At the moment she felt as if he must be looking at her. Every nerve in her body signaled that his eyes were on her. The blood was not dancing in her veins—it was racing. Insanity, Charlotte said to herself. Insanity! And just how was she supposed to ascertain whether Alex was impotent or not? She raised her head as the curtains of the theater swung open. Willy-nilly her eyes slid to the right. Alex was sitting perfectly easily, his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles. He actually had his back to her, and his head was bent close to Daphne Boch’s smooth blond locks. It wasn’t jealousy Charlotte felt; it was hatred. She jerked her eyes away. The last thing she wanted was for Alex to catch her glaring at his—friend.

She straightened her back. Two could play at that game. She leaned forward slightly and glanced about the theater. There was Braddon … but Braddon wasn’t anyone to make Alex jealous, unfortunately. Her eyes slid over a number of men whom she might summon in an instant, and then her eyes brightened. Will Holland, looking like a great blond giant, was sitting in a box down to the left. He raised his head and she threw him a slight smile, an enchanting, beckoning smile.

Unfortunately that was the moment when Alex finally allowed himself to throw a glance over his left shoulder at the Brandenburg box. He stared for a moment, his eyes hard. Damn it!

Will’s reaction was about the same. He had spent the last week setting up a useful flirtation with a rich tradesman’s daughter, and she wasn’t even too unattractive. But looking up at the unbelievably sensual duke’s daughter, her black curls deliberately tousled as if she just emerged from bed, he felt all his resolution of the last week fade away. Perhaps Charlotte’s parents had warned her away from Alex. He cast a sapient eye at his old friend, who appeared to be whispering into the ear of that French miss, Daphne Boch.

If he went up to Charlotte’s box during intermission, it might spoil the game with Miss van Stork. And she wasn’t bad; he might never find another heiress this bearable. Chloe van Stork sat quietly next to him. She had russet hair, not a bad color, and a slim body, he thought. Her clothing was abominable—she was wearing some kind of thick stuff that looked durable. Will shuddered slightly. She was probably even wearing one of those huge old corsets made out of whalebone, given the stiffness of her upper back. Nothing could be further from Charlotte’s gossamer French gowns.

Suddenly Miss van Stork turned her head and looked straight at him. “Are you going to go?” She nodded up toward the Brandenburg box.

Will gaped at her. She has lovely white teeth, he thought irrelevantly.