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“Do you know what…?” His question stalled, but she answered anyway.
“You’re aroused.”
Damn. Shedoes know!
“I am, too.”
Her admission was so soft, he wondered if he imagined it. “You are?”
“Frederick, I haven’t changed my mind about children. I never shall. But do you remember what I told you aboutcertain activities? I’ve never done them, but I want to. With you.”
He gripped the iron fencing fiercely, the shaped metal pressing through his gloves. Turning his head until their eyes met, he admitted, “I want that, too.”
“Have you ever been with a woman?”
“No. Have you ever been with a man?”
She shook her head. “Until very recently, I wouldn’t have believed it possible. Nor would I have believed myself willing to entertain an arrangement such as…the one I hope we will have.”
“What do you mean by arrangement?”
“I mean sharing a marriage bed.” She seemed to struggle for words. “Where we do wicked things to each other that aren’t wicked.”
They both laughed lightly, though his throat was tight. “I didn’t know any of this was possible, either. I’m grateful it is. But that doesn’t make it acceptable for me to go in to the concert like this.” He looked down his front meaningfully. “I’d need a third ticket for this!” He was glad when she laughed.
“Tell me about the Hanover Square Rooms. Lady Clara said that the most famous musicians and composers have been here.”
He swallowed, wishing he could adjust himself in his drawers but appreciating her attempt at distraction. “Indeed. Johann Christian Bach—the eighteenth child of Johann Sebastian—“
“Eighteenth!” Molly breathed.
Undoubtedly she was thinking of Frau Bach, and he wondered if it would reassure her to know that there had been more than one. He stilled his tongue, not remembering whether the first Frau Bach had died in childbirth. Nor could he recall the precise number of children who survived to adulthood, but he knew it was a fraction.
“Yes, he was the eighteenth born. He moved to England and helped establish these very concert rooms.”
“How many times have you attended concerts here?”
Minutes later, he finished recounting his detailed impressions of a performance by Hector Berlioz a few years earlier.
His trousers fitting properly now, he faced her, feeling relieved. “That worked quite effectively.”
Molly’s smile was shy after all her directness earlier. “I’m glad. Well, not entirely. But I know we must go in.” She looked over at the columned entrance, her hand covering the base of her throat. “Do you suppose I’ll stand out too much?”
“Stand out?”
“I’m but a maid. In this gown, they could accuse me of trying to pass as a lady.”
He didn’t so much as glance at the bejeweled women entering the building. “I don’t know what anyone else will think,” he answered honestly. “But their opinions are of no import to me. I’m proud to be here with you, Molly.” He winked. “And don’t forget, we’re here on important music library matters.”
His jest worked as he hoped; she relaxed, and he offered his elbow. As soon as her hand lay on his arm, he placed his own hand over hers and squeezed three times.
********
For all her time in Lady Clara’s Mayfair townhouse and the Robertsons’ Belgravia mansion, the ornate concert room was an impressive feast for Molly’s eyes, one she couldn’t help but indulge discreetly. None of the other patrons seemed affected, and she had spied no one else taking in the paintings on the ceiling panels high above them.
Eight massive chandeliers sparkled over their heads. Molly wore no jewelry at all, she possessed none; the gemstones and gold on the ears, throats, and wrists of all the other women twinkled in the candlelight.
Frederick sat next to her, his legs so long that his knees nearly reached the gleaming wood of the bench in front of them. Sensing his attention on her, she turned discreetly. As if warmed by his gaze, a flush crept up her décolletage as he took in her bared shoulders and close-fitting silk bodice.
