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“Don’t worry, Weezy,” Anthony replied. “I will see you home safely first, regardless of what follows. I’ll be back in a trice.”
Louisa was alone in the box.
Alone. It was the complete opposite of how she’d intended to spend the evening.
Feeling more than a bit disgruntled, she leaned forward so her elbow rested on the railing in front of her—not a ladylike thing to do, and her mother would be horrified if she were to see her right now—but Louisa didn’t particularly care at the moment.
She watched Anthony enter the gallery and join Alex and the others. He gestured up toward the Meltons’ box, and Alex and Kit and Phillip and the other young gentlemen all turned as one to look in her direction. Kit and Phillip waved, and Alex, the silly wretch, blew her a kiss.
She rolled her eyes and sat back.
Anthony hadn’t intended to go with them, but now he probably would, and Louisa should have expected it. The Osbourne estate bordered Ashworth Park, and they’d all grown up together. Alex and Kit had always been the two who seemed to find trouble wherever they went—and still did, for that matter.
Was William like those two? Was he the type of person trouble seemed to follow? Did he have a mistress like Baron Moseby did? She marveled that the baron had brought the woman to a public place like the theater. Perhaps if Louisa were to look around the theater again, she would be able to discern other gentlemen in attendance with their mistresses. And surely, still other gentleman of the ton kept their mistresses a secret.
Such things had never been discussed in Louisa’s presence.
But now she was to marry a total stranger, and she realized there were things she didn’t know and couldn’t understand about men, about marriage, about what to expect. She knew she would not enjoy being married to someone, even of the finest quality, if he were inclined toward such selfish indulgences. William had been right, she realized, when he’d told her she was extremely fortunate her parents’ marriage was a loving and faithful one, a fact about which she had no doubt and, until recently, had taken for granted.
There was a soft knock on the door of the box, plucking Louisa from her thoughts. The door opened, and Lord Kerridge entered, closing the door behind him. “Lady Louisa, I hope I’m not intruding,” he said.
The night needed only this.
“Lord Kerridge, this is not a good idea,” she said, even as she felt all the blood in her body congeal in her stomach.
“I will take only a moment of your time, and then I will leave. You have my assurance of this.”
“Very well,” she said. She glanced about the theater, at the gallery and the other boxes. Everyone seemed occupied with their own conversations, including her brothers and their friends. Plague Anthony for leaving her alone!
“Lady Louisa,” he said once she’d given permission for him to remain. “I have no wish to cause you any more scandal than your current betrothal already has, but I must speak to you.”
“Lord Kerridge—”
He held up his hand. “My apologies. That was an ungentlemanly thing for me to say. Allow me to start over: I observed that you are here tonight without your betrothed, and I realized it gave me an opportunity, perhaps a final one, to speak to you and assure myself that you have clearly thought the matter through.” The earl slid smoothly into the chair Anthony had been using. He was fitted out in his elegant evening wear, a burgundy waistcoat embroidered with gold thread contrasting with the black of his coat. The light from the theater sent shots of deep red through his chestnut hair. He was a handsome man, and right now, he was looking at her with grave concern, his brows low over his eyes, his mouth—a mouth she had kissed—curved downward.
“Lord Kerridge,” she repeated—she could no longer call him George—“I am grateful for your concern, truly. But—”
He laid gloved fingers over her lips, stopping her from speaking. “You must hear me out, and then I will go.” When he sensed that she would not speak, he removed his fingers and continued. “Your Viscount Farleigh has been absent from London and its society for several years. I can find few people who know him, really know him. In my estimation, it seems he has few acquaintances and even fewer friends. He is an utter unknown—except for the reputation of his pater, who was a walking scandal, as you well know. How do you know his son is not like him? I cannot imagine you in a match with such a man.”
“Lord Kerridge, you must cease speaking to me in such a way,” she said, trembling.
“Please, allow me to finish,” he said, drawing closer. “I have never, nor will I ever, offer marriage lightly to anyone. I have current and future responsibilities to consider and will marry only a lady I feel worthy to be a duchess—to be my duchess when the time arrives. You are the daughter of a marquess, your upbringing has been impeccable, and that makes you worthy. And so I ask you to end this sham of a betrothal, which is based solely upon other men’s follies. Marry me. I offer it to you once again.”
She gasped and fought to regain her composure. “You honor me, sir, but I cannot,” she said.
“Hush,” he said. He took her hand in his. “There is no need to answer me tonight. I only ask that you consider what I am saying and understand that there is another path you may take, another offer of marriage that is open to you. I admit I was angry when you broke our betrothal—”
“Oh—”
“But,” he interjected, “I have had the past week or so to think about what happened, and I am no longer angry—and even commend you for your courage and your willingness to do what you believe to be honorable. I forgive you. Tonight, the opportunity arose for me to have this private moment with you and to urge you toward caution and let you know that you have another choice. Cease this foolishness, Lady Louisa. The ton will soon forget you had this lapse in judgment.”
“What of Miss Hughes?” Louisa managed to ask.
He smiled. “Were you jealous, then? Miss Hughes is a delightful young lady, and I have enjoyed getting to know her. But regardless of her fine qualities, she is hardly suitable to be the wife of a future duke.” He turned serious again. “Very few young ladies are, you know. You are the rare exception.”
There was a noise outside the door, and he quickly arose, just before Lord and Lady Melton entered the box. “Good evening, Lady Melton, Lord Melton,” Lord Kerridge greeted them. He looked once again at Louisa. “Think on what I said.” He bowed to them and left.
Oh, Lord Kerridge should not have come into the box to speak to her. He should not. But she had given him permission. She had felt an obligation to listen to him and hear him out. He’d had time to think about things, he’d said. Louisa knew what it was like to be confronted with unexpected news—news that changed the course of one’s life. She knew it took time to sort through thoughts and feelings and come to some sort of conclusion. She had owed it to him.
She had not expected to hear what he’d said, however. And he had not allowed her to reply; he had left the offer open, unresolved. And he had forgiven her, he’d said, for her “lapse in judgment.”
She drew in a few breaths to steady herself. The normal Louisa would be pacing the corridors of the theater and wringing her hands and undoubtedly chattering unceasingly and nonsensically to whoever was nearby. But tonight, she was a guest of the Meltons, and she wouldn’t, for the world, do or say anything to distress them—or to divulge what Lord Kerridge had said.
She heard and saw nothing during the second half of the performance, so focused she was at keeping her emotions hidden from the others. Much like William always did.
What an illuminating thought.
