The first act consisted of a short piece by a little-known Italian composer, as the prelude to the opera itself, which would fill the second and third acts, before another short piece ended the performance. Caroline sat, happily absorbed in the spectacle, beside and slightly in front of her guardian. She was blissfully content. She had merely made a comment to Max a week before that she would like to visit
the opera. Two days later, he had arranged it all. Now she sat, superbly elegant in a silver satin slip overlaid with bronzed lace, and revelled in the music, conscious, despite her preoccupation, of the
warmth of the Duke of Twyford's blue gaze on her bare shoulders.
Max watched her delight with satisfaction. He had long ago ceased to try to analyze his reactions to Caroline Twinning; he was besotted and knew it Her happiness had somehow become his happiness;
in his view, nothing else mattered. As he watched, she turned and smiled, a smile of genuine joy. It
was, he felt, all the thanks he required for the effort organizing such a large box at short notice had entailed. He returned her smile, his own lazily sensual. For a moment, their eyes locked. Then,
blushing, Caroline turned back to the stage.
Max had little real interest in the performance, his past experiences having had more to do with the
singer than the song. He allowed his gaze to move past Caroline to dwell on her eldest half-sister. He
had not yet fathomed exactly what Sarah's ambition was, yet felt sure it was not as simple as it appeared. The notion that any Twinning would meekly accept unwedded solitude as her lot was hard to swallow.
As Sarah sat by Caroline's side, dramatic as ever in a gown of deepest green, the light from the stage lit her face. Her troubles had left no mark on the classical lines of brow and cheek but the peculiar light revealed more clearly than daylight the underlying determination in the set of the delicate mouth and
chin. Max's lips curved in a wry grin. He doubted that Darcy had heard the last of Sarah Twinning, whatever the outcome of his self-imposed exile.
Behind Sarah sat Lord Tulloch and Mr. Swanston, invited by Max to act as squires for Sarah and Arabella respectively. Neither was particularly interested in the opera, yet both had accepted the invitations with alacrity. Now, they sat, yawning politely behind their hands, waiting for the moment
when the curtain would fall and they could be seen by the other attending members of the ton,
escorting their exquisite charges through the corridors.
Arabella, too, was fidgety, settling and resettling her pink silk skirts and dropping her fan. She appeared
to be trying to scan the boxes on the tier above. Max smiled. He could have told her that Hugo Denbigh hated opera and had yet to be seen within the portals of Covent Garden.
Lady Benborough, dragon-like in puce velvet, sat determinedly following the aria. Distracted by
Arabella's antics, she turned to speak in a sharp whisper, whereat Arabella grudgingly subsided, a dissatisfied frown marring her delightful visage.
At the opposite end of the box sat Martin, with Lizzie by the parapet beside him. She was enthralled
by the performance, hanging on every note that escaped the throat of the soprano performing the lead. Martin, most improperly holding her hand, evinced not the slightest interest in the buxom singer but
gazed solely at Lizzie, a peculiar smile hovering about bis lips. Inwardly, Max sighed. He just hoped
his brother knew what he was about
The aria ended and the curtain came down. As the applause died, the large flambeaux which lit the pit
were brought forth and reinstalled in their brackets. Noise erupted around them as everyone talked at once.
Max leaned forward to speak by Caroline's ear. "Come. Let's stroll."
She turned to him in surprise and he smiled. "That's what going to the opera is about, my dear. To see and be seen. Despite appearances, the most important performances take place in the corridors of
Covent Garden, not on the stage."
"Of course," she returned, standing and shaking out her skirts. "How very provincial of me not to
realize." Her eyes twinkled. "How kind of you, dear guardian, to attend so assiduously to our education."
Max took her hand and tucked it into his arm. As they paused to allow the others to precede them, he bent to whisper in her ear, "On the contrary, sweet Caro. While I'm determined to see your education completed, my interest is entirely selfish."
The wicked look which danced in his dark blue eyes made Caroline blush. But she was becoming used
to the highly improper conversations she seemed to have with her guardian. "Oh?" she replied,
attempting to look innocent and not entirely succeeding. "Won't I derive any benefit from my new-found knowledge?"
They were alone in the box, hidden from view of the other boxes by shadows. For a long moment, they were both still, blue eyes locked with grey-green, the rest of the world far distant. Caroline could not breathe; the intensity of that blue gaze and the depth of the passion which smouldered within it held her mesmerized. Then, his eyes still on hers, Max lifted her hand and dropped a kiss on her fingers. "My dear, once you find the key, beyond that particular door lies paradise. Soon, sweet Caro, very soon,
you'll see."
Once in the corridor, Caroline's cheeks cooled. They were quickly surrounded by her usual court and Max, behaving more circumspectly than he ever had before, relinquished her to the throng. Idly, he strolled along the corridors, taking the opportunity to stretch his long legs. He paused here and there to exchange a word with friends but did not stop for long. His preoccupation was not with extending his acquaintance of the ton. His ramblings brought him to the corridor serving the opposite arm of the horseshoe of boxes. The bell summoning the audience to their seats for the next act rang shrilly. Max
was turning to make his way back to his box when a voice hailed him through the crush.
"Your Grace!"
Max closed his eyes in exasperation, then opened them and turned to face Lady Mordand. He nodded curtly. "Emma."
She was on the arm of a young man whom she introduced and immediately dismissed, before turning
to Max. "I think perhaps we should have a serious talk, Your Grace."
The hard note in her voice and the equally rock-like glitter in her eyes were not lost on the Duke of Twyford. Max had played the part of the fashionable rake for fifteen years and knew well the occupational hazards. He lifted his eyes from an uncannily thorough contemplation of Lady Mortland
and sighted a small alcove, temporarily deserted. ''I think perhaps you're right, my dear. But I suggest
we improve our surroundings."
His hand under her elbow steered Emma towards the alcove. The grip of his fingers through her silk sleeve and the steely quality in his voice were a surprise to her ladyship, but she was determined that
Max Rotherbridge should pay, one way or another, for her lost dreams.
They reached the relative privacy of the alcove. "Well, Emma, what's this all about?"
Suddenly, Lady Mortland was rather less certain of her strategy. Faced with a pair of very cold blue eyes and an iron will she had never previously glimpsed, she vacillated. "Actually, Your Grace," she cooed,
"I had rather hoped you would call on me and we could discuss the matter in…greater privacy."
"Cut line, Emma," drawled His Grace. "You knew perfectly well I have no wish whatever to be private with you."
The bald statement ignited Lady Mortland's temper. "Yes!" she hissed, fingers curling into claws.
"Ever since you set eyes on that little harpy you call your ward, you've had no time for me!"
"I wouldn't, if I were you, make scandalous statements about a young lady to her guardian," said Max, unmoved by her spleen.