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She spent the rest of the afternoon going over the correspondence and invitations she had ignored for over a month. The stack was nearly a foot high. Anyone who was anyone in the ton hoped for the Marchioness of Waverly to attend their events. With her patronage and stamp of approval, they were practically guaranteed instant success over the season.
But between thoughts of Ara and scandalous reiterations of their night together, Margot could barely concentrate. Instead of running to Covent Garden like a desperately besotted chit, she took a walk in the small gardens of her residence and then a long, leisurely bath to resettle her nerves. Margot would have much preferred to spend a night in than go to the opera, but she had a role to fulfill.
The Royal Opera was crowded with the opening of a brand new performance, and as Margot made the way to her private box, she was greeted by no less than a dozen people in the foyer and surrounded by those hoping for introductions. She was gracious as always, but for some reason, the pretense started to grate on her nerves. None of these people cared about her…they only cared about what she could do for them. Such was the currency of influence.
And a part of her couldn’t stop thinking about how easy it would be to slip away and go to Ara whose apartments were a stone’s throw away. She had to be back by now, shouldn’t she? And if so, why hadn’t she contacted Margot? Had she changed her mind? Met someone else? Contempt for her own weakness bloomed on the heels of her qualms.
Oh stop, you are being absurd.
Steeling herself, Margot inhaled briskly and sank into the guise of the marchioness. Power was just as quickly lost as it was gained in these circles, and while Margot no longer needed to insulate herself against her husband, there was still Percy to think about. In a few years, he would be expected to make an excellent match, and such excellence required focus, fortitude, and an absence of scandal. Mothers would be salivating to present their daughters to the young marquess with a very influential mother.
Her box was situated adjacent to Honoria’s, though unlike hers, which only she and Percy used on occasion, the countess’s box was as always crowded with a hodge-podge of people from aristocratic circles to the demimonde. Insofar as Margot toed the line of propriety, Honoria scorned it at every turn. Truly, it was a wonder they were as good friends as they were, but perhaps Margot admired Honoria’s honesty when it came to being herself. To say that Honoria relished flaunting her less formal connections to the ton was an understatement.
Case in point, Margot immediately recognized a famous Italian ballerina who had notorious lovers in the ton, several well-known actors, as well as a popular playwright and novelist she’d met before, Mr. Wilde, and his much younger friend and purported lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, known to all as Bosie. The Marquess of Queensberry, Bosie’s father, had been a close friend of her late husband’s. No surprise considering how similar in temperament both men had been—volatile and vicious. At least Queensberry’s former wife Sybil had had the wherewithal to divorce him a handful of years ago for adultery.
If only Margot had been so lucky.
After blowing a kiss to Honoria holding court in her own box, Margot took a seat and scanned the packed hall. Opening nights were always well attended and tonight was no exception. Almost every single seat was taken, and every box filled. There was a small commotion next door as someone else arrived, and greetings began anew, but Margot did not turn. Honoria’s box never lacked for company.
“Miss Vaughn, glad you could make it on such short notice,” Honoria trilled and Margot froze, her entire body heating and chilling at the name. Honoria went on to make the introductions and then gave a small laugh. “And of course, you’ve met Lady Waverly, who is just over there.”
Margot canted her head, keeping her face vigilantly composed. In a place like this, people were always watching like hawks and waiting for the smallest spatter of gossip. “Miss Vaughn,” she greeted politely.
Amber eyes bored into hers, a tiny frown settling between Ara’s eyebrows, and Margot flinched at the confusion she saw in that transparent gaze. Guilt sluiced through her. Surely Ara would understand that she could not be as cavalier as Honoria, at least not in such a public venue. She had a reputation to maintain.
“How are you, Lady Waverly?” Ara asked softly.
“Well, thank you.” Margot turned away before her eyes could give away the storm of emotions erupting in her belly. Ara was dressed in an emerald gown that made her irises gleam gold. Tendrils of bronze hair curled into her temples as if in defiance of the pins attempting to hold the wayward curls in place. Margot’s fingers itched to bury themselves into the silken mass and she clenched them tightly in her lap.
“Perhaps you should join Lady Waverly, Miss Vaughn,” Honoria suggested, devilry in her tone. “Since you’re already acquainted, and she has so many free seats.”
“Alas, Percival and his friends will be joining me shortly,” Margot said quickly, nipping that in the bud. “Do enjoy the show, Miss Vaughn.”
Honoria’s green eyes widened with surprise and not a little disappointment, but Margot pushed her friend’s judgment from her mind. She dared not look at Ara, sensing the waves of hurt and bitterness emanating from her. She’d find a way to make it up to her later.
But as the curtains on the stage rose, and the play began, it was almost impossible to concentrate with Ara’s eyes boring into her. Even when Percy arrived, fashionably late as usual, her body felt restless and on edge.
Before intermission, she sensed, rather than saw, when Ara stood and slipped out of Honoria’s box.
“Excuse me,” Margot mumbled and rushed into the corridor in a fit of dismay and desperation, searching for a flash of those emerald-green skirts. Had Ara gone left or right? Chasing the faintest hint of vanilla in the air, Margot went right. But when she rounded the nearest bend, there was no one there.
Suddenly, a hand darted out from a hidden alcove and dragged her into the shadowy space. “Goodness, what on—”
A warm, furious female body pressed her up against the wall, cutting off her breathless words, and that heady scent of toasted vanilla filled her nostrils. “Am I not blue-blooded enough for you, my lady?” Ara asked, palms dragging up handfuls of Margot’s hem. Her core clenched on air as those hands delved beneath silk and lace, and climbed. “Am I only good enough for one thing? To paint your portrait and to bring you pleasure where no one else can see?”
“N…no,” Margot gasped, but words failed her when slender fingers unerringly found the slit in her drawers and hovered over her damp sex. She’d been wet the minute Ara had arrived.
“Shall I touch you here?” Ara whispered.
“Yes,” she gasped. Ara’s teeth teased her earlobe, a fingertip penetrating her entrance before curling wickedly in a come-hither motion that made Margot’s core clench with desire. Desperate for depth, for friction, for anything, she mindlessly shuttled her hips forward. “Please.”
“Please what? Is this what you want me for, Lady Waverly?” Ara’s voice was guttural, hurt and fury saturating her words as two fingers sank into her drenched core. “To be polite and impersonal in public, but fuck you until you can’t walk in private?”
Margot’s eyes rolled back at Ara’s crass words, more liquid warmth flooding her folds. Her hands scrabbled at Ara’s shoulders, her knees barely holding her up. She was already so soaked just from Ara’s presence that her body offered no resistance when she withdrew and added another finger. They both groaned at the snug fit that toyed with just this side of pain.
“God, Ara,” Margot said on a strangled sob.
“No Miss Vaughn when my fingers are buried knuckle-deep inside of you?” she hissed and covered her lips in a rough open-mouthed kiss that was much too short for Margot’s liking. “Fuck, you’re so wet for me. Were you sitting there in that box imagining my mouth on you? Imagining my tongue inside you? No, don’t bother to answer. I know.”
