Sophie could still feel the heat of his hand at her hip. Ridiculous, given the layers of fabric between their skin, but nonetheless, the spot that he’d touched fairly tingled with awareness. No man had ever touched her there before. Her arms, her back, her waist, and even her foot once when dancing with a particularly unskilled partner, but never her hip.
As Lady Julia spoke of her excitement for finally being able to attend a performance by world-class opera singers, Sophie could do little but grin and nod, all the while watching Evan in her peripheral vision. He’d worn a pale blue jacket today, surely knowing how well it complemented his eyes. His hair was tied back with a simple black ribbon, but the wind blew a few mahogany strands across his cheeks and forehead. It looked as fine as corn silk, and she tightly laced her fingers in her lap in order to ward off the temptation to smooth it back from his face.
Not that she could ever imagine doing something so bold, but she knew from experience that she could not trust herself to behave in her usual fashion around him. By the time they reached the Assembly Rooms and made their way inside, she actually breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, she needed to find a way to flirt with him, to be teasing and coy and whatever else young women were supposed to do to land a husband, but first she had to find the wits that he had so thoroughly scattered the moment he’d laid his hand on her.
To her immense relief, May stood by the entry, waiting as her aunt attempted to navigate the steps of their carriage in one of her ridiculously outdated gowns. For some unknown reason, the woman insisted on wearing the much more restrictive and voluminous fashions of her youth. The contrast was striking when compared to May’s simple blush gown with white lotus flower embroidery stitched along the hem.
“May,” Sophie exclaimed, feigning surprise, “what a happy coincidence! Are you here for the dueling prima donnas as well?”
Her friend nodded before muttering under her breath, “And so is the dragon, unfortunately.” Smiling, she said more loudly, “We are indeed. Shockingly enough, I’ve never attended an opera.”
Sophie gestured to Evan’s sister as she stepped down to the pavement. “I must introduce you to Lady Julia. She is also new to the experience.”
May played her part beautifully, exclaiming over the opportunity to attend the performance with another opera newcomer. She even managed to reposition their little party so Sophie was beside Evan, bless her. With Lady Stanwix in the lead, May and Lady Julia in the middle, and Sophie and Evan trailing behind, they entered the Ballroom.
Despite it being midafternoon, the space was dark, thanks to the series of blinds lining the windows, each painted with classical figures and vases. The chandeliers remained unlit, with only the wall sconces providing illumination for them to find a place to sit. It was surprisingly atmospheric, considering the bright sunshine they had just left. The chairs were arranged in a different configuration than usual, all facing the entrance to the Great Octagon located in the center of the building.
“They must be planning to sing from the musicians’ gallery,” Sophie said, nodding to the wide alcove with its great arching ceiling perched above the door. Huge swags of flowered garlands were draped from the railing, and several candles flickered from the matching candelabra that bracketed the center section.
Lady Stanwix paused, her mouth turned down in a forbidding frown. “Terrible planning on their part. Do they wish for us all to strain our necks, gauping like peasants from below?” She sniffed, lifting her chin in a way that made Sophie bite her lip to keep from grinning. It seemed as though Lady Stanwix had plenty of experience with her nose in the air. Shaking her head, the older woman sighed. “I suppose we shall have to relegate ourselves to the last row. It will require the least offensive angle for viewing, I imagine.” She lifted her skirts an inch and swept down the center aisle, leaving them to follow.
Sophie met Evan’s amused gaze. “Will the back row suffice for your sensibilities as well?”
“I suppose it shall have to do,” he replied with mock gravity.
May’s aunt claimed the aisle seat, and May and Lady Julia filed in next, then Sophie, and Evan on Sophie’s right. Sophie allowed herself a little smile. Lady Stanwix’s presence may not have been ideal, but sitting in the back row would allow them as much privacy as one could hope for in a crowded hall.
