Lily still wasn’t quite sure how her sisters had managed to shunt her to the side so that she didn’t ride with Bradford. It had been so deftly done that Lily suspected all the young ladies had been in on it. Certainly there was no other explanation; Lily liked Rachel and Sylvia, but they were more her sisters’ friends than they were hers.
There was a fashionable crush in the lobby of the theater. Laughter and conversation was interspersed with music from the lone violinist in the corner. Champagne bottles popped like muted fireworks behind the bar.
It wasn’t quite as stifling as the ball had been, but Lily was grateful for the periodic cool wash of air that entered on the heels of every patron through the front door. Sylvia and Rachel made polite small talk about people they knew or the play. Lilydid her best to participate but quickly lost herself to staring out the window.
“There they are.” Rachel gave a matter-of-fact nod toward the glass. “It doesn’t look like they’ve damaged him too much. He’s made it safe and sound, and you may stop your pacing.”
Lily frowned. She hadn’t beenpacing—more like shifting from side to side, hoping to see Bradford’s carriage in the line. Bradford helped each of her sisters down and escorted them up the steps. She didn’t care to closely examine the relief she felt; she decided to ascribe it to an elder sister’s concern.
“Ah, there you are,” Bradford said as the two groups merged.
He smiled at Lily and she squashed down the excitement she felt every time he did so. It was the novelty of the expression, nothing more, that made her stomach swoop in such an odd way. Or so she told herself.
“There was much concern on this end whether you’d arrive in one piece,” Rachel said, raising her eyebrow.
Lily felt the sudden urge to kick the lady’s ankle.
“It was touch and go, but fortunately—or unfortunately, depending upon the audience—we didn’t encounter any highwaymen,” he said.
Lily didn’t understand her sisters’ reactions to his odd statement. Beatrice groaned and looked heavenward. Margaret laughed.
From the corner of her eye, Lily caught a dark head swinging in their direction at the sound. The Duke of Ettrick strode over to them, the crowd parting with alacrity before his large frame. All around him, ladies fluttered their fans and shot coy glances that were far short of subtle. Yet he didn’t seem to notice any of them; his eyes were locked on Margaret.
Her smile stuttered and slid from her face when she followed Lily’s gaze. But by then it was too late; the duke stood next to Bradford. Margaret made introductions in a rather begrudgingway, then went taciturn, foisting the burden of the conversation onto the others.
“Your Grace, have you seen this play before?” Lily asked.
“I haven’t.” His voice was rich, playing over that unique melody that people of Scottish descent made of their words. “I’m very much looking forward to it.”
“Lily and I haven’t seen it yet, either,” Bradford said easily. “Though we have something riding on the performance.”
“A bet?” Beatrice’s eyebrow winged upward. “I thought Lily had a distaste for gambling. She won’t even put up one of her ribbons against our game of whist.”
“No, not a bet.” Lily felt her cheeks heating, but hardly felt that she needed to explain why she found gambling abhorrent. “A matter of discussion, nothing more.”
“Yes, forgive me,” Bradford said. “There’s been a disagreement of opinion. We’re going to see if we both like this play.”
“Isn’t that the entire point of going to the theater?” Margaret said wanly.
Lily and the duke were the only ones who appeared to hear her; Ettrick grinned down at her as if she’d said something very amusing.
“What was the disagreement?” Beatrice jutted her chin forward, looking back and forth between Lily and Bradford.
“It hardly matters,” Lily said quickly, trying to stave off further discussion of the topic.
“Your sister and I had a disagreement about her favorite play,” Bradford said.
As if on cue, Beatrice and Margaret clasped their hands to their chests and exclaimed, “Matilda, my dearest, dead Matilda!”
Margaret erupted into a riot of giggling; Beatrice gave a lowhah-hah-hah.Lily frowned and opened her mouth to inquire whether she was feeling well.
“Do you remember the man with the…with the…" Margaret gasped, gesturing above her head to Beatrice.
“The feather on his cap! And halfway through the death scene it broke, and instead of acknowledging it andfixingit, he tried to pretend it wasn’t there. So the whole time he was delivering what was supposed to be his most dramatic lines, there was a feather hanging over his face, like this.” Beatrice held a gloved hand over her face.
“And every time he’d speak”—here, Margaret paused to hiccup a laugh—“the feather would puff out from his face.”
Beatrice moved the hand over her face with every word. “Matilda, my dearest dead Matilda!”
