The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown (Lady W 1) (37 page)

He smiled enigmatically. “I can’t decide whether to be complimented or insulted.”

“In situations such as these,” Susannah said, surprised she felt so comfortable talking with him, “you should always decide to be complimented. One leads a much simpler and happier life that way.”

He laughed aloud before asking, “And what about you? Which of the bard’s plays do you prefer?”

She sighed happily. “I adore them all.”

“Really?” he asked, and she was surprised to hear true interest in his voice. “I had no idea you loved the theater so.”

Susannah eyed him curiously, cocking her head to the side. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have been aware of my interest one way or another.”

“That is true,” he acceded, “but Clive doesn’t care much for theater.”

She felt her spine stiffen slightly. “Clive and I never shared
all
of our interests.”

“Obviously not,” he said, and she thought she might have even heard a touch of approval in his voice.

And then—and she didn’t know why she said this to him, Clive’s
brother
, for heaven’s sake—she said, “He
talks
incessantly.”

The earl appeared to choke on his tongue.

“Are you unwell?” Susannah asked, leaning forward with a concerned expression.

“Fine,” the earl gasped, actually patting himself on the chest. “You merely…ah…startled me.”

“Oh. I apologize.”

“Don’t,” he assured her. “I’ve always made it a point not to attend the theater with Clive.”

“It’s difficult for the players to get a word in edgewise,” Susannah agreed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

He sighed. “To this day, I don’t know what happened at the end of
Romeo and Juliet
.”

She gasped. “You d—oh, you’re bamming me.”

“They lived happily ever after, didn’t they?” he asked, his eyes all innocence.

“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling wickedly. “It’s quite an uplifting story.”

“Excellent,” he said, settling back in his seat as he focused his eyes on the stage. “It’s good to finally get that cleared up.”

Susannah couldn’t help herself. She giggled. How strange that the Earl of Renminster actually had a sense of humor. Clive had always said that his brother was the most “bloody awful serious” man in all England. Susannah had never had any reason to doubt his assessment, especially when he’d actually used the word “bloody” in front of a lady. A gentleman generally didn’t unless he was quite serious about his statement.

Just then the house lights began to dim, plunging the theatergoers into darkness. “Oh!” Susannah breathed, leaning forward. “Did you see that?” she asked excitedly, turning to the earl. “How brilliant! They’re only leaving the lights on the stage.”

“It’s one of Wyatt’s new innovations,” he replied, referring to the architect who had recently renovated the fire-stricken theater. “It makes it easier to see the stage, don’t you think?”

“It’s brilliant,” Susannah said, scooting toward the edge of her seat so that she could see past the pillar that was blocking her view. “It’s—”

And then the play began, and she was rendered completely speechless.

From his position in the box next to her, David found himself watching Susannah more often than the play. He’d seen
The Merchant of Venice
on several occasions, and even though he was dimly aware that Edmund Kean’s Shylock was a truly remarkable performance, it couldn’t quite compare with the glow in Susannah Ballister’s dark eyes as she watched the stage.

He would have to come back and view the play again the following week, he decided. Because tonight he was watching Susannah.

Why was it, he wondered, that he’d been so opposed to her marrying his brother? No, that wasn’t entirely accurate. He hadn’t been entirely opposed to it. He’d not lied to her when he’d said that he would not have objected to their marriage if Clive had settled on her rather than Harriet.

But he hadn’t wanted it. He’d seen his brother with Susannah and somehow it had seemed wrong.

Susannah was fire and intelligence and beauty, and Clive was…

Well, Clive was Clive. David loved him, but Clive’s heart was ruled by a devil-may-care urgency that David had never really understood. Clive was like a brightly burning candle. People were drawn to him, like the proverbial moths to flame, but inevitably, someone came away burned.

Someone like Susannah.

Susannah would have been all wrong for Clive. And perhaps even moreso, Clive would have been wrong for her. Susannah needed someone else. Someone more mature. Someone like…

David’s thoughts were like a whisper across his soul. Susannah needed someone like
him
.

