Page 70 of To Marry and to Meddle
By contrast, tonight she seemed far more relaxed, though he did notice her darting an occasional glance over her shoulder. One armrested lightly on the empty seat next to her as she reclined, and he watched her give a curt shake of her head when Violet made to take it. Julian frowned, but before he could open his mouth to ask Emily about it, she turned to answer some unheard query from Willingham, and Julian’s own attention was distracted by the sight of the faint strip of bare skin between where her gloves ended and her sleeve began.
When he reached out a hand to trace a pattern on that patch of skin, she did not stiffen or pull away, but merely shot him a coy glance from beneath her lashes. While the gown she wore was hardly daring compared to many others he’d seen that evening, it was rather risqué by Emily’s usual standards, and he could not stop his gaze from lingering on the swell of her breasts above the golden silk. As if sensing his thoughts—or perhaps just noticing the direction of his gaze—her mouth curved into a small, satisfied smile that was not at all reminiscent of the Emily Turner he’d met three months earlier.
This bit of contemplation was unceremoniously interrupted, however, when, on his other side, Penvale leaned over and said, “Stop leering.”
He gave Penvale his best withering stare.
“I believe I’m allowed to leer at my own wife, if I please.”
Penvale, the bastard, merely grinned. “Not when you’re in public, if you please. Besides, I thought the entire point here was to make this theater more respectable? It will hardly be good for your reputation for you to be seen ravishing a gently reared lady in your brightly lit box.”
Penvale was right about one thing: they were certainly in plain view. An enormous chandelier blazed overhead, illuminating both the audience and the stage. He had already noticed more than one curious glance in their direction. Now that the summer season had ended and Drury Lane and Covent Garden were fully operational once more,Julian had worried—as he always did—that the more well-heeled of his clientele would abandon the Belfry for more elevated entertainments, but he was pleased to see a full house with plenty of gentlemen he recognized. And, as usual, very few ladies that he did. As ever, the gentlemen of thetonhad viewed an evening out at the Belfry as a chance to take their mistresses out on the town without any concern about running into their wives—or anyone else’s wife, for that matter. It was this very reputation that Julian was seeking so desperately to change, but gazing around this evening at the cheerful, chattering crowd, he felt the enormity of this challenge—and, all at once, experienced a moment of uncharacteristic doubt.
Because the fact was, Laverre was right: ticket sales were steady, and they continued to draw crowds to their shows. Was Julian attempting something that would ultimately ruin everything that had made the theater so successful?
He was so rattled by these doubts that he was scarcely aware of anything happening around him, and so had a feeling that it was not the first time Penvale had said his name when he paired it with a sharp poke in the side.
“Christ—what?” he asked with an irritated glance at his friend, but Penvale’s head was turned, and so, Julian realized, was Emily’s.
Standing in the entrance to the box was his father.
As always, the Marquess of Eastvale was impeccably turned out—his hair was combed neatly back from his face, streaks of silver at the temples; his snowy cravat was knotted tightly at his throat, keeping his chin up, his jaw tight; he wore evening kit of black and white, no color visible even in his waistcoat, but its severity suited him, emphasized that this was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.
And he was currently staring directly at Julian.
“Father,” Julian said, rising from his seat; he reached a hand down to assist Emily, then tucked her arm within the crook of his elbow as they crossed the box toward the marquess. “I did not expect to see you here tonight.”
It was the understatement of the year, of course; Julian had not expected to see his father within the walls of the Belfry—well, ever, but it was only now, seeing him here, that he realized how badly he had wished for this. And what a perfect night for him to attend; after all, the entire reason Julian had been so interested inMuch Ado About Heavenwas because it was, he thought, a new take on comedy—something more thoughtful, more serious.
It was, in fact, just exactly the sort of thing to show his father—to prove to him that whatever preconceptions he had about the sort of show the Belfry staged were wrong.
“Given the invitation from your wife, I thought you might expect to see me?” the marquess said, sounding a bit stiff, the slightest hint of a questioning note in his voice. Julian glanced down at Emily, a telltale guilty flush warming her cheeks. She watched him, unapologetic.
“I thought it was high time I saw one of these shows that I hear so much gossip about,” his father added. Despite the slightly stilted nature of his father’s speech, Julian didn’t think he intended to be disapproving—rather, he thought his father was uncomfortable, unsure of how to behave.
Well, that made two of them.
“And how could I resist the opportunity to meet said lovely wife?” his father added, smiling at Emily, who met his smile with one of her own. “Lady Julian, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“You must call me Emily, my lord,” she said, extending her hand. “Lady Julian sounds so fussy.”
Julian’s father’s smile widened. “I’m simply pleased that thereisa Lady Julian—my wife and I had begun to wonder if Julian would ever marry.” Julian was unable to resist an eye roll at that—he was, after all, only thirty, and was hardly in his dotage, but he saw a twinkle in his father’s eye, and realized he was…jokingwith him.
It had been so long since he’d been on the receiving end of one of his father’s rare jokes.
“I’m glad I was able to assuage your fears,” Emily said to the marquess with a cheeky smile. “Would you like to sit with us? I believe the show is to begin any moment, and I’ve saved an extra seat.” Julian now understood her strange dance with Violet minutes before.
The marquess’s glance flitted back to Julian, an unspoken question contained therein. Was he welcome?
Julian gave a short nod. “Please, join us.”
And so the marquess did.
It was strange, Julian thought, to see his father in this space that he had worked so hard to build. Strange to see him watch actors on his stage, to smile at jokes, to even chuckle on occasion.
During intermission, the marquess mingled easily with the rest of their guests—with Bridgeworth and Jemma, with the Audleys, with Willingham and Lady Templeton and Penvale. West had shown up late, with Lady Fitzwilliam on his arm.
And then they were seated once more, the show having resumed, and before Julian knew it the curtain was falling and the crowd was applauding and Julian was gripped with a horrible, sinking feeling:
