Dunham

Chapter 40

40

May 1, 1780

The soprano's last notes hung over the inhabitants of the ballroom like a noxious fog. What was worse, the woman was performing the very opera that had defeated seventeen-year-old Celia's hopes to make her mark in the world as an opera singer.

If Monsieur Rameau had thought Celia sang no better than a strangled fishwife, he would have taken this soprano out behind the Paris Opera House and shot her dead for opening her mouth at all.

"Mother of God," Mary whispered when the Duke and Duchess of Sussex's guests began to rise to their feet to applaud her with great exuberance.

But Celia dutifully stood when Mary and Aunt Harriet did. They barely tapped their gloved fingertips into their gloved palms, and from under her brows, Celia stared daggers at the beaming soprano.

"If I had a pistol ... " Celia gritted once the crowd began to disperse for intermission.

"I would load it for you," her mother muttered back.

"Oh, do let me out, both of you," