When Nastasia’s aria in the first act began, however, he—along with the rest of the audience—was rapt with attention. Callie could not help but see the irony in the words of the song: Yes, Lindoro shall be mine! I’ve sworn it! I’ll succeed! If I am thwarted I can be a viper! I can play a hundred tricks to get my way.
“I can just imagine what a viper she can be,” Callie muttered under her breath, as the aria stopped the show, sending the entire theatre to its feet, calling, “Brava! Bravissima!”
It was decided. Callie would never again enjoy the opera.
As the first act ended and the curtain fell, signaling the performance’s intermission, Callie sighed, wishing she were anywhere else and wondering how difficult it would be to escape before the second act tortured her further.
Juliana’s laughter sounded behind her, and Callie realized she could not leave. She had promised to bring Ralston’s sister out successfully, and she would do just that.
Steeling herself, she stood, eager to interject herself into a conversation that did not involve Ralston, and nearly collided with Baron Oxford, who had appeared inside the box almost immediately upon the close of the first act.
Perfectly manicured, the handsome dandy offered one of his trademark smiles to the box at large before settling his gaze on Callie. As he moved toward her, she took in his rich green topcoat, a lovely contrast to his shimmering satin waistcoat of aubergine. She immediately noticed that his heels and the tip of his walking stick once more matched his waistcoat, and she wondered if he had boots and canes in every color. The idea was so ridiculous; she couldn’t help the curving of her lips.
“My lord,” she said, hiding her face with a demure curtsy as he bowed low over her hand, “it is a pleasure to see you.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine.” The words, spoken slightly too close, sent a wave of color to Callie’s cheeks as she took a deliberate half step backward. He continued. “I took the liberty of ordering champagne.” He paused, indicating a footman nearby who held a tray of champagne coupes. “For you…and for the rest of your party.”
Callie cocked her head slightly at his words. Surely she had misunderstood his emphasis. “Thank you, my lord.” She watched as the footman passed the champagne through the box, uncertain of how to proceed. “Are you enjoying the performance?”
“Indeed. I am particularly impressed with Miss Kritikos’s performance, she is—quite—something.” Oxford said with a broad grin in the direction of the stage that Callie found not altogether pleasant. He reached for a glass of champagne and held it out to her. When she took it, he ran a finger over the back of her hand and leaned close, deepening his voice to a flirtatious whisper. “Of course, I am enjoying the intermission immensely as well.”
This time, she was certain that he was inebriated. He had to be. Callie removed her hand from the inappropriate touch and considered giving the Baron a thorough set down. Certainly that would be the proper course of action, but she could not deny a certain amount of pleasure that, even as she suffered through an evening of Ralston’s mistress endearing herself to the entire ton, she was receiving some attention of her own. She cast a sidelong glance toward Ralston, who was in conversation with his brother. He met her eyes and lifted his champagne in a silent salute. She snapped her head back around to Oxford and offered him a bright smile. “I, too, am enjoying intermission, my lord.”
“Excellent.” He took a deep drink from his glass, then said, his words slightly slurred, “Do you care for art?”
Slightly taken aback by his question, Callie said, “I—Well, yes, my lord.”
Oxford traded his empty glass for a full one, and said, “I should like to escort you to the Royal Art Exhibition next week.”
Resisting the urge to question the Baron’s motives, Callie realized there was no easy way to escape this invitation. Instead, she said, “That would be lovely, my lord.”
“What would be lovely?” The lazy drawl indicated the arrival of Ralston. Callie refused to rise to his bait.
Oxford, however, seemed more than eager to share their conversation with the marquess. “I shall be escorting Lady Calpurnia to the Royal Art Exhibition next week,” he said, and Callie couldn’t help noticing the boastfulness in his tone.
“Is that so?” Ralston said.
He didn’t have to sound so disbelieving. “Indeed, it is, my lord. I am eager to see this year’s exhibition.” She placed a hand lightly on Oxford’s sleeve. “I shall be lucky to have such an escort.”
“Not as lucky as I shall be,” Oxford said, his gaze not straying from Ralston.
Before Callie could wonder at the strange emphasis, the theatre chimes rang, signaling the end of intermission. Oxford took his leave, first bowing low over Callie’s hand, and saying, “Good evening, my lady. I shall look forward to next week.”
“And I, Baron Oxford,” she replied with a little curtsy.
He then turned a broad grin on a stone-faced Ralston. “Good night, old chap.”
Ralston did not reply, instead staring down the young dandy, who laughed off the cut direct and tipped his cane at the marquess before leaving the box. Callie watched him go before saying. “You didn’t have to be so very rude to him.”
“He’s got nothing in his head but teeth,” he said, matter-of-factly.
Ignoring the fact that she had said the exact words only days ago, Callie ignored his and resumed her seat. When Ralston took his place next to her, she ignored him, instead looking resolutely at the stage, willing the curtain to rise.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the arrival of a footman with a silver tray, upon which was a folded message. Ralston took the proffered note with a nod of thanks for the messenger and turned the sealed parchment over in his hand, sliding a finger under the wax to open it.
Callie couldn’t stop herself from peeking at the page as he looked at it. It was a short missive, only visible for a flash before he folded it closed. But Callie could not have missed the message—or its meaning.
Come to me.
N.
Ralston and Nastasia were still lovers.
Callie choked back a gasp, turning sharply away and pretending to be completely absorbed by the performance, which had just begun.
Her mind reeled. She shouldn’t be surprised, of course. She should not be thinking of the other evening—of the betrothal ball, of their embrace in his carriage. She should not be wondering why, if he was involved with Nastasia, he had thought to kiss her.
But, of course, she did wonder.
And what of his sister? Surely he wouldn’t accept the invitation. Not tonight, of all nights. It was Juliana’s first night in society!
Sadness and outrage warred within her for the first two scenes of the second act. When, at the start of the third scene, he stood and abruptly left the box, outrage won.
No. She would not allow him to ruin his sister’s first night out. Not after all that Juliana had done to ensure its success. Not after all that Callie had done to ensure its success. Not to mention the others, who had also cast their support for his sister.
How dare he risk it all? And for what?
Her anger rose. She squared her shoulders. Someone had to think of Juliana.
Turning to Benedick, she whispered, “The champagne appears to have gone to my head. I am going to rest in the ladies’ salon.”