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"She don't sound too friendly, Willoughby," one said.
"Needs a lit'l more charm," Willoughby replied, pulling a coin from his waistcoat. "This'll sweetin' her tongue." Grabbing her shoulder, he pulled her to him and made as if to jam the sovereign down her bodice.
In anger as fierce as her fear, she prepared to deal him the roundhouse punch her husband had taught her. Before she could swing, her tormentor was seized by the throat and yanked away, the coin tumbling from his fingers.
“Kind of you to watch out for my guest, Willoughby, but as I've returned, further assistance is unnecessary."
To her infinite relief, the dark-haired form of Evan's friend Brent Blakesly moved to her side. Positioning himself between her and the loitering bucks, he surveyed the men with a hard, unsmiling gaze. '"Evening, gentlemen."
Willoughby rubbed his throat. "Your guest?"
"If you care to dispute that, I'll be happy to oblige," Brent replied. "Not, of course, at this moment. Excepting yourself, there is polite society present." He made a quick gesture to the surrounding boxes. "Unless you'd like to provide the entr'acte amusement?"
For a moment, face creased in a scowl, Willoughby stood fast. But as he met Brent's implacable gaze, his own faltered. He looked away.
"I thought not." Turning his back on the group, Brent offered Emily a smile. "I'm sorry your visit to the theater was marred by these oafs. Won't you stroll with me and see if I can reverse that bad impression?''
He held out his arm. Grateful, she took it. "Thank you, Mr. Blakesly. Some cool air would be most refreshing."
The press of people prevented further conversation until they reached the lobby. He guided her into a space in the far corner and stood guard, back to the milling crowd.
"Thank you again for your kindness. I don't think I could have discouraged those gentlemen without a most embarrassing scene."
Brent grimaced. "No gentlemen there. I'm so sorry you were disturbed. Reflecting on it, I believe I must look Willoughby up later and teach him some manners. However—" a grin softened his face "—though it hardly excuses his behavior, I must warn you that so beautiful a lady seemingly unescorted does attract attention."
Was there reproof in his tone? “Francesca was to accompany me, but at the last minute found the prospect of Shakespeare too daunting. 'Twas not wise to come alone, I suppose."
“I find Shakespeare a bit daunting myself. But if you will permit, I would feel easier if I might escort you for the remainder. 'Twould be my privilege as well."
His unassuming courtesy touched her. “Thank you again, sir. I should be privileged to accept."
Her gratitude at his rescue helped ease the awkwardness she would otherwise have felt at being squired by a man so nearly a stranger. And his tall presence beside her not only put to rest any fears of a repetition of the unwelcome attentions she'd encountered, but distracted her from the compulsion to gaze back up at a certain box.
She ended by enjoying the play much more than she'd anticipated. The awkwardness did not return until, as they walked out to the street thronged with carriages and theatergoers, he offered to escort her home.
"A jarvey would most likely get you there safely, ma'am. But the streets at night can be dangerous, and I'd never forgive myself were something to happen en route."
She had to admit she'd been a bit anxious herself. There seemed no course but to allow him to accompany her.
She held herself stiffly at the far edge of the seat, but he made no attempt to draw close. Indeed, he continued his commentary on the play, plying her with questions so absurd she knew he was trying to set her at ease.
She couldn't truly be easy, especially not when they reached her house. Her discomfort increased after he escorted her up the stairs and into the entry.
Despite his kindness, she must make certain matters clear. After dismissing the footman, she turned to Brent.
"Mr. Blakesly, I'm most grateful for your assistance." She gave his hand a quick, firm shake. "However, you must realize I do not generally..." she fumbled for words "...accept a gentleman's escort. Or keep company with one."
He smiled. "Then I am doubly lucky."
Did he take her full meaning? Flushing, she steeled herself to continue. “I know you are a friend of Lord Cheverley. Excuse me for being so blunt, but you must understand I will not, under any circumstances, undertake another...relationship such as I had with him."
She felt heat down to her toes. Despite the humiliation of so baldly stating the matter, she forced herself to meet his gaze, make sure he'd comprehended.
