What else could she conclude, seated directly beside Henry’s box, fully in view as he helped his companion intoherseat?
Just like they had itallwrong in thinking Henry cared about her. He didn’t even like her.
She and Lord Cassian captured the crowd. Henry remained oblivious.
Lady Angela was speaking with Henry, and he was nodding, and it was so intimate—a respectable couple conversing in public, where they had a right to be because they were both of like respectability.
Things Fleur would never be.
Especially not while pregnant with the child he denied. Despite his conviction, he had still sent a letter that morning, promising a fortune to support her.
A substantial income of five thousand pounds per annum. For a child he didn’t believe was his. Because Henry was, if not honorable and good, even to a woman he believed was a schemer.
And he had signed it from a friend.
A friend?
Fleur had alternately laughed, cried, and screamed into her pillow. As even now, anger warred with grief; how was it possible to love him and hate him at the same time?
Tortured, Fleur forced herself to watch them. The future Duke and Duchess of Hartwell.
Her lungs began to fail.
Unlike Fleur and Lord Cassian, Hart sat right next to Lady Angela, like husband and wife, with the Duke and Duchess of Talbert behind.
Don’t look, she told herself.
Except that she was already looking.
Look away.
But she couldn’t.
They conversed easily; Henry, absorbed in the other woman’s words, would not have noticed Fleur—even if a fire had engulfed the entire theatre.
The slow, solemn andante of Spontini’s La Vestale hymn-like opening offset the lively tones and ushered in a fitting solemnity of the vestal virgin’s struggle between duty to the flame and her love of Licinius.
Why had they brought her here, except to make her suffer?
Her throat tightened; her lungs burned; her chest ached.
“Al cuore d’un amico fedele
Confida il tuo dolore segreto.
To the heart of a faithful friend. Entrust your hidden sorrow.
There came a soft brush of air against her cheek.
“Dear God, darling,” Lord Cassian said hushed against her ear. “We have not even reached the first aria.”
She knew what he was trying to do; she knew he sought to ease her sorrow and strengthen her resolve.
“Look at me, now, Lady Fleur,” he murmured.
Perché quel volto sì turbato?
Why is your face so troubled?/
