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Chapter 11
Every sound around him was being drowned by the pounding of his heart, and Matthew could feel the edges of his vision darkening. All the while, a voice in the murky caverns of his mind was calling for him to leave before he was transported back into the field where his nightmares began.
Restless and on the brink of helplessness, Matthew braced his feet on the floor and started leaning forward to rise. At that moment, a hand gently tightened on his. He swiftly turned to his right to find Diana looking up at him. She laced her fingers through his and smiled. Seeking solace in her light blue eyes and remembering the summer sky, he held onto her hand and breathed. The air returned to his lungs and his racing heat slowed.
He did not know if it was her presence or her touch that did it, but he was able to calm quicker than before, and he decided to remain in his seat but not watch the performance.
Appreciative, he raised her hand to kiss it but found she had removed her glove. He smiled and pressed his lips to her warm skin, breathing in her sweet scent. He lowered her hand and removed one of his gloves before finding her hand again, glad the theater was dark. Their fingers slowly danced and gracefully caressed, their harmony sensual and gratifying.
He leaned closer to her and whispered, “How did you know?”
“You were squeezing the life out of my hand,” she giggled softly, and it was only then he realized he had held onto her first.
Matthew had been embarrassed whenever he felt such panic, especially around his servants, because he felt weak and afraid. But he had learned that it was beyond his control, and found ways with Glover’s help to manage it. Diana’s calming presence might have prevented him from feeling embarrassed now.
His fingers caressed her soft palm and traced a line up the inside of her arm, and he felt her shift in her seat, leaning slightly toward him. His blood rushed violently in his veins, filling and hardening his groin. He wanted to fight the urge to continue stroking her arm but he was powerless against her allure.
“The fighting has stopped,” she whispered, and he raised his eyes to the stage to see a woman singing in a garden, pining for her lost lover.
“Are you enjoying the play?” he asked.
“It has only begun,” she replied honestly.
He smiled and watched her. When the scene changed and a ghost appeared, her eyes lit with excitement, which reminded him of Dee’s love for Horace Walpole’sThe Castle of Otranto. As the mystery and apparitions in the show increased, so did her excitement.
Matthew turned to Florence to see if he could find the same measure of delight he had seen in Diana’s eyes. She looked bored, and he was struck by it. “Is the play not to your liking?” he asked.
“It is honestly ridiculous, Matthew,” she replied. “Can you imagine she is falling in love with her lover’s ghost?”
He had been thinking that Dee had changed quite a bit since she last wrote to him. Now he was convinced of it, and perhaps one of the reasons he was reluctant to court her was because he could no longer see the woman he once saw in her.
“What sort of play would amuse you?” he asked. Knowing more about both Diana and Florence would help him answer the question he had been asking himself all week.
“Romeo and Juliet,” she answered. “Perhaps we should see that some time. Together.”
“Perhaps we should,” he answered impassively. When Diana’s hand moved in his, he realized he was still holding it, and the entirety of her attention was on the stage. The desire to enfold her in his arms and kiss her returned, and he was forced to release her hand before he did something improper.
During the intermission, Diana excused herself, and he immediately felt bereft. When she did not return after several minutes, he decided to find her. She had a habit of running away at gatherings, and he wanted to ensure she was safe. After all, there were all manner of people walking about in a theater like this.
“Please excuse me,” he said to the others and stood. “I will return shortly.”
Diana walked down a dimly lit hallway, peeking into every open doorway to find a room where she could compose herself in. Matthew caressing her arm and holding her hand for a long while had ensured she was as breathless as could be, and she was feeling conflicted all over again.
She found an empty room filled with theatrical properties and entered, sighing. There was a chair near a suit of armor and she went to sit on it, her eyes slowly moving around the room. The little devil on her shoulder was advising her to spend every moment she could with Matthew, but the angel countered it, and she listened.
Crawford’s return to her life had made matters more difficult for her, and she was unable to predict his actions. He had barely spoken to her this evening, and although she was glad, she was also nervous at not knowing his next move. Predictably, her aunt had been angry with her for running away instead of walking with him, and she supposed he was angry, too. But she knew he could not threaten her in front of a crowd, or he would lose all his leverage.
Footfalls sounded outside the room and she did not pay them any mind until she saw a shadow in the doorway. Her insides tightened and she shot to her feet. However, her fear dissolved when she saw Matthew walk in.
“This makes a decent hiding place,” he observed, glancing around the theatrical properties. “Have you always been in the habit of running away like the cinder girl in the stories?”
Her rigid shoulders relaxed, and she smiled at him. “Did you find my glass slipper?”
Grinning, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a long satin glove. “No, but I found your glove. You left it on your seat.”
Diana laughed. She had removed it earlier to calm him when she saw how disturbed he was by the opening scene. She had never seen anyone relive the horrors of war but she thought that if she could touch him with her bare hands and have him feel her warmth, he would be pulled back to the present quicker.
He came to stand in front of her, so incredibly handsome and strong, and she remembered the wound Abigail had told her he had sustained. Perhaps the wound was not only on his body but on his mind. Perhaps he was still being tormented by the memories of what he had seen and fought.
