Page 4 of Venus in Disguise

Narcissa smothered a yawn and wondered how much longer the play would go on for. Though she was by no means the featherbrain she pretended to be for the sake of obtaining a suitable husband, she had to admit Charles the Twelfth demanded rather more concentration than she could give it tonight. Her eyes drooped, and she wondered if anyone would notice if she took a nap. The endless round of social events of the past weeks had left her feeling exhausted. Her feet hurt from dancing so much and her brain felt like porridge from the effort of having no opinions and agreeing with all the fatuous comments of the men she must consider as suitable husbands. She ought to just choose one and be done with it, then she could put an end to this ridiculous farce and settle down with a home of her own, free of her father’s domineering influence on her life, having done just what he’d asked of her for once. The lure of a future where she would be free of his impossibly high standards was the one ray of light on the horizon of a life that had never felt her own. Yet she could not quite bring herself to do so. A quiet fury simmered inside her, the frustration of living a lie, of hiding her true nature and pretending to be meek and docile, an increasing strain upon her nerves. It was wearying beyond belief to act the pretty dimwit and disheartening too. Yet she dared not defy her father’s instructions for fear of being sent straight back to Hardacre. Then he would arrange her husband with no say from her and she would lose all control over the choice. There was little enough as it was, but she must cling to what influence she had. Another yawn tugged at her lips, and Narcissa pressed them tightly together, doing her best to stifle it as she shifted in the chair. Though it was padded and upholstered in velvet, her derriere was numb from sitting still too long, and her corset had been laced so tightly it was hard to take a proper breath.

“Don’t fidget,” her cousin, Mrs Chandler, whispered, poking her in the side.

Narcissa winced and sat up straighter, fixing an expression of polite interest on her face. They could hardly expect more of her than that. The men here would consider the play far too complex for her to comprehend, she thought with frustration. She understood it perfectly well, but she was too tired to concentrate and her spirits too low to enjoy something so serious as well as she ought. If only it had been a romantic comedy, then she might have been able to set her own troubles aside for a few hours and that she might have stayed awake for.

Still, one went to the theatre to see and be seen, not necessarily to watch the actors on stage. There was a fair amount of chatter and movement from the audience and having lost the thread of the play, Narcissa’s attention wandered. Gazing over the edge of the box, she surveyed all the elegant and fashionable patrons in attendance.

On the far side of the theatre was Lady Harriet St Clair and her husband, the Earl of St Clair, with their son, Viscount Oakley, and his beautiful wife. She saw too Mr and Mrs Nathaniel Hunt, the parents of Leo Hunt, the charming devil she’d danced with at Lady Harriet’s ball. She saw now that he looked very much like his father, who was still a handsome man, though his hair was no longer the bright blond it must once have been. Travelling along the boxes with interest, she came next to one that was crowded with fashionable people, many of them young women. She saw then Mr Felix Knight, who raised a hand and acknowledged her. Narcissa was about to do the same when her gaze snagged on the man standing behind him.

Unwillingly, her gaze moved up over narrow hips to a broad chest and powerful shoulders lovingly encased in a beautifully tailored coat. The arrogant, sardonic curve of his lips was hardly a surprise, but she refused to look away, meeting those vibrant indigo eyes with defiance. Narcissa felt the snap of connection like an electrical charge, the irresistible pull towards him she found as incomprehensible as it was compelling. Her heart thudded hard in her chest as their gazes locked. Why did he hate her so, she wondered, for surely that was hatred blazing in his eyes? What had she done that had caused such enmity before she’d even said a word to him? She did not understand what it was about him that provoked her so, waking the devil that dwelled in her heart, the one who would tempt her into doing something rash if she did not force it back down. Perhaps it was simply that she wished to spar with him, for she was used to clashing with her father who was the most uncompromising and belligerent man on earth. Yet now and then she got her own way and he seemed to respect her for her courage in standing up to him. That Mr Ashton simply ignored her, refusing to give her the chance to cross swords with him was infuriating. Of course, she ought not to do so at all, being compelled to act the ninny, but she wanted to, quite desperately.

Narcissa looked away, breaking the connection and feeling shaken by it, unnerved by the intensity of his gaze.

“I need some air,” she muttered, and sprang to her feet, thrusting the curtain aside and hurrying from the box.

“Not by yourself!” protested Mrs Chandler. “Maud, go with her!”

Narcissa fled. Maud Pinkerton was Mrs Chandler’s companion: a tiny mouse-like woman with stringy grey curls and pervasive odour of peppermint. Narcissa found her to be a nervous, fluttery creature, at turns silent and docile or talking interminably about nothing of interest to anyone but herself. Narcissa pitied her and kept trying to befriend her with mixed results.

