Page 80 of The Trouble with Tweed

“And then our dear brother would have been at home, solely focused on guiding his sisters through their first Season,” Claire mused.

“On second thought…” Margaret said.

“You do realize I can hear you?” William said archly.

Beatrice laughed and Lily gave one of her nervous hiccup-giggles.

“Are you quite all right?” Claire leaned forward to study her. “Are you feeling well?”

William turned to them with a frown. “Are you not feeling well, Lily? You didn’t have to attend if you’d preferred not to.”

Claire frowned. If she’d known attendance was optional, she wouldn’t be here. She’d just spotted Lady Rutheridge and Sylvia in the crowd.

And behind them…Michael.

Claire couldn’t help her sharp intake of breath. Thankfully, it was hidden by the sudden strains of the strings warming up from the orchestra pit. None of the Rutheridges seemed to have noticed her family yet, but it was only a matter of time. Once one was seated, there was little to do but look around at the people in the theatre. It was more than half the draw of attending such performances—noting who was seated with whom, and what the ladies were wearing.

“Claire,” Beatrice hissed, nudging her with a sharp elbow.

Beatrice canted her head at Michael, who Claire now saw was not the last member of the Rutheridge party. A young lady with dark hair had followed him into their row, and as Claire watched, Michael turned to say something to her. She laughed gaily in reply, the tinkling sounds of her merriment somehow reaching all the way up to their box.

Claire’s stomach turned. She eyed the exit, but the lights were coming down, and her entire family would have to stand to let her out. Better they stay seated; Claire could pray that Michael was too enthralled with his lovely companion to notice anyone else. The thought made her feel quite ill, even as she had it.

The lights on the stage went brighter, washing a warm glow over the crowd, and the opening applause began. Still, Claire could barely tear her eyes from Michael, from the young lady at his side. Whoever she was, she was quite beautiful, with a pert nose and all that lustrous dark hair.

“Who is she?” Beatrice murmured.

Claire shook her head mutely.

“She’s not half as pretty as you are,” Beatrice whispered firmly.

Claire sternly told herself not to stare, but it was impossible—her eyes kept swinging back to Michael’s form, to the young lady sitting far too close to him for Claire’s liking.

Halfway through the first act, it happened. Claire had been watching the stage, counting and telling herself that she absolutely must not look back at Michael until she reached one hundred.

She only made it to seventy-two—a personal record—but when she glanced at him, he was staring up at her. Michael’s eyes bored into hers from across the theatre. Claire knew she should look away. But with every breath, her chest grew tighter until she was nearly gasping. She couldn’t read his expression in the dim light of the theatre—was that anger lining his features?

It was Michael who finally broke the charged moment by looking away. Claire looked to the stage, tears building along her lower lashes. She could barely breathe—there was no way she could pay attention to the storyline of the play.

Though it did seem that someone on stage had died, or perhaps they were falling in love.

At the moment, it all felt the same to Claire.

The following morning, though all the London-based Prestons were present, the breakfast table was largely silent. Margaret prodded at her waffles listlessly. Lily sipped her tea, staring at her saucer. Claire couldn’t help replaying the night before in her mind—all she could see were Michael’s eyes, and the beautiful young lady sitting next to him.

“What on earth is the matter with the lot of you?” William finally asked. “Usually there’s been at least one sisterly row by the time the bacon’s gone.”

“I cannot speak for my sisters,” Beatrice said, her words slow and purposeful, “but I was very overcome by the play last night. Why, I didn’t sleep a wink for all my crying.”

Beatrice stared at William wide-eyed, as if waiting for a response, but he simply snapped his paper higher and grunted.

“You had better pinch some color into your cheeks before all your beaux arrive, that’s for certain,” William said.

“I don’t know if I’m feeling up for visitors today,” Lily admitted.

“Margaret, please pass the pepper,” Beatrice said, straightening in her chair.

Margaret complied a bit distractedly. “Me neither. Perhaps we can be not at home to visitors today?”