“Georgiana,” Aunt Agatha said in a quelling tone.

George didn’t bother to answer. It would only be some kind of reprimand, something like Young ladies don’t talk to gentlemen in the next box, or Young ladies don’t tell gentlemen to be quiet. She snorted. Gentlemen indeed. Young ladies should only insult gentlemen to whom they have been introduced.

Besides, she never answered to Georgiana. She turned back to the stage. The aria began, and, oh, it was glorious. For about half a minute.

“Oh, I say, it’s Lady George.” It was one of the men in the next box. A different one. “Evenin’, Lady George.”

She refused to look. The aria had started.

“Lady George,” the voice continued, louder. Another one who’d drunk too much. “Doncha remember me?”

“Shush!” she hissed.

“But we danced together last week, at the—dash it all—forgotten which ball it was.”

George clenched her fist around her fan, wishing it were a pistol. Or a club.

“Sinc, do you recall whose ball we went to last week? It was the one where—ouch!” He blinked at George in shock and rubbed his shoulder. “You hit me. With your fan.” He glanced down, where the fan had fallen onto the floor in his box. “Broke it too. Pity. Looks like a pretty thing.”

“I’ll break something else if you and your friends don’t shut your mouths!”

“Georgiana!” Aunt Agatha snapped.

George sat down again, but Aunt Agatha persisted. “Georgiana, I’m speaking to you.”

George gritted her teeth, waited pointedly until the soprano had finished and then turned to her great-aunt. “Yes, Great-aunt Agatha?” Aunt Agatha hated being called Great-aunt Agatha, especially in public. Great-aunt was the correct form of address for George to use, but it was oh, so aging.

Aunt Agatha glared through her lorgnette, her lips thinned almost to invisibility, then jerked her head in a subtle sideways direction. George frowned, unsure of what she was signaling. Aunt Agatha rolled her eyes, then with a palpable effort, she forced them into a smile, turned and bowed graciously in the direction of the next box. “Good evening, your grace.”

George followed her gaze. A dark shadow leaned forward, picked up her fan from the floor and stepped forward into the light.

She stiffened and swore under her breath. The Duke of blasted Everingham. She hadn’t noticed him, lurking there in the background. He was dressed, as usual, in severe black evening clothes, the only gleam of color about him an emerald tie pin. The candlelight threw half his face into shadow and gilded the rest: the proud nose, the chiseled lips, the stubborn jaw. He stood there, all born-to-command and superior, looking down his nose at her.

His eyes glinted, dark and unreadable tonight, but she’d noticed them before, when he was betrothed to Rose, and she thought them the coldest eyes she’d ever seen.

“Georgiana,” Aunt Agatha prompted.