“I say, what did you think of the first act?” Mattingly asked, deftly maneuvering himself into the seat beside Miss Trumble. He wasn’t the brightest of fellows, but St. Clare credited him with good instincts when it came to assisting his friends. As easily as he’d lent his opera glasses, he now occupied Miss Trumble, leaving the field with Miss Honeywell open for St. Clare. “Saw Kean in Othello,” he continued. “Not sure his Macbeth is up to the same standard.”

“He seems to be doing an excellent job,” Miss Trumble replied. “But then, I have nothing with which to compare him. Was his portrayal of Othello really as brilliant as everyone says?”

While Mattingly and Miss Trumble discussed Shakespeare, St. Clare approached Miss Honeywell. There was a strangely unwelcoming expression in her blue eyes. “May I?” He gestured at the empty seat next to her.

“If you like,” she said coolly.

He sat down beside her in the chair that had lately been occupied by George Trumble. This, too, was the view he’d enjoyed. A diaphanous gown clinging to gently rounded bare shoulders and falling in shimmering folds down to delicately slippered feet. Creamy skin illuminated by the flickering candlelight from the chandeliers. A provocative décolletage accented at its center with a small cluster of wildflowers. And that unforgettable face. Wide eyes, soft lips, and a stubbornly cleft little chin, all framed by escaping tendrils of glossy mink hair.

Up close she was even more ravishing than she’d appeared from across the room.

She was also very much on her dignity.

St. Clare felt oddly off balance. As if he were an impertinent schoolboy soliciting the hand of a beautiful young lady at his first country assembly.

A ridiculous notion.

What had he to be nervous about? He’d dined with nobility on the continent. Had waltzed with a princess and danced the quadrille with an archduchess.

But Miss Honeywell had a frank way of looking at him. As if she could see past his elegant, black evening clothes and intricately tied white cravat. As if she could see straight to the center of his being. “What do you make of me?” he wanted to ask her. But he already knew the answer. She didn’t make much of him at all. And yet…

After a few moments’ consideration, it occurred to him that the rigidity of her spine and the martial light in her eye likely had more to do with some incidental grievance she’d laid at his door than with a thorough indictment of his worth as a human being. Had she heard something about him, perhaps? That he was a rake? An adventurer?

He was immeasurably cheered by the thought.

“Are you enjoying the play, Miss Honeywell?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Kean is a rare talent, don’t you think?”

“As you say.”