Page 63 of Cold November Rake

Temperance tried to draw her hand back, but he tightened his grip.

"Everly." Sutton's voice came from just behind her, flat and cold. An arm slid around her waist, and her hand slipped free of his cousin's grasp, tucked against Sutton's chest. "Gentlemen."

He bowed toward the men, and without another word, steered her up the stairs and back into their box.

"That was a little rude," Temperance said, "though I am grateful for the reprieve."

"Cannot stand that man," Sutton whispered as he helped her into her seat and settled next to her.

They were occupying the first row of the box, the one with the clearest sightlines from the other boxes and the pit. Seen by everyone. Just as the duchess had planned it.

Sutton's parents and the Tyrones joined them shortly, just as the overture ended and the curtain rose.

A beautiful woman walked onto the middle of the stage like a nymph floating over water.

Dark hair pinned high at the crown, a silver gown hugging her curves, the woman was perhaps the most ethereal being Temperance had ever seen.

A hush fell over the theater, everyone catching their breath.

Marie.

Of course, this was Marie.

Then she started to sing, and Temperance didn't know whether to laugh or cry at her misfortune.

Marie had one of the most angelic voices she'd ever heard.

Couldn't she have had a flaw?

An unflattering gown, a hair out of place, a screeching voice.

Anything.

Temperance turned her head to see her husband's reaction to his lover.

He was not looking at the stage, however. Instead, he was watching her.

She raised her brows in surprise, and he simply smiled, took her hand, and squeezed her fingers in reassurance.

Then he looked out into the crowd, and the duchess's words came back to her: Touch her, look at her, laugh at her jokes. He was doing exactly as he had been told.

Chairs scraped behind them. She glanced back to see the Duke and Duchess of Hardwicke rising.

"We are going tae pay our respects tae some o' our friends," the duchess announced in a murmur. Then she leaned close to Temperance's ear and dropped her voice to a whisper. "Give them something tae talk about, child."

Then they were gone.

The Duke and Duchess of Tyrone also stood. Tyrone's hand was around Emily's waist; he was holding her close, too close to his own body, as if hiding himself behind her.

"Yes, we too shall pay um... respects," Tyrone said.

They disappeared behind the curtain, Emily's giggle trailing behind them.

Temperance was left with her husband and an aria she could not escape.

Across the house, glasses had turned, not toward the stage, but toward the Hardwicke box, toward the countess whose husband's mistress was being worshipped by half of London, and who, they no doubt hoped, would either weep or flee.

Pity, she thought. I am supposed to look at them with pity.