She had once mentioned the diary Maud kept, noticing how the woman often jotted in it and kept it close by her during the day. Narcissa had thought to find some common ground, only to be treated as though she was trying to steal the crown jewels rather than begin a conversation. She suspected this was because she herself was often a subject of discussion, and the observations Maud noted were probably unflattering.

Still, she had tried her best to be kind, for Maud’s life was a precarious one. A dependent of Mrs Chandler’s and a distant relation of the duke, who took no interest in her at all, she was a lady of a certain age with no means of her own and was reliant upon her cousin’s generosity. Therefore, Maud was placed in the unenviable position of general dogsbody and went out of her way to ingratiate herself to her cousin and do her bidding.

Though in other circumstances Narcissa would have taken the opportunity to try to get the know the woman a little better, tonight she was too tired and out of sorts to make the effort. If she did not escape at once, Maud would stick to her like glue, and chatter inconsequentially about everything and everyone until Narcissa wanted to scream. Just for a moment, she needed a little fresh air, a bit of peace, and a moment for herself. Yet the corridors of the theatre were remarkably busy, with people laughing, flirting, and exchanging gossip.

Though she knew she ought not, Narcissa hurried on, too unsettled to behave as she should. Drat that odious man for making her feel so uneasy. Yet the idea that he despised her for reasons she did not understand gnawed at the edges of her mind and would give her no respite. The grand entrance doors beckoned and Narcissa glanced around, wondering if she was observed, but everyone was too interested in their own conversations and seemed to pay her no mind. She’d just step outside, just for a moment, just to get a little air before she screamed or, worse, swooned.

Narcissa pushed her way outside and the freezing air slapped her in the face as she sucked in a deep breath. A thin drizzle fell, slicking the street, but at least under the shelter of the grand portico she was dry, though her skin prickled with cold. Drunken singing and boisterous chatter reached her ears as she watched the passers-by, noticing now just how busy the road was. Mrs Chandler had hustled Narcissa inside the theatre so quickly there had been no opportunity to look about her, and now she saw why. The street was filled with young men, either coming from or on their way to the various night clubs that seemed to make up many of the surrounding buildings, and around them fluttered gaudily painted women. They were laughing brashly, making lewd suggestions to the fellows who stopped to talk to them. Plump breasts were unashamedly on view for the delectation of those fellows who had the task of choosing between them.

“Good heavens,” Narcissa murmured, as fascinated as she was shocked by this other world, she had walked straight past and never seen.

“Hey, lads, that one is more to my taste, what a beauty!”

Narcissa gasped as a rowdy looking fellow caught sight of her and gestured to his friends.

“What the hell are you doing out here, you little fool?” The angry voice sounded close behind her and Narcissa turned, finding herself confronted with a superb silk jacquard waistcoat in such a violent shade of pink she could only gape for a moment in sheer astonishment. Then she looked up, and then up a bit more, and swallowed a squeak of alarm as she came face-to-face with Mr Anson's uncompromising scowl.

Grasping her by the wrist, he put his hand to the small of her back, turned her about, and pushed her back inside the foyer.

“Are you really that witless?” he demanded furiously. “Or were you hoping to start a riot?”

“N-No, of course not,” she stammered, trying her best to gather herself. “I just wanted some air.”

“The environs of the Haymarket Theatre are no place for a stroll,” he exclaimed, shaking his head at her with incredulity shining in his blue eyes, and good heavens but they were blue, dark as indigo and fringed with black lashes so thick she almost wondered if he used something on them. No, she decided, her gaze moving to the lustrous dark hair that gleamed like ebony in the lamplight. No, he needed no help in that department, nor any other. The shoulders of his coat were not packed out with padding to give that huge breadth, either: he really was that large.

Narcissa swallowed, wishing she could dredge up anything resembling a coherent thought, but she could only stare at him, heart hammering. There was no other man in the ton like this one. Every inch of him exuded strength, a powerfully built image of masculine perfection, so gloriously beautiful that it almost hurt to look at him. His skin gleamed gold, his exquisite bone structure so impossibly flawless she wondered if he had artists clamouring daily for the chance to paint or sculpt him.

“Why not?” she asked, knowing the answer perfectly well but determined to keep him talking to her, for he looked as though he was ready to abandon her in the foyer. She might never get another chance to speak to him alone.

“Why—” he began, staring at her in astonishment, and then shook his head. “No.”

“No?” Narcissa repeated, puzzled and quite unable to tear her gaze from his. She thought perhaps she might have forgotten how to breathe.

“You’re not that dim,” he said firmly.

“How do you know?” she countered, her determination to keep talking to him helping her to regain her wits.

He snorted, a slight curve tugging at the corners of his sensuous mouth. “No one is that dim,” he said, studying her with such intensity that her skin felt hot all over.