A self-deprecating smile twisted his lips. "I'm no grand lord like Evan, to offer costly inducements. Nor, frankly, would I want to." He met her gaze squarely. "I'd be lying if I said your beauty left me unmoved. But I also enjoy your company. Your wit, your very lack of flirtatiousness. I truly wish to stand your friend."
His face grave, he raised one hand. "Upon my honor, I would never do you the insult of suggesting something... else." He paused, as if to give her time to judge his sincerity, then added softly, “Is your life so busy you have no room in it even for a friend?"
She searched his face and could find only honesty. She recalled the comfort of him standing by her at the theater, the comfort of having someone with whom to share the evening's enjoyment. Though caution urged her to refuse, a lonely longing kept her silent.
A friend. Dare she allow it?
"I..I don't know."
"At least you haven't refused." He grinned, which combined with the dusting of freckles on his nose the bright lamplight revealed, made him appear younger. Not threatening. "Do you ride? If you followed the army, you must be a bruising rider."
Memory of some of those "bruising" rides brought a smile to her face. "Indeed."
"I'm a bit of an enthusiast, I admit—'tis my only extravagance. If you enjoy it, I've a mare in my stables I think would be perfect for you. And I ride early." He held up a hand to fend off that probable protest. '"Tis the only time, before most of London is stirring, for a good gallop."
Oh, how tempted she was. A country girl born and bred, she'd always loved horses. Selling off Andrew's cattle had been one of the most heartbreaking tasks she'd faced.
'"Tis excellent exercise, and the morning air very beneficial," he coaxed. "But I won't push you. Send me a message any time, Curzon Street, Number 15. Now I should leave you to your rest." He swept her a bow.
He would not coerce her. That simple fact alone nearly prompted her to accept on the spot. But when she opened her lips, he put a finger against them.
"Say nothing now, please. A refusal would cast me into the dumps, and an acceptance so excite me I should not sleep a wink. I need my rest, too, you know."
As he watched her, his teasing look faded. She could feel the tension between them build. Slowly, slowly, tracing her lip as he went, he removed his finger.
Before her alarm escalated into retreat, he seemed to shake off the mood. He caught up her hand and kissed it briskly. "Good evening, ma'am. I will sleep in hope."
Someone to laugh and ride and chat with—no strings attached. Bittersweet longing filled her. "So shall I."
Bowing again, he walked out. She wandered to the window and watched as, whistling, he strolled away in the flickering gaslight, leaving her to ponder with bemused appreciation his wit and kindness.
A friend such as that might be just what her aching heart needed.
******************************************************************
Hampton as Lear, Evan thought as the carriage approached the theater. Shakespeare always revitalized him, and Lear certainly fit his mood. Thunder and turf, he was tired of pasting a smile on his face.
It's getting better, he told himself, repeating the litany with which he'd extinguished all other thought these past weeks. Maybe soon, in a million years or so, he'd actually believe it.
As always, he clung to long-engrained rituals of civility to get him through. See his mama and Clare and Andrea out of the carriage, make way for them through the throng to their box, arrange chairs for the best view.
Andrea. She was in looks, her pale blond beauty shown to advantage in the cherry gown his mama had chosen. Mercifully, she demanded little of him, seeming content to spend most of her time in his mama and sister's company. But then, they had always been friends. Friends.
As the time for their nuptials slowly approached he found it increasingly difficult to express even that limited emotion. He dared not allow himself to feel, lest the caged beast of rage and despair escape to ravage all around him.
Grateful when the start of the play relieved him of the task of manufacturing more light chatter, he fastened his gaze on the stage.
The lyrical cadences did soothe, allowing him to lose himself in the play for a time. As the interval began, he kept his eyes focused downward, delaying as long as possible the necessity to resume polite conversation.
A commotion among the lower seats caught his attention, and in the next heartbeat, he saw her.
Emily! She never went out in public, yet it was unmistakably her. And the group of rowdies surrounding her were Willoughby and his loutish friends, unmistakably accosting her.
Rage brought him instantly to his feet. But before he could race to her assistance he saw Brent step in, shoulder Willoughby aside, say something that caused the group, with obvious reluctance, to disperse.