The beginnings of an idea began to form in his mind. David wasn’t the sort to take rash action, but he made decisions quickly, based on both what he knew and what he felt.

And as he sat there in the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, ignoring the actors on the stage in favor of the woman seated in the box across from his, he made a rather significant decision.

He was going to marry Susannah Ballister.

Susannah Ballister—no, Susannah Mann-Formsby, Countess of Renminster. The rightness of it seemed to sing through him.

She would make an excellent countess. She was beautiful, intelligent, principled, and proud. He didn’t know why he hadn’t realized all of this before—probably because he’d only ever met her in the company of Clive, and Clive tended to overshadow anyone in his presence.

David had spent the last several years keeping one eye open for a potential bride. He hadn’t been in a hurry to marry, but he knew that he would have to take a wife eventually, and so every unmarried woman he’d met had been mentally inventoried and assessed.

And all had come up wanting.

They’d been too silly or too dull. Too quiet or too loud. Or if they weren’t too something, they were not enough something.

Not right. Not someone he could imagine himself staring at over the breakfast table for years to come.

He was a picky man, but now, as he smiled to himself in the darkness, it seemed that the wait had most definitely been worthwhile.

David stole another glance at Susannah’s profile. He doubted she even noticed that he was watching her, so engrossed was she by the production. Every now and then her lips would part with a soft, involuntary “Oh,” and even though he knew it was beyond fanciful, he could swear that he felt her breath travel through the air, landing lightly on his skin.

David felt his body tighten. It had never occurred to him that he might actually be lucky enough to find himself a wife he found desirable. What a boon.

Susannah’s tongue darted out to wet her lips.

Extremely desirable.

He sat back, unable to stop the satisfied smile that crept across his features. He had made a decision; now all he needed to do was formulate a plan.

When the house lights rose after the third act to mark the intermission, Susannah instantly looked to the box next to her, absurdly eager to ask the earl what he thought of the play thus far.

But he was gone.

“How odd,” she murmured to herself. He must have crept out quietly; she had not noticed his departure in the least. She felt herself slouch slightly in her seat, oddly disappointed that he’d disappeared. She’d been looking forward to asking his opinion of Kean’s performance, which was quite unlike any Shylock she’d seen before. She’d been certain that he would have something valuable to say, something that perhaps she herself had not noticed. Clive had never wanted to do anything during intermissions other than escape to the mezzanine where he might chat with his friends.

Still, it was probably for the best that the earl was gone. Despite his friendly behavior before the performance, it was still difficult to believe that he was amiably disposed toward her.

And besides, when he was near, she felt rather…odd. Strange, and breathless, somehow. It was exciting, but not quite comfortable, and it left her uneasy.

So when Lady Shelbourne asked if she wanted to accompany the rest of the party to the mezzanine to enjoy the intermission, Susannah thanked her but graciously declined. It was definitely in her best interest to stay put, remaining right there in the one place the Earl of Renminster most certainly was not.

The Shelbournes filed out, along with their guests, leaving Susannah to her own company, which she didn’t mind in the least. The stagehands had accidentally left the curtain slightly open, and if Susannah squinted, she could see flashes of people scurrying around. It was strangely exciting and all rather interesting, and—

She heard a sound from behind her. Someone in the Shelbourne party must have forgotten something. Affixing a smile to her face, Susannah turned around, “Good eve—”

It was the earl.

“Good evening,” he said, when it became apparent that she was not going to finish the greeting herself.

“My lord,” she said, her surprise evident in her voice.

He nodded graciously. “Miss Ballister. May I sit?”

“Of course,” she said, rather automatically. Good heavens, why was he here?

“I thought it might be easier to converse without having to yell between the boxes,” he said.