Not wanting to waste even a moment in his presence, Sophie turned to him and smiled. “It was good of you to accompany us today. I know that it was your sister’s idea, but I do hope you enjoy it.” It was a little awkward trying to talk without allowing her knees to angle too closely to his. Not that she wouldn’t delight in such a thing, but she didn’t intend to give him any reason to move away from her.
“Not at all,” he said. He, too, seemed to be completely earnest. “I have a tremendous appreciation for opera. If my lot in life had been different, I’d like to think I would have given the stage a go.”
“No!” Sophie gaped at him, amazed by the confession. “I had no idea. Are you a very good singer, then?”
Fabric rustled as Lady Julia leaned forward, joining the conversation. “He is. You should hear him when he sings Mozart’s Idomeneo. I’m eager to hear the prima donnas here today, mainly because I cannot imagine that they are any better than he is.”
“Idomeneo?” Sophie repeated, looking to Evan with new appreciation. “In English or Italian?”
He pretended to be insulted. “Italian, of course. One does not adulterate a work of art. It would be blasphemy.”
“Quite,” she replied, at a loss for anything else to say. She was too busy imagining what it would be like to hear him sing—or better yet, speak—in Italian. A more romantic language, she could not imagine.
May asked Lady Julia a question then, and the two resumed their conversation. Oh, right—Sophie was here on a mission. Turning more fully toward Evan, she asked, “Do you speak the language, or only sing it?”
He relaxed a bit in his seat, obviously enjoying the topic. “I have studied several operas, so that I could know what the songs mean and understand the emotions behind them. I’ve gotten quite good at understanding it, but when it comes to speaking as opposed to singing, I am disappointingly unilingual.”
“Well, I can’t even sing another language, so you’re leaps and bounds ahead of me,” she replied with a lighthearted roll of her eyes. “I must admit I’m envious. It would be lovely to understand what they are all so passionate about when they’re singing. For all I know, they could be lamenting the temperature of the soup at supper.”
He chuckled, lifting his shoulders. “It’s possible. I do so hate when my curry soup arrives cold.”
“Exactly,” she said, nodding sagely. “Alas, I gave my poor governess fits in her attempts to teach me foreign languages. It was all gibberish to me. I’ll stick to music as my second language, thank you.”
He tilted his head, the corners of his lips turning up. “Do you know, I’ve never thought of it that way. Music as a second language, I mean. It certainly does speak to us on a different level.”
“Yes, that’s the perfect way to put it. The spoken word appeals to the mind, but music appeals to the heart, or perhaps even the soul. It elicits emotion much more effectively, since you don’t have to find the right words in order to express how you feel.”
He nodded, a hint of surprise registering in his eyes. “Yes, I feel that way exactly. If not for the music, I doubt I would ever attend an event during the Season.”
She basked in the shared connection, grateful that she had been able to speak so normally to him. She felt like herself for once. “I wouldn’t have a choice,” she said with a teasing grin. “Mama would never allow me to miss the opportunity to snare a husband.”
She very nearly slapped her hand over her mouth. She was too much like herself, apparently. How could she have said such a thing—to the very man she was attempting to snare! But even as heat washed over her in a rushing wave, another, much more distressing thought occurred to her: There would be no more Seasons.
Thanks to her sister Penelope, the family name would soon be dust in the eyes of the ton. They had never been of the highest status, and they were certainly not wealthy, but Papa was the youngest son of a viscount, which afforded them entry into the upper ten thousand elite of England. She so loved the energy of the Season, all the wonderful excitement and the whirl of activities. So much to do, so much to see, so much to whisper and sigh about late into the night with her sisters.
A weight settled in her stomach like a stone. This conversation suddenly seemed too heavy for words. She didn’t want to think about the fact that her future could rest on how well she entertained the earl. She only wanted to enjoy him.
Oblivious to her dark turn of thought, he chuckled. “You poor thing,” he said commiseratively. “Thank goodness you are free of that here. Nothing to do but enjoy the festival.”
