The Duke's Indiscretion (12 page)

“May I be blunt with you, Charlotte?” he asked, his tone a bit more “mother hen” than he had hoped.

She blinked and turned to face him. “Pardon me?”

He tendered her a reassuring smile. “I don't think what happened on the stage today was an accident.”

For a long moment she just stared at him, a certain turmoil crossing her features that he could read like a book. Then she shook out her skirts and looked away once more.

“Of course it was an accident,” she countered through an exhale. “Accidents happen at the theater all the time, your grace—”

“Not deliberate accidents,” he cut in, irritated that
she refused to either acknowledge the issue as important, or didn't want to confess her doubts to him.

“Accidents, by definition, cannot be deliberate,” she informed him through a sigh, folding her hands in her lap. “But more to the point, you can't possibly think someone deliberately tried to hurt me.”

Raising his brows, he replied, “Can't I?”

“Such a thought is ludicrous,” she chided.

Shrugging, he pushed for detail. “You don't think there might be one or two people in the production who are jealous of your success? Who might have something to gain if you're…disabled in some manner?”

She squirmed a little on the seat. “My goodness, it's so hot today—”

“Charlotte, stop avoiding the issue and talk to me.”

Her gaze shot back to his face, eyes narrowing as her expression went flat. “You'd like to talk? Then answer this, sir: Why were
you
there?”

For a slice of a second, it crossed his mind that she might actually consider him to blame for the ordeal, as he'd been the one to call out to her first with a warning just barely heeded, that he was the only person in the theater at the time who really had no business being there, and the one person she found herself distrusting. And yet he had trouble believing she would doubt him to such an extent. More likely it angered her that he'd been watching her every move without her knowledge or consent.

“I was there because I admire the theater,” he answered matter-of-factly. “And now that…well, now that my
wife
is the star soprano of the next produc
tion of Balfe's most famous opera, I just thought I'd wander in to view for myself what you do each day when you're away from me.”

She blew a stray lock of curly hair off her cheek. “You shouldn't have been there.”

He smiled. “I don't think there's anyone alive who would deny me.”

That didn't seem to faze her. She continued to eye him candidly, lids narrowed in speculation, head tipped to one side. “Don't you have anything more important to do with your time, sir?”

He wanted to know her more, trust her better, before he revealed exactly what he did for the Crown. So instead of revelation, he casually replied, “Not really. I have wonderful employees who manage my estate, leaving me all the time in the world to entertain myself by watching you.”

One side of her lips twitched up and she glanced away again, obviously deciding not to comment. Colin took that to mean she had very little regard for him and his apparent laziness. He didn't mind. Eventually, she'd learn the truth and he'd relish the look on her face when she did.

He tried to stretch out a bit, his legs cramped and uncomfortable in their confinement. They were still several streets away from his townhouse, and moving slowly, occasionally stopping for pedestrians and hired hacks, giving time for the sounds and smells of the busy city to drift in through cracked windows and assault the senses.

“You sang beautifully today, as always,” he said, attempting a different approach to garner informa
tion since they had the privacy and weren't going anywhere fast.

Peering outside, she admitted, “I know the music well, but I still have trouble blending the higher octave in act two with Mr. Porano. He blames me for the inability to get it perfect, but we all know it's really his problem with the tempo—”

“Mr. Porano has problems with the tempo?” he cut in, amused.

She glanced at him askance, her luscious mouth open a little. Then she snapped it shut and huffed, “Oh, never mind. I'm sure it's all very tedious to you.”

He waited for a moment, then countered, “Not really. I'm aware of the great Italian tenor and his antics. Remember, Charlotte, I'm a proud opera aficionado.”

She shook her head gently, her lips curving into a half smile as she realized he teased her. “The man is a very talented buffoon, but of course you didn't hear that from me, sir.”

Colin grinned, enjoying their easy banter. “A buffoon, eh? And the other performers?”

