Margaret watched this exchange with the still, focused attention of a hawk observing something unexpected.
“That was interesting,” Margaret murmured once the gentlemen had turned away. “You. Defending a man who does not know the difference between Mozart and Handel.”
“Being right and being effective are not always the same thing, according to Hugo.”
Margaret considered this. “He is correct, but I will deny having said so if you repeat it.”
A voice from the doorway of the box cut through the conversation.
“Lord Brimsey. Lady Brimsey. I hope I am not intruding.”
Hugo stood in the entrance, his evening clothes immaculate, his fair hair catching the chandelier light. His gaze swept the box as though he owned it and every soul inside, but something tightened around his jaw when his eyes landed on the cluster of gentlemen surrounding Lily.
“Your Grace.” Lord Brimsey rose and extended his hand. “Not at all. Do join us.”
Hugo shook her father’s hand and bowed to Lady Brimsey and Aunt Margaret. Margaret inclined her head with the measured courtesy of a woman who had not yet decided whether she approved.
Hugo turned to the gentlemen. His smile was pleasant, his posture open, but Lily noticed the way his shoulders squared as he took in Cresswell’s proximity to her chair and Sir Philip’s easy posture at her other side. Something cooled behind his eyes.
“Gentlemen.” The single word carried the weight of a Duke acknowledging lesser men in his fiancée’s company. “I trust you have been keeping Lady Lily entertained.”
“We have been discussing the performance,” Cresswell offered.
“How fortunate for her.” Hugo’s smile did not waver, but Lily caught the edge beneath it. “I have come to invite Lady Lily and her family to my box. The acoustics are superior, and I have taken the liberty of ordering champagne.”
Cresswell and the others took their cue from the efficiency of men who understood that a Duke’s invitation was, in fact, a dismissal. They bowed, offered congratulations, and withdrew.
Hugo offered Lily his arm. She took it and leaned close as they moved into the corridor.
“You did not need to rescue me. I was managing perfectly well.”
“I have no doubt. I simply prefer my fiancée’s company to that of Lord Cresswell, who I suspect could not tell Mozart from a music box.”
“You heard that?”
“I heard your aunt correct him. I also heard you rescue him from it.” He glanced down at her, and the teasing fell away. “Well done.”
They settled into the Thornwaite box. It was larger, positioned closer to the stage, with plush velvet chairs and champagne already poured. Lord and Lady Brimsey took the seats nearest the front. Margaret positioned herself to Lily’s left with the strategic precision of a chaperone.
Hugo sat to Lily’s right.
The space between their chairs was negligible. His shoulder nearly touched hers, and when he shifted to hand her a glass, his arm brushed her sleeve. The contact was brief, incidental, and it sent a current through her skin that settled low in her stomach.
The orchestra struck the opening notes. The houselights dimmed, and the theater sank into warm, velvet darkness. The music filled the space between them, and Lily tried to let it carry her away from the awareness of the man beside her.
It did not work.
Hugo’s cologne reached her first. Sandalwood and something deeper. In the darkness, it was everywhere. She breathed it in with every inhalation, and each breath pulled him closer even though neither of them had moved.
His knee rested an inch from hers. His hand lay on the armrest, fingers loose and relaxed, and she was aware of every one of them with a precision that bordered on absurdity. The first act unfolded below, and she absorbed none of it. Her awareness had narrowed to the charged air between her body and his, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the warmth that radiated from him like heat from a hearth.
She shifted in her seat. Crossed her ankles. Uncrossed them. Her left knee began to bounce, a nervous habit she had broken years ago and that had apparently resurrected itself for the sole purpose of humiliating her.
“You are vibrating.” Hugo’s voice came low and close, his lips near her ear. The warmth of his breath grazed the curve of her neck.
She stilled her knee. “I am not.”
“Your leg has been jiggling since the overture. You are going to shake the champagne off the table.” A pause. “Is something the matter?”
