him.
Only, when intermission did arrive and it was polite to look around once more, Cian saw only an empty chair in the corner of the Gainsford box.
She had gone.