She reopened her fan and began waving it slowly, absentmindedly. “I've sung with most of the others before, so I know their abilities and the manner in which they interpret music.”

“I see.” Of course he didn't really care in the least what the others were about, their talent or lack thereof, but discussing it gave him the opportunity to learn who among them might have reason to resent his wife, or dislike her enough to want to do her harm.

“So tell me who they are,” he pressed, wiping his perspiring neck with his palm.

“Who they are?”

“Your fellow cast mates.” He shrugged. “Who's playing which part?”

For a second or two she gazed at him dubiously, as if she were going to ask him why on earth he cared, then obviously decided against it by proceeding without question.

“Well,” she began through a fast exhale, “Porano plays Thaddeus, the leading man, though it's my opinion that he's too old for the part—an insignificant little issue that doesn't seem to matter much in opera. Anne Balstone, a magnificent contralto, by the way, plays the Queen of the Gypsies. I've only been on the stage with her once, but she's a lovely person, if a bit conceited.”

“Aren't they all?” he asked with droll humor.

She gave him a crooked smile in return. “That's mostly an act. In my experience, many talented singers, even those who are famous, are quite insecure.”

“Are you?”

“Ha! Of course not.”

Colin observed her closely for a moment, enjoying their rapport, quite taken with the honest smile on her face. She really was a lovely woman, even dressed in a modest, light brown day gown, her hair piled without flair atop her head. But he didn't want to stifle the moment by changing the conversation to something more intimate.

“Go on,” he urged with a wave of one hand. “Who else is in the cast?”

She pursed her lips and rubbed her nose with a finger. “I play Arline, as you know, the leading soprano. Buda, Arline's attendant, is played by Sadie Piaget, a
young French soprano who's been with me on the English stage for nearly three years. Unfortunately, Buda isn't a singing part in this opera, so she also has singing parts in the chorus. She's probably the only person in the cast who I'd actually call a friend.” She tapped her fan against her fingers, thinking. “Then there's Raul Calvello, another Italian, a bass, but he's performed on the English stage for nearly thirty-five years and more or less counts himself an Englishman. He's a rather quiet gentleman, very nice.”

“I've met him,” Colin replied. “A bit odd was my thought. Never married and spends his free time gardening in the country.”

Her brows rose in surprise. “You do know him.” She smiled again. “I like him; he's never demanding, never intimidating.”

And obviously plants his roses on both sides of the fence, Colin knew, though he would never mention that to her.

“Of course there are the smaller parts,” she continued, “played by singers from all over England, including Stanton Lloyd, who plays Chief of the Gypsies, and John Marks, who plays Raul's nephew.”

“And an opera wouldn't be complete without musicians, stage hands, a director, conductor, theater manager…” he added with a roll of his wrist.

“Very true,” she agreed, “though not everybody is present at every rehearsal. In fact, we all won't be together until we begin dress rehearsals several weeks from now. Until then, we share the theater at different times.”

He leaned forward on the coach seat, sweating from the blasted heat, though noting thankfully that
they were almost home. He wanted to get to the heart of the discussion again before they arrived and she disappeared for the evening, leaving him alone once again with his thoughts and unabated desire.

“So tell me,” he said, lowering his voice as he rubbed his palms together in front of him, “just who among those you mentioned would gain from hurting you, or forcing you out of the opera by any means?”

She pulled back in returned annoyance. “
Nobody
, sir. That's why I've tried to stress to you that this…incident that happened to me today was nothing more than an
accident
.”

There was far more to the incident than she admitted. She knew it—he could feel it to his bones. “What about Sadie? Would she have your part if you left the production? Wouldn't that make her the star?”

She actually chuckled. “Sadie? Sadie and I are friends.”

“That's not an answer to my question.”

