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Blake narrowed his eyes in thought. “How long had you been in France before you received the letter?”
Townsend gave a shrug. “About two years. In fact, the letter about your father’s passing reached me at the same time I received the news of your disappearance. I was quite in shock, to say the least.”
“I don’t think I knew that,” Blake grumbled and turned away.
If that was true, and Townsend had been on the Continent when Blake had disappeared, it was unlikely he was the one to orchestrate the capture. Miles away, without up-to-date knowledge of either Blake or his father’s whereabouts, it wasn’t the perfect position for the nefarious plans. More importantly, he didn’t seem happy about having to return to England and look after failing estates when he was just making a name for himself as an artist.
The conversation continued flowing about him until Lady Olivia—who’d sat picking at her gloves all this time and not participating in the conversation—pointed at the stage with her fan in delighted glee. “Oh, look, the curtain is opening!” She stood and started clapping.
Everyone’s attention turned back to the stage, and Blake was glad.
He didn’t want to converse about the House of Lords. And he didn’t want to think about his disappearance anymore. He would think about it when he got home. For now, he could resume silently feasting his eyes on his wife.
* * *
Blake kept staring at her. Annalise felt his gaze burn through her to the bone. Her skin on the left side felt like it was on fire.
Why was he looking at her? She peeked at him through her lashes and caught his gaze. He winked at her, not at all embarrassed at being caught watching her so. Annalise returned her gaze to the stage but could no longer concentrate on the play.
Blake leaned in closer, his breath moving the wisps of hair at the nape of her neck. “You look exquisite,” he said in a low, seductive voice that sent shivers down her spine.
“Would you watch the show?” she whispered back, not breaking her gaze from the stage.
“No,” he said firmly, unapologetically. “I’d rather be watching you.”
Annalise’s cheeks caught fire, and she fanned her face, trying to cool them.
“Why didn’t you wear the necklace I bought you?” he asked thoughtfully.
“It was too grand to wear to a simple theater outing. I believe a piece of jewelry like that requires a proper outing, like a queen’s ball or—or a duke’s wedding.” She grimaced as she said the last. She didn’t mean to insinuate anything by it, but she knew Blake’s mind would jump straight to Kensington.
“I see,” he said, his voice unfathomable. “Just as well; I like seeing your bare neck.”
“Would you stop that?” she hissed between her teeth and finally turned to look at him.
Blake’s eyes were glinting with mischief. A joyous smile played about his lips. He looked so young and carefree, the same Blake she had fallen in love with. Annalise couldn’t hold back her own smile. His gaze dropped to her lips then and grew more intense, his eyes darkening. Annalise’s breath started coming out in short gasps. Her heartbeat accelerated, and she felt a strange tingly feeling down low in her belly.
“Watch the show,” Blake said in a hoarse whisper, returning his gaze to her eyes.
He winked at her, and Annalise shook her head before doing as he asked and turning back to the stage.
No matter what she did, though, she was not able to concentrate on the play unraveling before her eyes. Actors were moving across the stage, proclaiming their love, crying their outrage in dramatic tones, and all Annalise could think about was that intense look in Blake’s eyes.
The left side of her body tingled with awareness of him, and she had trouble sitting still. As if feeling the same way, Blake shifted in his seat. He leaned closer to her as if to peer at something in the auditorium below, and the fabric of his coat brushed against the already sensitive skin of her arm. Annalise closed her eyes, marveling at the sensation. Blake shifted again, and now his hand brushed against her gloved forearm.
Annalise opened her eyes and looked at him. Blake was watching the stage now, with rapt attention, his gaze intent, his mouth slightly open as if mesmerized by the play. His hand, however, still hovered over her arm. He ran his fingers slowly, lightly down her arm until he encountered her hand. He started drawing tiny circles on the back of her hand with feather-light touches. The action caused heat to course all through her body.
Annalise turned her hand palm up and caught his fingers, unable to take this sensual torture anymore. She heard a slight snort from his side and threw him a sideways glance.
Her husband, still not taking his attention from the stage, quirked his lips in a quick smile. He moved his hand and threaded his fingers with hers, his thumb running back and forth over hers. Annalise took a deep breath.
Somehow, this simple action, threading their fingers, made her feel content. She didn’t feel like fidgeting anymore; she didn’t feel the butterflies in her stomach. She felt as though the world had righted itself, and now, she was finally where she was supposed to be. She was home.
Suddenly, the audience erupted in cheers and applause. The box occupants jumped to their feet in excitement. Annalise instinctively dropped Blake’s hand and stood, clapping and faking excitement when inside her, panic took hold where contentment existed just a moment ago.
A smile and a touch. Was that really all it took for Annalise to forget all the misery Blake had put her through? Was she really that naïve to simply forgive and move on, as if none of that had happened?
A footman entered their box and handed Blake a note. He opened it, and even though he held it closed in his hand, Annalise managed to see the writing.
It was written in a woman’s hand. Just one word:Come.
