Page 18 of His Illegitimate Duchess
W hen they went to Covent Garden a week later, Elizabeth dared hope that she might enjoy her evening, despite having started her courses the night before.
She discreetly readjusted her belt before exiting the carriage and prayed that the play being performed tonight was better than the one and only opera she’d seen.
Lady Burnham had told her that the play, The Distrest Mother, was a tragedy, and that Lizzie shouldn’t have trouble following the plot since it was entirely in English.
Lady Burnham always strived to make her feel better about her intellectual inadequacies, but Elizabeth liked honesty and calling things by their proper name.
“As for the details, my dear, I shall keep them to myself this time, for it is sometimes more enjoyable to be surprised,” she’d said.
Lizzie doubted it but said nothing.
Enjoyment, however, was nowhere to be found. The subject matter of the play only served to upset Elizabeth: widows, grief, fatherless sons, unrequited love – she could hardly make up her mind as to which one was worse. Still, she found herself being gradually drawn in by the performance.
Unfortunately, Aunt Isolde kept talking throughout it, gossiping over who was in attendance, who was sitting in whose box, who was rumoured not to have been able to afford a box that year, and which couples were practically engaged since they were sitting next to each other.
Elizabeth nodded and concurred in all the right places, and was immensely relieved when it was time for the interval.
“Lady Isolde, Lady Elizabeth, good evening,” a familiar man greeted them when they emerged from their box.
“Marquess Radcliffe!” The older woman curtsied enthusiastically. “How lovely to see you!”
Elizabeth also curtsied and gave him a sincere smile. “Good evening. I hope you are well.”
They both got a bow in response.
“I’ve been tasked with escorting you into our box if you’re so inclined. Lady Isabella has been most adamant.”
Adamant was a good word to describe Sophie’s younger sister. Elizabeth was very fond of both her and their third sister, Violet, who was Marquess Radcliffe’s wife.
“We’d love to!” she exclaimed, feeling fortified and warmed by Sophie’s sisters’ kindness, and secretly hoping she wouldn’t have to spend the rest of the evening in the company of just her aunt.
Walking through the crowd accompanied by a towering, frowning marquess probably put a more pleasant look on some of the faces they encountered, although a few still shot suspicious (and even disapproving) looks at Elizabeth, whose mere presence in their space seemed to be offensive to them.
When she had observed herself in the looking glass before she’d left the house, Elizabeth had been mightily pleased with the way her celestial blue gown brightened her complexion.
She’d initially been uncertain about the colour, since it failed to create the same pleasant contrast with her hair as, for instance, her jonquil debut gown had, but now she imagined herself glowing like one of the lighthouses Thomas had written to his parents about, strong and immovable against the waves assailing it, and so she walked on with her head held high.
After a round of animated and exuberant greetings, Lady Isabella insisted that they remain in their box for the second part of the play, which both Elizabeth and Isolde eagerly accepted.
Elizabeth was amused by the idea that neither one of them particularly enjoyed the other’s company, and yet they were forced to attend almost all events together.
Fortunately, Lady Violet seemed to possess all the patience in the world and kept her aunt entertained and engaged in conversation, so Elizabeth was finally able to fully immerse herself in the performance. For a while, at least.
Just as Andromache decided to enter into a marriage solely for her son’s sake, and Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat, Lady Isabella leaned over and whispered, “Oh my, would you look at who is sitting in Lady Helena’s box?”
It took Elizabeth several moments to tear her eyes from the stage and locate the box in question.
Behind a regal-looking Lady Helena, she saw the familiar tall form of Duke Talbot.
He was leaning forward to whisper something into her hair, and Lizzie imagined the other woman being surrounded by his heady perfume.
She wondered whether Lady Helena was affected by it.
She rubbed her arms to warm them since they were suddenly covered in goose-flesh.
“Is that unusual for him?” she asked, genuinely curious.
“He is usually very careful not to give ladies any reason to misinterpret his intentions. He dances at balls to be polite, but he never dances with the same lady twice, nor does he accompany them anywhere without his friends.”
“Well, perhaps Lady Helena has managed what others before her haven’t.” Elizabeth shrugged.
“To be honest, I cannot stand her. However, one must admit that she is very handsome, isn’t she?” Isabella said appreciatively, and Elizabeth nodded her agreement. “And while Talbot isn’t the most good-looking or most pleasant man, he is a duke,” Isabella added.
Elizabeth frowned and looked at Lady Helena’s box again.
Talbot was tall and strong-looking, with wide shoulders and thick arms, the likes of which she rarely observed among the refined men of her brother’s world.
His jaw was perhaps too wide and square to be considered conventionally attractive, but she felt he had a very intelligent brow that sort of made up for it.
She remembered seeing that his front teeth had a slight gap between them when she danced with him.
His hair was thick and dark and seemed to disagree on the directions of its growth, but he, or rather, his valet, managed to smooth it into obedience somehow.
That struck Elizabeth as true of Talbot – he willed things into submitting to him, into going his way.
“No, I don’t think he strives to be pleasant,” she said with a smile.
“It must be said that he is unfailingly polite, but I’ve always gotten the sense that his politeness and manners just cover up a rotten core,” Isabella said vehemently.
Elizabeth had never heard her talk of anyone in such a manner and was surprised. She then remembered Sophie’s iciness in Talbot’s presence and concluded that there had to be a good reason for their dislike of him.
Despite that logical conclusion, Lizzie briefly had the irrational urge to defend him, although she quickly talked herself out of it.
You’ve only danced with the man twice, why are you feeling protective of him? Why do you think you, of all people, know that his core isn’t rotten? Lady Isabella is most likely right.
“They seem the perfect match then, don’t they?” she said, a bit maliciously, feeling the need to at least insult Lady Helena if she couldn’t defend the duke.
“That they do,” Isabella smiled, and they both turned back to the bloodbath on the stage.