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Hero looked at her, amused. “By the way he cares for you, silly. He made very sure you had the best seat when you arrived—next to me so we might gossip. He filled a plate for you with cakes and grapes—no walnuts, as he knows you aren’t particularly fond of them—and the very fact he’s come to the opera tonight … well. I half expected him to decline, I must tell you. He’s been a veritable hermit these last couple of years. Hardly anyone has seen him about in society. No, everything he’s done tonight, small matters as they are, has been for you, sister.”
Megs blinked. Was it true? Did Godric have feelings, however small, for her? He had, after all, conceded to her wish to try to make a child. The mere reminder made her body flush with heat, but she felt a pang of disquiet as well. When she’d been back at Laurelwood, dreaming up this plan to come to London and seduce her husband, he had been a mere cardboard figure. She’d known him only from his infrequent, curt letters. Bedding a cardboard man had seemed straightforward enough.
Bedding Godric was an entirely different matter.
He was real, flesh and blood, a man with powerful feelings—though he did his best to hide them from the world. Only now, at this terribly late date, did it occur to her that her emotions might be endangered if she lay with Godric.
Megs bit her lip. Emotional entanglement was not something that she’d accounted for. Roger was the love of her life, his loss a pain she felt every day. She had no other way to make a child for herself but to lie with Godric, but to feel for him as well—that seemed like a betrayal of her love for Roger.
A betrayal of Roger himself.
Hero suddenly squeezed her hand. “There she is.”
Megs blinked. “Who?”
“Hippolyta Royle,” Hero murmured. “The lady there in that delicious shade of dark coffee brown and pink.” Megs followed the discreet incline of Hero’s head. A tall lady stood by herself, watching the crowd with hooded eyes. She couldn’t be called beautiful, but with her tawny complexion, dark hair, and regal bearing, she was certainly striking.
“Who is she?” Megs wondered aloud.
Hero huffed softly beside her. “You’d know if you hadn’t been hiding yourself away in the wilds of the countryside for two years. Miss Royle is a rather mysterious heiress. She appeared in London out of the blue a couple of months ago. Some say she was raised in Italy or even the East Indies. I’ve thought that she must be a very interesting person, but we’ve not been introduced yet.”
They watched as Miss Royle turned and began strolling away.
“And it looks like I won’t have the opportunity tonight either,” Hero said ruefully. “I see no one to make the proper introductions. But here’s Maximus’s box. Shall we?”
Megs nodded as Hero led the way into the splendid box. It was directly opposite Griffin’s rented box and so was over the other side of the stage from where they sat.
Inside, the box was as luxurious as Griffin’s—perhaps more so. Two ladies sat by themselves, and the elder of the two held out her hand at their entrance.
“Hero, how lovely to see you, my dear.” Miss Bathilda Picklewood had raised both Hero and her younger sister, Phoebe, after their parents’ death. A plump lady who wore her soft gray hair in ringlets across her forehead, she held a small, elderly King Charles spaniel on her lap.
Hero stepped gracefully forward and kissed Miss Picklewood on the cheek. “How are you, Cousin Bathilda?”
“Quite well,” Miss Picklewood said, “but I do declare it has been an age since you brought William ’round.”
As if to emphasize her words, the spaniel gave one sharp bark.
Hero smiled. “I shall correct my error as soon as possible. Tomorrow afternoon, in fact.”
“Splendid!”
“Who is that with you, Hero?” the second lady asked, and Megs felt a pang, for it was Lady Phoebe Batten.
Megs stepped closer, hoping the dim candlelight in the box would help. “It’s me, Phoebe. Megs.”
“Of course,” Phoebe said in a confused flurry. Her eyes were focused on Megs’s face now, but Megs had the sinking feeling that the other woman still couldn’t see her properly. “Are you enjoying the play?”
“Oh, yes,” Megs said, though she’d hardly paid attention. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to one, so this is quite a treat.”
“Robin Goodfellow is so clever,” Miss Picklewood said, and Megs scrambled a bit before she remembered that was the name of the actress in man’s clothing. “I believe I’ve enjoyed every play she’s been in.”
“Harte was very smart to lure Miss Goodfellow away from the Royal,” a deep voice said behind them.
Both Megs and Hero turned to see Maximus Batten, the Duke of Wakefield, standing in the entrance to the box, two ices in his hands.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Had I known you’d join us, Hero, I would’ve gotten more ices.”
“Griffin and Mr. St. John have gone to get them for us,” Hero said. “You remember Lady Margaret?”
