Having anticipated that, she steeled herself to play her part, standing to one side of the box with Frederick, who appropriated her arm and looped it with his. Clamping down hard on her wayward senses, she exchanged the usual pleasantries and observations with those who made it into their orbit.
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sp; Apparently as shrewd as her son, his mother held court on the opposite side of the box, thereby forcing those crowding inside to face one way or the other.
Among the first to appear were two gentlemen whom Frederick introduced as his closest friends—George, Lord Farleigh, and Percy, Viscount Piper. Both were elegant, charming, and proved surprisingly capable; after making their bows to Stacie and Ernestine, and to the marchioness and Mrs. Weston, the pair retreated to hover just inside the door of the box, effectively acting as guards and directing questioning glances at Frederick over whether those seeking entrance should be admitted.
Even with their help, it proved something of a crush, but a manageable one. Several times, Stacie had to bite her lip to hold back a chuckle occasioned by Frederick’s glib exercise of a sharp and acerbic wit she hadn’t, until then, realized he possessed.
Finally, the theater’s bells rang, sending people scurrying back to their seats for the commencement of the second act.
As their box emptied, Frederick invited George and Percy to remain; he suspected they’d come purely because he’d mentioned over luncheon that he would be attending with Stacie, and they’d helped by keeping the worst of the horde at bay. Smiling, they accepted, taking seats in the second row of chairs, behind him and Stacie.
He and she reclaimed their seats, and as the lights dimmed, Frederick settled back to watch Kean and his players and think of other things.
From his perspective, socially, matters were progressing well. Between them, he and Stacie were projecting exactly the picture he wished—that of a more mature, recently engaged couple. Thus far, he’d managed to keep his instincts—or rather, the impulses they incited—from pushing him into stepping over any line, into doing anything that might alert her to his revised direction. That said, he was conscious of having to hold himself back from behaving overly protectively. That wasn’t a battle he’d ever had to fight before; presumably, his new view of Stacie as his perfect bride had recast something inside him so that any even-vague threat to her peace provoked a forceful response from him.
He would have to work to keep that muted, at least for now.
His mind skated over the recent exchanges and snagged on a comment from Lady Hendrickson, who had once again raised the specter of Stacie’s mother, Lavinia, expounding in a rather pointed way over how Lavinia would have wallowed in the attention occasioned by their engagement, then capping the exchange with the so-oft-repeated mantra of how very like Lavinia Stacie was.
Something in the comment struck Frederick as odd—as wrong. While Kean dominated the stage, Frederick mentally stepped back to the conversation at Raventhorne House…
Stacie is absolutely nothing like Mama.
So Godfrey had stated, and he was arguably the person who knew Stacie best and viewed her most clearly.
Yet how many times had Frederick heard the refrain You are exactly like your mother directed at Stacie, just in the few weeks he’d known her?
The comments, of course, referred to different things. Godfrey had sought to assure him that Stacie’s character was nothing like that of her mother’s, while all the ladies’ comments referred to what he gathered was a remarkable physical likeness. By all accounts, Lavinia had been a great beauty; the ladies’ comments were intended as compliments.
Frederick’s instincts jabbed. That was what was wrong. The comments were compliments, yet Stacie didn’t like receiving them. It was her reaction that was nagging at him; every time a comment along those lines was leveled her way, she stiffened—just a fraction—and her smile turned false.
While Kean declaimed before him, Frederick tried to negotiate the subtleties of Stacie’s mind. All he could conclude was that she didn’t like being told that she was like her mother—not in any way.
Given what he’d learned of the woman, no one could wonder at that.
The second act had rolled straight on into the third, which now came to an end, and the curtains swished closed, and the lights came up for the main intermission.
Frederick had arranged for a champagne supper to be served in the box; as the door opened to admit the servers with their trolley, and George and Percy moved chairs out of the way, Frederick glanced at Stacie as she rose and stood beside him.
She was a stunning sight, gowned in violet-blue silk with pearls looped about her slender throat and pearl-encrusted combs anchoring her fabulous hair, yet it had never been her beauty that had impressed him; he was far too jaded for that. Instead, by her focus on her project, she’d reached past all his long-standing defenses and engaged his interest; that alone made her unique in his eyes.
All that had followed over the past weeks had only drawn him deeper—deeper into a type of fascination he had heretofore reserved for music and old books.
That, he supposed, was why she inspired the same acquisitive, possessive, protective urges he normally associated with his collection of ancient tomes and old scores.
The servers passed around flutes of champagne and platters of delicacies. They barely had a chance to sample and sip before the first of the visitors arrived.
Stacie faced the fresh onslaught with unexpected confidence; with Frederick beside her, she felt surprisingly assured that she could weather the curious tide. Lord Farleigh and Viscount Piper were doing sterling service at the door, admitting only those of high rank or influence or those connected with Albury or herself and denying the merely curious, all with invincible charm.
Midway through the intermission, Mary and Sylvia appeared. “It’s bedlam in the gallery outside this box,” Mary reported. “I’m almost sorry I didn’t insist on Ryder and Kit escorting us.”
Sylvia laughed and glanced around at the crowded box. “But where would they have fitted?”
“True,” Mary returned with a smile, then said to Stacie, “Felicia sent her best. She’s feeling too bloated to appear in public and swears the baby can’t come soon enough.”
Stacie and Sylvia smiled. Everyone in the family was looking forward to the birth of Rand and Felicia’s first child, although the blessed event was still some months away.