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Authors: Jeannie Machin
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on to their dinner engagement at Prior Park, a large mansion on the hillside overlooking Bath from the far side of the spa limits. Deborah wished that he and the lady were attending the theater instead, for she dearly wished to see Lady Sabrina Sinclair, who was the cause of so much trouble for Richard.
One of the theater footmen hastened to open the carriage door as Deborah and Mrs McNeil arrived, and as Deborah was assisted down she was a little daunted by the crush of elegant theatergoers filling the vestibule. The light from a number of chandeliers fell upon the uniforms, decorations, and formal black velvet of the gentlemen, and upon the costly gowns, jewels, plumes, and naked shoulders of the ladies. Fans wafted to and fro, quizzing glasses were raised, and the drawl of polite conversation drifted out asDeborah and Mrs McNeil mounted the shallow flight of steps and then entered the building.
More footmen came to relieve them of their cloaks and assist with their shawls, and two small boys dressed as Turkish potentates came to give them program sheets. Then they were left to mingle as they chose, or to go directly to their box. They had previously decided upon the latter course, but the staircase was so crowded that progress was virtually impossible, and as they waited for the way to clear a little, Deborah glanced back toward the doorway. She was in time to see the Duke of Gretton enter.
His gray hair was quite startling as he removed the cocked hat that was de rigueur for the theater, and then he turned for a footman to divest him of his cloak. Formal evening black became him very well, and his white silk breeches outlined his long legs. His neckcloth was lavishly trimmed with lace, and there was more lace on the front of his shirt and spilling from the cuff of his tightly cut coat. He wore a partially buttoned white satin waistcoat, and there was a diamond pin on the knot of his neckcloth. The pin flashed as he turned back again to accept his cocked hat and tuck it under his arm. He was every inch a distinguished gentleman of elegance and fashion, but one could not judge a book by its cover, for when one opened the volume that was Rowan Sinclair, one found a very disagreeable text indeed.
Suddenly he looked directly toward her, almost as if he felt the close scrutiny to which he was being subjected. With a white-gloved hand he toyed with the lace spilling from his cuff, and then he looked away again. Not by so much as a flicker of his eyes did he acknowledge even recognizing her. She felt dull color flooding into her cheeks,and she too looked away. To her relief the crush on the staircase began to clear, and she and Mrs McNeil were able to move away from the vestibule toward the auditorium and the private boxes.
The Mastersonsâ box was placed advantageously near the stage, and its two occupants enjoyed a comfort and space denied to nearly everyone else, for most of the other boxes were filled to capacity.
It was some time before Deborah again noticed the Duke of Gretton. He was in one of the few other almost empty boxes and was lounging back in his chair staring at a point somewhere near the top of the drop curtain. He was lost in thought, and on this occasion did not feel her gaze upon him. She wondered what he was thinking about. Most probably it was the delightful prospect of seeing his mistress.
Two men began to light the lamps along the foot of the stage, and the audience fell silent, settling back expectantly for the curtain to rise. Deborah glanced again at Rowan Sinclair. He wasnât lounging in his chair now but was sitting forward, his attention fully upon the brilliant stage as the curtain rose and As You Like It commenced.
Kate Hatherley was as beautiful and talented as Deborah remembered. She had a mane of rich chestnut curls, lustrous hazel eyes, and the sort of presence on stage that most players would have killed for. When she was there she dominated everything, and never had the role of
One of the theater footmen hastened to open the carriage door as Deborah and Mrs McNeil arrived, and as Deborah was assisted down she was a little daunted by the crush of elegant theatergoers filling the vestibule. The light from a number of chandeliers fell upon the uniforms, decorations, and formal black velvet of the gentlemen, and upon the costly gowns, jewels, plumes, and naked shoulders of the ladies. Fans wafted to and fro, quizzing glasses were raised, and the drawl of polite conversation drifted out asDeborah and Mrs McNeil mounted the shallow flight of steps and then entered the building.
More footmen came to relieve them of their cloaks and assist with their shawls, and two small boys dressed as Turkish potentates came to give them program sheets. Then they were left to mingle as they chose, or to go directly to their box. They had previously decided upon the latter course, but the staircase was so crowded that progress was virtually impossible, and as they waited for the way to clear a little, Deborah glanced back toward the doorway. She was in time to see the Duke of Gretton enter.
His gray hair was quite startling as he removed the cocked hat that was de rigueur for the theater, and then he turned for a footman to divest him of his cloak. Formal evening black became him very well, and his white silk breeches outlined his long legs. His neckcloth was lavishly trimmed with lace, and there was more lace on the front of his shirt and spilling from the cuff of his tightly cut coat. He wore a partially buttoned white satin waistcoat, and there was a diamond pin on the knot of his neckcloth. The pin flashed as he turned back again to accept his cocked hat and tuck it under his arm. He was every inch a distinguished gentleman of elegance and fashion, but one could not judge a book by its cover, for when one opened the volume that was Rowan Sinclair, one found a very disagreeable text indeed.
Suddenly he looked directly toward her, almost as if he felt the close scrutiny to which he was being subjected. With a white-gloved hand he toyed with the lace spilling from his cuff, and then he looked away again. Not by so much as a flicker of his eyes did he acknowledge even recognizing her. She felt dull color flooding into her cheeks,and she too looked away. To her relief the crush on the staircase began to clear, and she and Mrs McNeil were able to move away from the vestibule toward the auditorium and the private boxes.
The Mastersonsâ box was placed advantageously near the stage, and its two occupants enjoyed a comfort and space denied to nearly everyone else, for most of the other boxes were filled to capacity.
It was some time before Deborah again noticed the Duke of Gretton. He was in one of the few other almost empty boxes and was lounging back in his chair staring at a point somewhere near the top of the drop curtain. He was lost in thought, and on this occasion did not feel her gaze upon him. She wondered what he was thinking about. Most probably it was the delightful prospect of seeing his mistress.
Two men began to light the lamps along the foot of the stage, and the audience fell silent, settling back expectantly for the curtain to rise. Deborah glanced again at Rowan Sinclair. He wasnât lounging in his chair now but was sitting forward, his attention fully upon the brilliant stage as the curtain rose and As You Like It commenced.
Kate Hatherley was as beautiful and talented as Deborah remembered. She had a mane of rich chestnut curls, lustrous hazel eyes, and the sort of presence on stage that most players would have killed for. When she was there she dominated everything, and never had the role of
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