Clarissa's eyes held a tiny glint of mischief. "Mrs. Lennox does not approve of idle chatter."
"Ah. I see." He paused. "You two must get on well then."
Clarissa's head whipped to the side. He kept his expression blank.
"Are you teasing me, Lord Stratton?" she asked.
"It's Kit," he reminded her. "And yes."
He could see the indecision cross her face.
He arched a brow. "Is that all right?"
Pink stole into her cheeks, and she shifted under his gaze. If he were to guess, he'd say she was…shy. Her eyes dipped and her lips parted. Then she peeked up at him from beneath thick eyelashes. "I suppose."
His chest tightened so painfully he nearly cried out. He wasn't sure he'd ever witnessed genuine shyness. He'd seen many a lady feign humility and innocence, but he'd never seen the real thing.
And the real thing was undeniably adorable. It made him want to protect her, or fight a duel for her, or…
He looked around them. Well, he supposed he'd have to settle for shielding her from unpleasant gossip.
The theater was filling quickly. Kit scanned the boxes to see who was present and who was watching.
Lady Arabella was in a box across the way with her mother. Good. Let her see this.
Estella and Lord Blackwood were in a lower box. Estella waved, and he saw Clarissa return the wave with a sweet little smile.
The wave was enough to garner more attention. Lady Arabella was watching them, and he took the opportunity to lean over.
"Don't look now," he whispered. "But I believe we have an audience."
Clarissa turned to face him, and he realized just how close he was. Too close. Not enough to cause a scandal, but certainly enough to rattle his wits.
Close enough to count those thick lashes, and see just how pink and lush her lips were. And…how wide her eyes.
She looked just as startled as he felt.
He straightened and made a show of going back to assessing the crowd. But then Kit's gaze snagged on a box to the upper left.
His father.
The Duke of Ashworth sat in a private box with two men Kit didn't recognize and a woman he did—Mrs. Farber, a widow of considerable wealth and flexible morals who had been orbiting the duke's social circle for the better part of a year. The duke was leaning toward her, saying something that made her laugh. He looked distinguished, and perfectly content in his role as London's most respectable hypocrite.
Kit's hand tightened on the arm of his chair.
He hadn't known his father would be here. The duke rarely attended the opera. He found it tedious, a fact about which Kit agreed with him. It was one of very few things they had in common.
So why was he here tonight? Coincidence? Or had word reached him that his son was making a spectacle of himself with some disgraced earl's daughter, and he'd come to observe?
No, he was being ridiculous. His father didn't care enough about his whereabouts or his doings for that. It was just a coincidence.
And either way, it didn't matter. Kit unclenched his hands and sank back in his seat, settling in to endure the performance.
When the music began, Kit found himself staring at the stage without seeing it.
On the stage, a soprano was singing about heartbreak. It was, Kit supposed, very moving if one cared about such things. The melody soared, and the audience was rapt.
He supposed she was good. But Kit was too busy calculating to care. The mistress's next payment was due in twelve days. His aunt had agreed to the arrangement but hadn't yet delivered the funds. If he pushed?—
