Page 24 of A Contracted Spouse for the Prizefighter

Clem had not realized he was whistling as he sauntered down the Old Harlow Road. When he was hailed with a tentative “Mr. Dabney!” he turned to find Theodora hurrying after him.

“Hello, where did you spring from?” He cast about for her hackney but could not see one in sight.

“Oh, I asked him to drop me a couple of streets away, so I could—well—have a few moments to compose myself,” she admitted, fidgeting with her bonnet strings.

He cast a critical eye over her pink cheeks and over-bright eyes. She still looked like a terrified doe poised for flight. Why the hell did she think she was cut out for a life on stage when she was so timorous? “You are not wearing your hat with the tassel today,” he observed with a lazy smile, hoping to put her at ease.

She raised a hand to touch her head as though unsure of what she wore there. “Oh, yes!” she agreed, with a nervous smile. “I decided on my wool bonnet today. It seemed to me that last time my hat attracted some adverse attention in church.”

He nodded gravely, thinking of her fright of a hat. “Perhaps they thought it rather fast,” he teased, instead of pointing out it was hopelessly eccentric.

Theodora’s eyes widened. “Do you think so?” she asked, sounding rather more gratified than horror-struck at this prospect. “No one has ever thought me fast before.”

“I’m sure they must have,” Clem protested. “You are an actress after all. A profession which has only been considered remotely respectable in recent years.”

“I suppose that is true,” she agreed, falling into step beside him, and taking his arm when offered, with only the tiniest of hesitations. “When it came to the theatre, my sister and I were always under the aegis of our uncle, so we were protected from the seamier side of things.” Clem digested this in silence. Well, he had suspected as much, had he not? “What was that tune you were whistling?” she asked suddenly.

“Hmmm? Tune?”

“Just now,” she elucidated, “when you thought yourself unobserved.”

He cast a surprised glance at her. She looked genuinely interested in the answer. “I … ah, I’m not sure,” he prevaricated, though he had a shrewd idea.

“It went like this.” Dora pursed her lips and whistled the catchy refrain from a risqué number his star turn, Florrie Foss, currently performed.

Clem could not suppress his grin. “It’s a music hall number called Oh Mr. Hipkins,” he admitted. “You’re a surprisingly good whistler.”

“Oh yes, I practice daily. Who performs it?”

Realizing she would not be distracted, Clem relented. “A Miss Florrie Foss. She’s top of the bill at The Eagle.”

“Miss Florrie Foss,” Dora repeated thoughtfully. “I should like to see her perform one day.”

Clem winced. “I do not think her act would be to your tastes, Dora.” She colored faintly, but whether from his casual use of the pet name or from the implication she and music hall were not compatible, Clem could not be sure.

“Is she very beautiful?” she asked suddenly, a strangely anxious look on her face.

“Beautiful? No,” he answered, thinking of earthy Florrie with her roaring laugh and the too big gap between her front teeth. “But there is … something about her I suppose. The paying public love her.”

She relaxed. “Is her act very rude?” she asked shrewdly and shot him a sideways look that had Clem laughing again in spite of himself.

“Very,” he admitted and was strangely gratified when she gave an answering laugh.

“I would still like to see it,” she said, surprising the hell out of him, and then the church gate was in front of them. He was almost disappointed they did not have another street length to converse.

The service passed uneventfully, and their banns were read without anyone denouncing them. Dora quivered beside him when their names were read out, but he took her gloved hand in his and squeezed it tight. He gave her a reassuring smile and she seemed to breathe easier.

“Where would you like to go to Sunday lunch?” he asked her as they filed out of church after shaking Canon Bridgewater’s soft, wrinkled hand.

“I hardly know,” she said, brightening at the prospect. “It has been so long since I have been taken out for a meal. My uncle used to take us once a month as a high treat, but since he passed …”

“There is a new French restaurant opened near Piccadilly to favorable reviews,” Clem suggested. “We could easily take a cab.” Her expression wavered and Clem could see she was not fully sold on the idea.

“That sounds very grand,” she said, glancing down at her shabby paletot.

Perhaps she was not wholly oblivious to the strange figure she cut; Clem reflected. “Where did your uncle used to take you?”

“To a local chop house,” she admitted, making him laugh.