“No, I suppose it's not,” she returned sedately. After pausing a second or two to collect her thoughts, she explained. “If I were to become…indisposed, shall we say, another well-known soprano would be brought in from Ireland or the Continent to play Arline—one who's probably already sung the part—or they would close production entirely. Sadie, quite frankly, doesn't have the experience, nor a famous name behind her, to sing the lead with Porano or bring in the necessary money needed to pay the cast, much less the entire orchestra and crew. If she were given the lead, the opera house would certainly lose financially, and if that happened, rumors of every sort
would begin. At its worst, from that moment forward, the best singers would decline invitations thinking they might never be paid, or worse, that they may sing with someone unknown in the lead, or to empty boxes; patrons would see no point in purchasing seats, and in the end, the Royal Italian Opera House would lose its standing as one of the finest theaters in Great Britain, if not Europe.” She relaxed in her stays a little. “And believe me, sir, everybody who is part of the production knows this.”

He couldn't help but grin. “You're telling me that you alone are responsible for the success of England's best opera house?”

She shifted her feet on the floorboards. “That's not what I said, nor what I meant, and you know it.”

“I do,” he remarked nonchalantly, “because you're absolutely right. If you were to become indisposed, as you put it, I would give up my box. Why would I want to attend the opera without Lottie English on the stage?”

That made her hesitate, her brows furrowing with uncertainty. “Are you trying to charm me, your grace?”

He reclined deeper into the seat cushion. “I usually don't have to try. I'm always charming.”

She shook her head, smiling crookedly in feigned disgust, then once again turned her attention outside.

He waited for a moment, eyeing her speculatively, then soberly asked, “Aren't you the slightest bit angry about this?”

“What I'm angry about, sir,” she replied quickly,
without even a glance in his direction, “is that everybody at the theater today will now believe you and I are lovers—”

“But since we're not lovers at the present time, you won't be lying when you correct them,” he cut in sardonically, hoping, in part, to drive that fact home.

It apparently worked. She fidgeted a little, adjusting her shoulders, tapping the tip of her fan on her fingertips.

“Speculation will still run rampant,” she said seconds later.

“But your reputation is safe,” he replied. “Operatic stars all over the world have lovers, Charlotte, and they're usually admired for it.”

She gave him a thoughtful glance. “I understand this is my chosen profession, but in the end I'm still a lady.”

He nodded. “Yes you are. A married lady. Should anyone discover your identity, they'll also assume you're married to your lover.”

She continued to gaze at him for several long moments, taking in all of his facial features. Then she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat cushion, a grin of satisfaction twisting her lips. “Little do they know.”

That flippant comment made him mad. She was his wife but she certainly wasn't his lover, and if she had it her way, they'd never be together intimately again. Colin had no intention of allowing that to happen.

Swiftly, he raised his body and moved to her side of the coach, squeezing in beside her, pinning her as he sat on her wide skirts.

Her eyes flew open and she gaped at him. “What on earth are you doing?”

With resolve, he grasped her cheeks with both hands and drew her lips against his.

She didn't fight him. In fact, to his sheer delight, after her initial surprise faded, she began to respond to his unexpected touch, kissing him back with fervor, wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing him close.

It quickly became a steamy, heated kiss that made him hard with need. She moaned, clutching his shoulders through his shirt; he grasped her tongue with his, sucking, quickly losing control. His breathing grew fast, as did hers, and in the sweltering coach, he fought the urge to strip them both and make passionate love on the leather seat. God, he'd give her anything if she would only touch him where he ached!

He pulled back a little and began a trail of hot, wet kisses down her neck. She leaned her head back, clinging to him as she silently begged for more. He lowered his hand from her cheek and placed it on her chest, just above the neckline of her dress. She didn't seem to notice.

He drew his tongue across her jawline in a trail of fire and she whimpered, caught up in a blissful torment that matched his own. Perspiration broke out all over his body, his erection strained against the tightness of his trousers, and just as he ventured lower with his hand, cupping a well-concealed breast and squeezing it gently, the coach came to an abrupt halt in front of his townhouse.