Susannah just stared at him in disbelief. They hadn’t had to yell at all. The boxes were terribly close. But, she realized somewhat frantically, not nearly as close as their chairs now were. The earl’s thigh was nearly pressed up next to hers.

It shouldn’t have been bothersome, since Lord Durham had occupied the same chair for well over an hour, and his thigh hadn’t vexed her in the least.

But it was different with Lord Renminster. Everything was different with Lord Renminster, Susannah was coming to realize.

“Are you enjoying the play?” he asked her.

“Oh indeed,” she said. “Kean’s performance was nothing short of remarkable, wouldn’t you agree?”

He nodded and murmured his agreement.

“I would never have expected Shylock to be portrayed in such a tragic manner,” Susannah continued. “I’ve seen
The Merchant of Venice
several times before, of course, as I’m sure you have, too, and he has always been a more comic sort, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It does make for an interesting interpretation.”

Susannah nodded enthusiastically. “I thought the black wig was a stroke of genius. Every other Shylock I’ve seen was played with a red wig. And how could Kean expect us to view him as a tragic character with a red wig? No one takes red-haired men seriously.”

The earl began to cough uncontrollably.

Susannah leaned forward, hoping she hadn’t somehow insulted him. With his dark hair, she hadn’t thought he could possibly take offense.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, catching his breath.

“Is something amiss?”

“Nothing,” he assured her. “Merely that your rather astute observation caught me off guard.”

“I am not trying to say that red-haired men are less worthy than the rest of you,” she said.

“Except us of the clearly superior dark-headed variety,” he murmured, his lips creeping into a devilish smile.

She pursed her lips to stop herself from smiling back. It was so
odd
that he could draw her into a secret, shared moment—the sort that would develop into a private joke. “What I was trying to say,” she said, attempting to get back to the matter at hand, “is that one never reads about men with red hair in novels, does one?”

“Not the novels I read,” he assured her.

Susannah shot him a vaguely peeved expression. “Or if one does,” she continued, “he is never the hero of the tale.”

The earl leaned toward her, his green eyes sparkling with wicked promise. “And who is the hero of
your
tale, Miss Ballister?”

“I haven’t a hero,” she said primly. “I should think that was obvious.”

He held silent for a moment, regarding her thoughtfully. “You should,” he murmured.

Susannah felt her lips part, even felt her breath rushing across them as his words landed softly on her ears. “I’m sorry?” she finally asked, not entirely certain what he meant.

Or maybe she
was
certain, and she just couldn’t believe it.

He smiled slightly. “A woman like you should have a hero,” he said. “A champion, perhaps.”

She looked at him with arched brows. “Are you saying I should be married?”

Again that smile. The knowing curve of his lips, as if he had a devilishly good secret. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Susannah said, “that this conversation is veering into astonishingly personal waters.”

He laughed at that, but it was a warm, amused sound, completely lacking in the malice that so often tinged the laughter of the
ton
. “I rescind my earlier statement,” he said with a broad smile. “You don’t need a champion. You are clearly able to take care of yourself quite well.”

Susannah narrowed her eyes.

“Yes,” he said, “it was a compliment.”

“With you one always has to check,” she remarked.

“Oh, come now, Miss Ballister,” he said. “You wound me.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Please,” she said, grinning all the while. “Your armor is quite up to the task against any verbal blow I might strike.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” he said, so softly that she wasn’t certain she’d heard him correctly.

And then she had to ask—“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” she said, not even certain why the answer was so important, “you are. And considering how opposed you were to my marrying your brother, I can’t help but be suspicious.”

“I wasn’t—”

“I know you said you weren’t opposed to the match,” Susannah said, her face almost expressionless as she interrupted him. “But we both know you did not favor it
and
that you encouraged him to marry Harriet.”

David held still for a long moment, considering her statement. Not a word that she had said was false, and yet it was clear that she understood nothing of what had transpired the previous summer.

Most of all, she did not understand Clive. And if she thought she could have been the wife for him, perhaps she did not understand herself, either.