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Authors: Miranda Neville
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lady was polite but unenthusiastic.
“You’ll enjoy The Barber of Seville even more than Fidelio ,” Max pressed, the strain of being charming beginning to prey on his nerves. “You won’t regret it. We have several excellent boxes still available, although they are going fast.”
For the seventh time he repeated this particular lie, and each time it got harder. Describing the superior qualities of the Regent’s accommodations and musical offerings was no problem. He believed every word, though he hadn’t expected to have to convince the public one member at a time.
He’d always striven for the common touch in his dealings with people, uncomfortable with the notion that wealth made him inherently superior to others. Still, as a Hawthorne, he wasn’t used to asking for favors, let alone begging for them.
The countess tilted her head to one side. “I would enjoy it I’m sure. But my husband isn’t fond of opera. I’m already trying to persuade him to take a subscription to the Tavistock so I can attend whenever my cousin sings.”
He hadn’t thought the conversation could be any more distasteful. He was wrong.
“But,” she continued, “he’s being a little difficult about it. He’s annoyed with my cousin because she overcharged for her recital.” There was a baleful look in her brown eyes. “I think that is your fault, Lord Allerton. He wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t told him.”
Max raised his hands, palms out, to disclaim responsibility for Lord Storrington’s recalcitrance, much as it suited his own interests. “He asked a question, I answered.”
“I detected some rancor between you and Tessa the other night.”
“I have great respect for Mrs. Foscari as a singer but she does not sing at my theater.” Max flattered himself that he sounded calm and reasonable.
“I think there’s more than that. Antagonism from your previous encounter, perhaps?”
Max didn’t know if Tessa had told her cousin some untruthful version of their past, or if Lady Storrington was on a fishing expedition. Either way he wasn’t biting. “I’m sure you will bring Storrington around to your way of thinking and get your box at the Tavistock.”
She grinned. “I expect I will. And perhaps we’ll take a box at your theater too. At the very least I’ll come to The Barber of Seville . Reports from Paris are that it’s most entertaining.”
Relieved to have the conversation back where he wanted it, Max grazed her knuckles with his lips. “Thank you. You set the fashion and London will follow.”
“Don’t let Lydia hear that or you can say goodbye to her taking a box.”
“She already has.”
Though she hasn’t paid for it . He kept that thought to himself.
What had happened to his comfortable, well-ordered life? Instead of savoring the fulfillment of his plans for the Regent, he was at this damnable rout. Longing to go home and sit in his library with a glass of brandy and a book, he set his teeth and stretched his lips wide.
Ten more possible buyers, he promised himself, and then he’d leave. And most of them had better pay before the week was out.
“Where is Storrington?” He peered through the crush, unable to distinguish the earl. “May I escort you back to him?”
“Oh, he isn’t here. Someone else accompanied me tonight.” She looked toward the double doors separating the gilded saloon from a more chastely designed music room.
Alerted by a lilt of mischief in her tone, Max turned around, followed her glance, and saw the Marquess of Somerville proceeding through the crowd with effortless grace, making a path for the lady on his arm. A lady who raised a rustle of interest as she approached and left murmurs of excitement in her wake.
“Here comes my companion for the evening,” Lady Storrington said with cheer and a drop of malice. “I believe you’ve met my cousin.”
An already horrible evening got worse. The last person he needed to see was the author of his humiliation.
“You’ll enjoy The Barber of Seville even more than Fidelio ,” Max pressed, the strain of being charming beginning to prey on his nerves. “You won’t regret it. We have several excellent boxes still available, although they are going fast.”
For the seventh time he repeated this particular lie, and each time it got harder. Describing the superior qualities of the Regent’s accommodations and musical offerings was no problem. He believed every word, though he hadn’t expected to have to convince the public one member at a time.
He’d always striven for the common touch in his dealings with people, uncomfortable with the notion that wealth made him inherently superior to others. Still, as a Hawthorne, he wasn’t used to asking for favors, let alone begging for them.
The countess tilted her head to one side. “I would enjoy it I’m sure. But my husband isn’t fond of opera. I’m already trying to persuade him to take a subscription to the Tavistock so I can attend whenever my cousin sings.”
He hadn’t thought the conversation could be any more distasteful. He was wrong.
“But,” she continued, “he’s being a little difficult about it. He’s annoyed with my cousin because she overcharged for her recital.” There was a baleful look in her brown eyes. “I think that is your fault, Lord Allerton. He wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t told him.”
Max raised his hands, palms out, to disclaim responsibility for Lord Storrington’s recalcitrance, much as it suited his own interests. “He asked a question, I answered.”
“I detected some rancor between you and Tessa the other night.”
“I have great respect for Mrs. Foscari as a singer but she does not sing at my theater.” Max flattered himself that he sounded calm and reasonable.
“I think there’s more than that. Antagonism from your previous encounter, perhaps?”
Max didn’t know if Tessa had told her cousin some untruthful version of their past, or if Lady Storrington was on a fishing expedition. Either way he wasn’t biting. “I’m sure you will bring Storrington around to your way of thinking and get your box at the Tavistock.”
She grinned. “I expect I will. And perhaps we’ll take a box at your theater too. At the very least I’ll come to The Barber of Seville . Reports from Paris are that it’s most entertaining.”
Relieved to have the conversation back where he wanted it, Max grazed her knuckles with his lips. “Thank you. You set the fashion and London will follow.”
“Don’t let Lydia hear that or you can say goodbye to her taking a box.”
“She already has.”
Though she hasn’t paid for it . He kept that thought to himself.
What had happened to his comfortable, well-ordered life? Instead of savoring the fulfillment of his plans for the Regent, he was at this damnable rout. Longing to go home and sit in his library with a glass of brandy and a book, he set his teeth and stretched his lips wide.
Ten more possible buyers, he promised himself, and then he’d leave. And most of them had better pay before the week was out.
“Where is Storrington?” He peered through the crush, unable to distinguish the earl. “May I escort you back to him?”
“Oh, he isn’t here. Someone else accompanied me tonight.” She looked toward the double doors separating the gilded saloon from a more chastely designed music room.
Alerted by a lilt of mischief in her tone, Max turned around, followed her glance, and saw the Marquess of Somerville proceeding through the crowd with effortless grace, making a path for the lady on his arm. A lady who raised a rustle of interest as she approached and left murmurs of excitement in her wake.
“Here comes my companion for the evening,” Lady Storrington said with cheer and a drop of malice. “I believe you’ve met my cousin.”
An already horrible evening got worse. The last person he needed to see was the author of his humiliation.
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