The Study of Seduction (Sinful Suitors, #2)(30)

She was breathtaking.

Normally, he would only notice how many people were crowded into the place and how noisy it was. But tonight he couldn’t help seeing all the glitter and glamour of it through her eyes. Her enthusiasm was infectious.

As soon as they entered the box where the servant was already settling Lady Margrave into a plush chair, Clarissa gave a little cry of delight. “Not only do you have a box, but it’s perfectly situated! Oh, this is wonderful.”

“Here, let me take your cloak,” he said.

Mischief glinted in her eyes before she put her back to him and untied the satin wrap. He took it from her, then froze at the sight before him.

Her bodice barely clung to the edges of her shoulders. Though he knew that such necklines were the fashion, the fabric seemed to fall rather more deeply in the back than he was used to. He could see her shoulder blades, for God’s sake. And if it was cut that low in back . . .

She turned, and he caught his breath. Her cross-draped bodice formed a low vee that served up the sweet swells of her creamy breasts for all to see.

“God help me,” he rasped. He couldn’t seem to look away.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked with a sly smile.

“I should say so. Your gown—” He caught himself as he realized why she was smiling. Their wager. Bloody hell.

“Yes?” Glee positively danced in her eyes. “What about my gown?”

He scrambled for an answer that she wouldn’t consider “chiding.” “The fichu appears to have fallen out of your bodice. Perhaps I should go look for it in the passageway.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she said with a laugh. “There’s no fichu. This is how the gown is supposed to look.”

She thrust out her bosom—he would swear it was deliberate—and he had to swallow his groan. All that lush female flesh was close enough to kiss, to touch. Turning away to hang her cloak on a hook, he fought for composure.

“Don’t you like it?” she persisted.

Like it? He could easily slip his hand inside that bodice. He could probably slip it inside her corset, too. The gown was cut too low to accommodate a more formidable corset, so it would be an easy matter to shove one shoulder off and fill his hand with her perfect—

“It’s lovely.” As he faced her once more, he had to resist the urge to act on his fantasy right here in the theater. “A very interesting gown.”

She mocked him with a grin. “I thought you would enjoy it.”

Sly minx.

The overture began, and he said, “Perhaps we should sit down.”

“Oh, certainly. If you’re done giving me compliments on my gown.”

“It’s not the gown I’m complimenting,” he said dryly, “but what’s in it. Or rather, half out of it.”

“Is that a criticism?” she said sweetly.

“Merely an observation.” He was skirting the edges of their wager, but he didn’t care. The mere thought of the male half of the audience seeing her bosom so well displayed made something twist low in his gut. Clearly, he’d gone quite mad.

“Hmm,” she murmured, but apparently chose to take him at his word. Probably she assumed she’d have plenty more chances to catch him.

He began to think she might. Clarissa would do everything in her power to make sure she won.

Meanwhile, he had to look away as he settled her into the chair beside her mother’s. Otherwise, he might stand there frozen half the night, gaping down at her delicious breasts and wondering how they might smell, feel, taste.

God.

He took the seat next to Clarissa, and a faint scent of lavender oil wafted to him. Every time he saw her, she wore a different perfume. Was it just boredom that made her change incessantly? Or a genuine pleasure in trying different things? The first showed her to be flighty; the second showed her to be adventurous.

He wasn’t sure he wanted either in a wife. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t marrying her, after all. And why the devil did he keep having to remind himself of that? The blasted woman was getting under his skin.

The audience erupted into thunderous applause as Lucia Bartolozzi Vestris herself came onto the stage to present an introductory speech. The half-Italian actress was widely acclaimed a beauty, although he’d always thought her only marginally pretty, at least compared to Clarissa. But despite being a year or two younger than he, Lucia possessed the grace and manners of a woman much older, which was why she was so beloved among the theater set.

She’d taken months to prepare the Olympic for the opening, and it showed. There was none of the usual red velvet and heavy gilding of other theaters, just light and airy pastels with embossed flowers and fleurs-de-lis on the panels of the boxes. The sets were sparse but well done, and she’d fitted the theater with the latest in gas lighting. With the place crammed full to bursting and people still trying to get in from off the street, it appeared she’d already succeeded in having a first night to remember.

It took some moments for the theatergoers to quiet down enough so she could speak. Then, in her carrying tones, she began her introductory speech:


Noble and gentle—matrons—patrons—friends!

Before you here a venturous woman bends!

A warrior woman—that in strife embarks,

The first of all dramatic Joan of Arcs.