Her gown exposed a wide expanse of pale, creamy skin. And her hair, caught up in jeweled pins to reveal the slender column of her throat, was artfully disheveled, looking as if at any moment it might fall down around her in a mass of dark curls. When combined with the rosy flush in her cheeks and the equally rosy hue to the wide, full softness of her mouth, the entire effect was that of a woman rising from bed after a passionate interlude with her lover.

And who the devil was the young gentleman beside her? Some confounded coxcomb who had schemed his way into escorting her to the theater?

The young man turned and whispered something into Miss Honeywell’s ear. She tilted her head to listen, giving the young man her full and undivided attention. And then she smiled.

St. Clare felt a bitter surge of jealousy.

“What are you scowling at?” Mattingly asked in a low undertone. “Haven’t caught sight of another country squire worth calling out, have you?”

St. Clare thrust the opera glasses at Mattingly. “Who is that fellow opposite?”

“Which fellow?” Mattingly peered through the glasses. “Him? In the gold-embroidered waistcoat? That’s Trumble’s heir, George. He’s a tolerable chap. Not a bit like Burton-Smythe. No need to… Ah. Wait a moment. Well, fancy that. I’d heard Miss Honeywell was back in town. Haven’t seen her in—let me think—going on four years.”

St. Clare turned his gaze on his friend. Mattingly was dark-haired, nearly as tall as St. Clare was himself, and generally considered to be quite handsome. “You know her? How?”

“Met her during her come out.”

“Good.” St. Clare retrieved the opera glasses from Mattingly and once again fixed them on Miss Honeywell. “You can introduce me to her at the interval.”

Chapter Six

Entering Miss Honeywell’s theater box, St. Clare and Lord Mattingly found her engaged in conversation with a tall, fair-haired young lady who Mattingly identified as Miss Jane Trumble. The two ladies’ elderly companion was snoring softly in her chair, and George Trumble was nowhere to be found.

“My brother has gone to fetch us some lemonade,” Miss Trumble explained after Mattingly made the introductions.

St. Clare supposed he should have felt a pang of conscience at that. No doubt the flock of females in the earl’s box were expecting that he and Mattingly would procure them refreshments as well. But as he looked at Margaret Honeywell, he couldn’t summon the slightest twinge of remorse at abandoning his responsibilities.

Let some other enterprising gentleman tend to the needs of Miss Steele and the dowager’s granddaughters.