Bradford grinned at Lily. “You didn’t tell me any of this. And it still was your favorite play?”
Lily knew she was full-on blushing now, but couldn’t stop it. “It was a very good story,” she said pertly, gathering her wrap more tightly around her shoulders. “It isn’t my fault if the lot of you have no taste.”
“The feather would have been bad enough,” Margaret said, ignoring her. “But remember, the male lead that evening was the understudy, and he’d had to wedge himself into those ill-fitting tights?”
“That play was more educational than a trip to the Royal Academy of Arts,” Beatrice muttered.
“Beatrice!” Lily gasped, her blush deepening.
Thankfully, both the gentlemen present laughed, and at that moment, the tone sounded for them to take their seats.
Bradford turned to Ettrick. “Your Grace, would you like to join us in our box? I believe we have the extra room.”
Lily saw Margaret’s head whip up, her eyes wide. But she knew her sister well enough to know that the expression she wore wasn’t fear—at least, not precisely.
“I’d be delighted,” he said, something like triumph in his tone.
Lily didn’t have time to study their dynamic further. Bradford put a steady, warm hand to the small of her back, ushering her into the fray of patrons trying to find their seats. There was a giddy air of anticipation in the crowd, though Lily thought she felt it most keenly.
We’re friends,she told herself firmly.Friends or something much like it.
She only hoped that the feeling in her stomach would heed her words.
Somehow, she and Bradford ended up in relative privacy despite all their unexpected guests. The box he’d reserved was oddly shaped, with three rows of three chairs. Beatrice, Sylvia, and Rachel took the front row. Lily and Bradford sat in the back row behind Margaret and the Duke of Ettrick.
The play achieved its ambition as a comedy, and half an hour into the first act, Lily frowned and twisted in her seat to try to get a better look at Beatrice.
“What’s the matter?” Bradford murmured to her.
“I think my sister might be coming down with an ailment of some kind.” Lily craned her neck, trying to see whether Beatrice had her handkerchief out. “She sounds…odd.”
Just then, the crowd erupted into laughter that wasn’t quite loud enough to drown out Beatrice’s unnaturally deephah-hah-hah.
Bradford grinned. “Your sister is quite well. She’s simply proving a point to Margaret.”
Lily blinked. “What, that she can laugh like a dockworker who’s deep in his cups?”
His eyebrows raised. “Actually, that’s a very close guess.”
“I should have known.”
Lily refocused her gaze to the stage, where a man was delivering a passionate soliloquy. At the end of his speech, the crowd laughed, and Lily smiled reflexively.
Bradford leaned toward her. “You cannot convince me you heard the crux of his joke; you were speaking with me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why did you smile?”
“Because the crowd laughed,” she murmured, smiling.
“I didn’t think you were the type to be so easily influenced,” he teased.
“I’m not.”
“I suppose I should expect nothing less from a young lady who was coaxed into the basket of a strange man’s balloon.”
Lily huffed a laugh and shook her head. Why did all of their exchanges feel different this evening? Was it some trick of the low light that was causing all of their conversation to feel like flirtation? Or was it an inherent effect of whispering with one another so that others wouldn't hear?
