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Fiennes walked forward and bowed. “I apologize for the awkwardness of this meeting, as that we must introduce ourselves. I am Lord Peregrine.”

“I am the Viscountess St. Trevelyon,” the older lady said in a clear voice. “I offer an apology from my husband, who is attending His Majesty this evening. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Peregrine. May I introduce my cherished daughter, Miss Fulvia St. Trevelyon?”

Fiennes was stunned by Fulvia’s beauty, but not so much that he didn’t appreciate the delightful shadowing of her bosom as she curtsied. Damn it, he should have trusted his father’s judgment.

“May I introduce Lord Devin?” Fiennes asked, remembering that his friend stood at his shoulder.

The viscountess said, “I also wish to introduce my dear niece, Miss Fenella St. Trevelyon.” A lady who had been standing toward the rear of the box moved forward and dropped a curtsy.

Fiennes didn’t notice her, other than thinking that the family had peculiar habits in naming. The niece sounded like a leafy vegetable.

Introductions finally concluded, Fiennes escorted his almost-fiancée to the front of the box. Without fuss, Fulvia seated herself closest to the stage, charmingly explaining that she was a great aficionado of the theater, though she’d never been to the Theater Royal. Her eyes were round as she gazed around in awe, and then up at the blue ceiling far above.

The theater was better than Almack’s. He wouldn’t mind going to plays if he was accompanying his delectable wife.

“Lucky bastard,” Devin hissed, elbowing him.

Fiennes cast him a wry smile that agreed. He had no fear that Fulvia would turn out to be another Lady Regina. Her character was written on her face. She was sweetly innocent and utterly charming.

Though she was young, she was independent, given the letter she had written to him. She was also remarkably elegant. Her gown was in the very newest fashion, which suggested that Devin’s sour view of the viscount’s penury had been ill-informed.

Excellent. Fiennes had been reconciled to a father-in-law who’d try to fleece him on a regular basis—something in St. Trevelyon’s eyes had suggested as much—but he was happy to be wrong.

“Have you read this play, Fulvia, if I might address you as such?” he asked.

Her face showed an enchanting flicker of doubt. She opened her fan and whispered, “Is such intimacy the fashion in London?”

“It is,” he said gravely. “Although only among those like ourselves, who have an understanding.”

“I shouldn’t want to be thought fast,” Fulvia said. She glanced over at the viscountess. “Perhaps you might, although not in circumstances when my mother could hear you.”

He caught back a smile, thinking of brash, fortune-hunting ladies who would leap to address him with such familiarity. “My name is Fiennes.”

“How odd,” she said with a charming giggle. “Both of our names are unusual and begin with an F.”

“That is true.”

“I have not read the play,” Fulvia told him. “In truth, I have read few modern plays, only those by Shakespeare and his contemporaries. My father has stern ideas about what ladies should and shouldn’t read. My cousin is frightfully intelligent and reads all sorts of books behind his back, but this is the first time either of us have been to a real performance.”

Fiennes glanced over at the bookish cousin, but she had her back to him, tucking a shawl around the viscountess’s shoulders. Devin had obviously realized that his role was to keep the lady and her companion occupied; he was giving the ladies his most beguiling smile.

Fiennes felt a surge of affection. Devin was a good fellow. A true friend.

“Have you heard much about this production?” Fulvia asked.

“Merely that a pretty fellow plays the lead.”

“Mr. Thomas Woodword is making his introduction to the London theater-going audience,” she told him. “More precisely, his introduction as a lead. He has played smaller roles, and toured Italy and France, although I believe he grew up in Suffolk.”

Fiennes was somewhat startled. “You are interested in the theater, aren’t you?”

“As I told you,” she told him, sweetly, but with a pointed note in her voice. “You do know that the role of Petruchio in Shakespeare’s play has been played to this date by John Kemble, opposite his wife? Mr. Woodword faces a challenge to better such a famous actor.”

The viscount had rightly boasted of his daughter’s intelligence. She was no Lady Regina, who had nothing in her head but society prattle. “I am so glad that I am able to introduce you to the pleasure of theatergoing, given your passion for the art form.”

“As am I,” she said.

Her smile was instinctive and happy; Fiennes was surprised by an emotion that felt close to affection. It wouldn’t be difficult to be married to this lady. He would escort her to as many plays as she wished—when they happened to be in the city at the same time, of course.