Rhonda Woodward (23 page)

“It’s a shocking tale, Lady Fallbrook, though everyone knows of it. Mrs. Willoughby burst on the scene last Season in some utterly forgettable opera. Soon Lord Monteford, old Pellerton’s heir . . . er . . . befriended her. Shortly thereafter, she quit the theatre and started appearing all over town, driving a bright red carriage with white ponies, wearing a different set of jewels every day.”

Grandmère abandoned her indifferent pose and tapped her fan sharply on her chair arm. “She is a woman given over to a shameful want of decency and decorum. Monteford’s mama, an old friend of mine, has taken to her bed over the fortune he has squandered on that wanton.” She glared at the box despite her earlier avowal not to look in that direction again.

“Is there a Mr. Willoughby?” Emma asked the earl.

“No one seems to know for sure. But there is a rumor that Monteford pays a bit of blunt to keep him snug in the country.”

“Despite her queenly demeanor, she is a wretched creature who does not even have the decency to be discreet in her depravity,” Grandmère put in.

Emma continued to watch Mrs. Willoughby and Lord Monteford. “Indeed, the better part of depravity is discretion.”

Lord Harwich chuckled at this quip and Grandmère scowled.

“She is exceedingly beautiful,” Emma continued. Though she was certainly not naïve about the ways of the world, she had never seen a mistress of a member of Polite Society show herself so openly in public. She found herself quite curious about Mrs. Willoughby, marveling at how the woman obviously enjoyed her notoriety.

“Yes. All of London has fallen under her spell. Crowds follow her and a day rarely passes without mention of her in the gossip papers,” Lord Harwich replied.

How daring, how fascinating, Emma mused, before turning her attention to Mrs. Willoughby’s companion, Lord Monteford. He seemed to take no notice of the crowd’s attention and kept his impassive gaze on the stage.

To be sure, he was a rather impressive-looking gentleman. His pale brown hair was swept back from a nobly proportioned forehead. His features were handsome in the classical mode. The only flaw she noted—saving him from being almost pretty—was his rather thin lips. His build was above slim, though athletic, and his superbly cut evening clothes accented his shoulders.

As for his whole demeanor, she observed, he came off a bit proud, but that may have only been due to having to keep his chin lifted above his high collar, she surmised charitably.

As she did her best to watch Mrs. Willoughby and Lord Monteford inconspicuously, Grandmère and Lord Harwich conversed quietly and turned their attention back to the play.

After another moment, Emma followed their suit only to see that the play had not improved. She allowed her attention to wander again. Most of the crowd attended to their own conversations and gawked at Mrs. Willoughby. The players on stage could barely be heard above the restless din.

Suddenly, the lead actor caught Emma’s attention by doing something quite strange.

He moved to the middle of the stage and remained completely still and quiet even though it was apparent that the next line was his. After a moment, as people began to take notice and quiet down, he turned away from the leading lady and faced the audience.

As the other actors looked at one another nervously, he moved forward to the edge of the stage, finally gaining the full attention of the spectators.

Emma exchanged a curious glance with her grandmother, but the old lady’s shrug showed that she was just as confused by the actor’s odd behavior.

Whatever his intention, the effect was quite dramatic.

Emma watched the man, fascinated to see what he would do next.

“Indeed, Gwendolyn,” he suddenly spoke in a tone that carried throughout the theatre, addressing the audience rather than the confused actress playing Gwendolyn. “There are few to rival you in beauty.”

His voice rose as he spread his arms wide before continuing, a mischievous smile spreading across his face.

“Our own Queen Willow has reigned supreme for a Season or two, thrilling us all with the ethereal beauty of her person,” he began in a baritone voice filled with mock gravity. “But the sudden arrival of a
true lady from the north
— whose enchanting splendor and effortless charm captured our admiration so quickly—may well dethrone Queen Willow from our hearts. We, their humble subjects, can only wait and watch with delight for what may happen next.” He lifted both arms up, gesturing dramatically toward the boxes holding Mrs. Willoughby and Emma.

Collectively, the crowd gasped in shock at this unusual departure from the play, then let out a tremendous roar of excitement.

Astonished, Emma watch as hundreds of heads turned to look up and stare from her to Mrs. Willoughby, clapping and stamping their feet in approval of the actor’s impromptu speech.

Emma froze, unable to look at her grandmother or Lord Harwich, for there was no mistaking that the actor referred to her as the
true lady from the north
.

After a few choked gasps and splutters, Grandmère finally found her voice and said, “This is an outrage! I shall have a word with the manager about this—sink me if I don’t!”

The rumbling applause grew so loud the very walls seemed to vibrate.

“Please allow me the honor of making the complaint for you, Duchess. I shall know how to deal with such impertinence,” Lord Harwich stated in an attempt to soothe the dowager’s outrage.

“How dare that turnip place a reference to my granddaughter in the same sentence with that trollop—just to divert the lower classes from this wretched play! Such insolence is inexcusable!” Grandmère’s outrage could not be assuaged.

In her astonishment and confusion, Emma glanced over to the box Mrs. Willoughby occupied. To her surprise, the woman was looking directly at her. The anger in her gaze was plain even from this distance and the intensity of the glare was startling.

Emma quickly pulled her gaze away and immediately met Lord Monteford’s eyes. The amused twist to his lips showed that he had not taken offense at the actor’s cheeky conduct. His smile widened as he held her gaze, until she lifted her chin slightly and looked away.

To her utter relief, the curtain finally fell on the first act. However, the crowd did not cease its deafening cheer.

“Shall we leave, Grandmère?” Emma asked. She had never found herself the object of such public scrutiny and felt completely at a loss as what to do.

“We shall not! Indeed, why should we leave? We shall stare this rabble out of countenance and stand our ground.”

Lord Harwich slapped his knee. “That’s the way to do it, Duchess! Just like you to face things out. And I see your granddaughter takes after you. We shall ignore this noisy horde and show them how their betters behave.”

Emma could not help but smile at Lord Harwich’s enthusiasm and felt some of her shock at receiving such unwanted attention dissolve.

Her upbringing had instilled in her a deep abhorrence of any kind of public attention, but that same demanding schooling had given her the effortless ability to keep her composure no matter the inner conflict.

Keenly aware of the staring crowd, she opened her fan and began to use it on her cheeks in a desultory fashion, her expression serene.

To her surprise, the crowd applauded even more vigorously.

Feeling almost painfully self-conscious, she reminded herself that her sole purpose in coming to London was to leave her dull life behind for a while.

Well, she was certainly off to a good start, she mused, keeping her gaze fixed on the stage as the crowd continued to cheer.

Award-winning writer
Rhonda Woodward
is a native of Arizona and currently lives in Phoenix with her husband, William. She has written five Regency Romances and is working on her sixth.