She nodded, averting her eyes as she fussed with her fan. Hadn’t that been her hope? To finally have a venue where she could toss aside the pursuit of a husband and simply revel in the joy of music, her very favorite thing? The anger toward her sister, and all that she had stolen from Sophie and the rest of her family, burned a little brighter. Penelope had always been so strong-willed, so very determined to have her way no matter the cost. But none of them had imagined that she would so callously sacrifice her sisters’ hopes in favor of her own desires.
With quite possibly the best timing she could have hoped for, the master of ceremonies appeared on the balcony and introduced the two sopranos. Thank goodness.
Sophie pretended to be absorbed in the proceedings, looking steadfastly ahead. The stone in her abdomen seemed only to grow heavier, making it harder to breathe. May had been wrong. Perhaps she was skilled enough to land a husband in a matter of weeks, but Sophie was not. She was far too open, entirely too gauche.
She drew a long, quiet breath, trying to rein in her growing emotions. When the orchestra began to play, Sophie closed her eyes and tried to lose herself in the music. The prima donnas joined in a few moments later, singing words that were entirely foreign, but filled with such polished beauty and overt passion, it was easy to get lost in their voices. The purity of tone was otherworldly, filling the cavernous hall all the way to the ceiling with an almost heavenly sound. When the notes were dolce, they were little more than a caress; when they were forte, it was enough to cleanse the bitter thoughts from Sophie’s mind, if only for a moment.
“It’s meant to be humorous.”
She blinked, startled at the sound of Evan’s whispered voice close to her shoulder.
Swallowing, she looked to her right, meeting his concerned gaze. “It is?” It was only then that she felt the tears dampening her cheeks. She quickly dashed them away as discreetly as she could manage. She didn’t want to disturb Lady Julia or the others.
He nodded. “They are plotting to expose the countess’s husband’s infidelity.”
His voice was low and smooth, barely rising above the song. She licked her lips, averting her gaze back to the performers as she listened to the way they sang. “What are they saying?”
“The countess, the one on the right, is dictating a letter for her maid, who has been propositioned by the count.” He paused for a moment, listening.
Questa sera spirerà . . . “This evening will sigh . . .” Sotto i pini del boschetto . . . “under the pines in the little grove.”
Sophie sat utterly still, listening to the low murmur of his voice so near her ear. She could feel the warm hints of his breath caress her shoulder and smell the delectable scent of his shaving soap. Of him.
“And the rest he’ll understand.”
Her brow knitted as she tried to work out what the last bit was supposed to mean. He chuckled softly, stirring the fine hairs at the nape of her neck and making her shiver. “She means that he’ll understand that the maid is asking for an assignation.”
Her mouth dropped open. Did he just say assignation to her? Of its own volition, her mind conjured the image of a dark grove of trees on a warm summer night, the breeze carrying with it the sighs of lovers. Good heavens.
Without even meaning to, she leaned the slightest bit toward him. He looked at her expectantly, so she said, “And this is to be humorous?”
He shrugged, the rustle of his jacket nearly lost in the sound of the orchestra. “No accounting for humor when it comes to the Italians.”
The duet ended, and the audience applauded politely. The orchestra moved on to the next piece, which started with a long instrumental prelude.
Sophie swallowed, unwilling to lose the intimacy of the moment. Stupid thoughts of wooing the man aside, she craved his company. The stone in her stomach had lightened considerably, and she wanted more of the delicious feelings he caused when he was so near. Turning her head a few inches in Evan’s direction, she whispered, “I should have known that the last one was meant to be lighthearted.”
He subtly shifted so their shoulders were only inches apart. “Why is that?”
“Because of the oboe. Played in the higher ranges, it is impossible to be dour.”
His smile was easy, just a smooth lift of one side of his mouth. “Ah. Well, you should know.”
“Indeed. Of all the instruments in an orchestra, it’s the least likely to take itself seriously.”
“Is that why you play it?”
She angled her head, not sure what he meant.
“Because it is small and lighthearted, just like you?”
