There was no cause for Lola to be jealous, of course, not on this particular night. He lowered the pair of opera glasses, his gaze sliding to his companion for the evening. There was no doubt that Belinda, the Marchioness of Trubridge, was a beautiful woman, but she was also the wife of Denys’s best friend.
Lola wouldn’t know that, however, having never seen Belinda, and he felt a hint of regret that she had declared an intention to remain in her seat. Still, it was probably for the best.
He raised the opera glasses, but his view of the stage receded almost at once, replaced in his mind’s eye by Lola’s face, the proud lift of her chin and her burning cheeks. Lola, jealous? He still found it hard to believe. And yet . . .
Irresistibly drawn, he once again tilted the opera glasses down and began studying the seats below. Sure enough, he’d only scanned two rows before his theory was proved right, and he saw her down in the stalls below.
Not that there was much to see from this angle, for he was high above and almost directly behind her. But one glance over the auburn hair piled high atop her head and the pale, creamy skin of her neck and back above the deep vee of her evening gown was enough to confirm her identity. His body, traitor that it was, responded at once, and arousal came over him—another test of his new resolve.
He worked to hold fast against it. He didn’t try to deny its existence, for that was pointless. Instead, he strove to find equilibrium within it, knowing that was the only way he would ever conquer it.
She was facing the stage, not looking at her surroundings, but even if she had been glancing around, she’d have to turn almost completely in her seat and crane her neck to catch sight of him up here, a less-than-subtle move that would surely draw attention to her. Denys, secure in that knowledge, was able to put his newfound resolutions to the test, but only a few moments made him appreciate what a pleasurable agony it was going to be.
Her dark red hair gleamed with incandescent fire beneath the chandeliers, beckoning to the heat inside him. Against the deep rose pink fabric of her gown, her skin was like rich cream, evoking in his memory its velvety texture.
“Looking for someone?”
Belinda’s voice intruded, and Denys was forced to lower the glasses and give his attention to his companion. He did it slowly, giving himself plenty of time to paste an expression of bland indifference on his face, for Belinda had shrewd eyes and keen instincts. “No,” he said, glad the phrasing of her question enabled him to answer truthfully. He’d already found the person he’d been looking for.
Belinda’s blue gaze was steady, her expression impassive. “Very wise of you,” she said. “So many people are inclined to stare at each other during the opera, aren’t they? I daresay you are the subject of much scrutiny and gossip.” She paused. “At the present time.”
“True.” Deciding to take the delicate hint, he returned his attention to the stage, but only moments later, the performance broke for intermission, and his attention was drawn irresistibly back to the seats below.
It was easy to find her again, for amid the gentlemen in black evening coats, matrons in dark-hued velvet, and debutantes in pastel chiffon, she was like an exotic tropical bird amid a flock of crows, pigeons, and sparrows. As for her escort—
Denys swerved his gaze to the right just as the fair-haired man beside Lola turned his head to say something to her, a move that revealed a profile Denys knew well. He tensed in his seat, appalled, not quite able to believe his eyes.
Dawson? Of all the men in London, Lola was gallivanting about with his own secretary?
A myriad of emotions struck him one after another. Anger, jealousy, frustration, pain—each shot through him like a jolt of electricity, burning away reason, propriety, and restraint. He wasn’t a reed bending in the storm. Instead, he was an oak struck by lightning, cracking straight down the center.
Of all the men in London she could have crooked her finger at, she’d chosen a man Denys knew, a man he worked with and liked. It was like Henry all over again. Damn her, couldn’t she at least have the decency to take up with someone he didn’t know?
He watched as the couple rose to their feet and joined the throng streaming toward the exits, belying her declaration that she preferred to stay in her seat during intermissions.
His gaze followed them out the doors, and the moment they had vanished from view, he lowered the opera glasses and stood up. “I think I shall stretch my legs a bit,” he said, setting the opera glasses with painstaking care on the little table between them.
“Is that—” Belinda paused, tilting her head back to meet his gaze with a somber one of her own. “Is that wise?”
He was in no frame of mind to be dissuaded. “No,” he answered, and with that terse concession, he left the box. It wasn’t wise at all, but he was going to do it anyway. Because it was too late to bend like a reed in the wind.
Inviting Mr. Dawson might have been a stroke of pure desperation on her part, but as she watched him weave his way toward her through the crowd after purchasing her a champagne cup, she was glad things had turned out this way. Denys’s secretary was intelligent, considerate, and very pleasant company.
He’d been a bit reluctant to accept her invitation, expressing concern that his employer wouldn’t like it, but Lola hoped Denys would be relieved she’d taken up with someone else. After all, if she was seen around town with a man much closer to her own class, society might dismiss any notion that she and Denys were rekindling their affair. It was a faint possibility, true, but Lola had always been an optimist. She chose to hope for the best.
“Here we are,” Mr. Dawson said, halting in front of her and holding out the small goblet of cognac and champagne with a little bow.
“Thank you,” she said as she accepted the glass. “You are a gallant man to brave that line of people on my behalf.”
“Not at all. It was my pleasure.” He took a glance around. “It is quite crowded this evening, isn’t it?”
Lola didn’t miss the anxiousness in that look. “You mustn’t worry. You won’t be in trouble for this, I promise you.”
“Even if I lost my job,” he said, looking at her again, “this evening would make it worthwhile.”
Oh, dear, she thought, noting the admiration in his gaze with dismay, and suddenly the secretary’s acceptance of her invitation seemed less like a stroke of good luck and more like a serious problem, and when she glanced past Mr. Dawson’s shoulder, the sight of Denys’s tall form at the other end of the room confirmed her theory, for he did not look the least bit relieved. He looked furious. Although he had no right to dictate where she went and with whom, as she watched him start toward them with a purposeful stride and a grim expression, she decided it might be best to avoid reminding him of that particular fact.
“Would you like to go backstage?” she asked. Tucking her arm through the secretary’s, she turned her back on Denys and began propelling Mr. Dawson toward a nearby corridor.