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CHAPTER FIVE
Somehow, Cornelia made herself look icily away, betraying only by a flicker of the lids, a sharp indrawn breath, that she had recognised him.
He could not come near her while she was with her family. She clenched her hands in her lap. There was not the remotest chance of meeting him, and if she did not look his way again, he might forget her.
Andrew passed her an orange which he had peeled for her. ‘Here,’ he murmured.
‘Thank you.’
She carefully parted a segment and ate it, watching Andrew peel his own, his long fingers deft. As always when she was with him, peace gradually flowed over her, and she felt strong enough to meet once more the stranger’s challenging glance.
She looked, very casually, in his direction, and her eyes collided, with a violent impact, with the cold grey gaze. Her peace shattered, she hurriedly looked away again, pulses throbbing.
Why did this man disturb her so much?
Andrew glanced at her. ‘What is it?’ he asked, noticing her flushed cheeks and hurried breathing. He looked round the playhouse. ‘Is someone staring at you? One of the idle gallants?’
It was common enough for some young gentleman on the town to stare down innocent girls at the theatre.
She laughed in a flurried fashion. ‘No, no. It is hot in here. So many people. But this orange is cooling on the tongue.’
She ate the last segment and wiped her fingers. The sharp, exotic tang of the fruit lingered on her skin. There was an interval now. Musicians appeared and played for the chattering audience. Andrew talked about the play, praising Betterton’s performance, criticising the language of the writer.
Cornelia found it hard to attend to him. She desperately wished to look over to where the black-haired man sat, but dared do nothing of the kind for fear of finding him still watching her. Her nervousness communicated itself to Andrew, who again studied her with clinical coolness.
‘You really do not look yourself,’ he said. ‘Have you a fever?’
There was a disturbance further along the row.
She looked over her shoulder and saw, to her horror, that her father was talking to the black-haired stranger. While she watched in frozen disbelief Alderman Brent presented his companion to her mother. She heard him say, ‘This is Sir Rendel Woodham, my dear, who sits in the Commons for Stelling. I met him at Greenwich the other day.’ His smile grew arch. ‘Sir Rendel was in attendance upon the King, you know.’
Her mother slowly held out her hand. On her face Cornelia saw, mirrored, her own confusion. Her mother, too, then had recognised him.
Cornelia waited for her to accuse him, but Mistress Brent, rallying, had forced a bright smile and was complacently allowing their attacker to kiss her hand.
‘And this is my daughter,’ said Alderman Brent proudly, gesturing to Cornelia to rise and greet the man.
r /> The stranger made her a deliberate, mocking, elaborate bow. Hypnotised, she extended her hand, and he took it in both his own, raising it to his lips.
At the touch of his mouth on her skin she felt a dizzy sensation. Involuntarily, she snatched her hand away, pushing it into her skirt, as though to obliterate the print of his touch.
He smiled, flickering one thin brow upward. Standing so close, only he could see the burning hatred of her eyes, the shudder which ran over her.
Then her father spoke to him again, very eager to please, mentioning that it was her birthday. She took the opportunity to sink back upon the bench. Dropping her glove, she pretended to search vainly for it, hoping to hide her hot cheeks from his view.
Loathesome, loathesome man, she thought.
Andrew, watching her in puzzled surprise, bent and picked up her glove, handing it to her. She looked up at him, hazel eyes wide and desolate, but repressed the instinctive movement of her own hand to cling to his. She could dimly hear her father pressing Sir Rendel to sup with them after the play, and strained to hear the reply.
‘I shall be honoured,’ the drawling voice said, and her heart sank. She did not look round. She knew only too well that he was looking at her. She could feel his eyes as though they branded her.
How dared he deliberately seek her out like this? He was almost daring her to accuse him, indifferent to exposure, so sure of himself, in his arrogance, that he outfaced such danger as there was of her mother openly recognising him.
Why was her mother pretending not to know him? Cornelia could hear her talking politely, laughing at some remark he made. Of course, she thought, her mother doubtless thought it safer to forget the whole incident. Her father wanted to find a patron at Court. Sir Rendel was, apparently, a friend of the King.
It would be embarrassing and dangerous to accuse him of riotous behaviour. He was an important man, a Member of the House of Commons, and plainly very wealthy. Such men were afforded more freedoms than a common man.
It is scandalous, she thought furiously, but she knew that she herself dared say nothing. She must smile and pretend compliance too, or fall into disgrace with her father.