She almost laughed out loud at that. “I play it because my mother decreed that I would. It took a few years, but I quite like it now.” Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if he had meant the statement as a compliment or an observation. It rather sounded like the former.
Nodding, he shifted back in his chair a bit, watching the prima donnas with interest. Was that all the stolen conversation they were to have? Her hopes sagging, she exhaled, allowing her shoulders to drop a bit.
“Now this is quite interesting.”
She pressed her eyes closed for a moment, relieved to hear his whispered words. “Yes?”
He leaned in close again. “The characters are Poppea and Nerone. Yes, it’s written for two sopranos, but Nerone is a man. This is a love song.”
“Truly?” She closed her eyes again and listened to the way the music was sung. High and light, their voices twined like ribbons of silk in a soft summer wind, lifting and falling, curling and twisting, harmonizing in a way that made the heart leap.
Her eyes popped open, startled by his words. She darted a glance at him, but his attention was on the singers.
“Possess you,” he continued, whispering the words between the lines of the opera singers. “Press you to me. Embrace you.”
Her breath caught in her throat. The intimacy of the words was like a lover’s touch. Her heart pounded as she leaned toward him, soaking up the sound of his voice.
“No more pain. No more death.” He wet his lips, his gaze still directed straight ahead but his body angled toward hers. “O, my life, my darling.”
My darling. She sighed, pressing a hand to her heart. Oh to hear those words from his lips for real. To know that he spoke to her, and her alone. She realized with a start that his gaze had shifted to her face, and she gave a shaky little smile. “Beautiful,” she breathed, the word tight in her throat.
* * *
For some reason, Evan’s blood hummed a little faster through his veins. She was beautiful. He loved the way she responded to the music with her whole body, her shoulders lifting as the singers’ voices rose, and falling as the song grew quiet.
He was suddenly very, very glad that he had studied opera, even more thoroughly than he had admitted to her. It was one of the few things in his life that he possessed true passion for. He wanted to know everything about the songs that tore at his heart and lifted his soul. Most people would likely consider his reaction to opera a little ridiculous, but he knew with absolute certainty that Miss Wembley—Sophie—would not.
She didn’t just hear the emotion of the music, she felt it and internalized it. He smiled, thinking of her tears of moments ago. Misplaced for that particular song, but endearing nonetheless.
He loved the way she had listened to him, soaking up his translations as dry soil absorbs the rain. “You make me want to learn more Italian,” he murmured, offering her a small private smile.
“You make me want to listen to more opera,” she replied, her dimples creasing her pale cheeks.
You make me want to spend more time with you. He pressed his lips together, surprised by the errant thought. Not something he would normally think, even of a friend. Still, when an idea occurred to him, he didn’t hesitate to share it. Leaning forward, he said, “Then join me for Rossini’s La Cenerentola. Rossini himself will be here, and it’s one of the last events of the festival, but well worth the wait.”
Her smile fell a little and she glanced to her lap before meeting his eyes again. “I’d love that,” she said softly, her voice oddly thin. “The Barber of Seville is one of my favorites, in fact. I’m just not sure if we will still be here.”
He was surprised by the force of his disappointment. It trickled down through his chest like a spilled glass of red wine, staining his enthusiasm. “Would it help if you had a note from an earl and his sister, begging your mother’s indulgence?” It was as close as he could come to pointing out her mother’s matchmaking tendencies. Tendencies that she obviously knew all about.
“Who is to say you won’t be sick of me by then?” Her tone was light, even as her eyes seemed hooded. “Four visits in as many days—it’s a wonder you’re still speaking to me.”
Yes, it was, actually. He realized then that she was supposedly there to be a companion for Julia, but he’d monopolized her attentions almost completely.
Oddly enough, that thought didn’t bother him as much as it should have.
“What can I say, Miss Wembley? You’re uncommonly good company.”
Her smile brightened at that, as did, he’d wager, her cheeks, though it was too dark to tell for sure. He really quite liked making those dimples appear.
“Thank you, my lord. The feeling is mutual.”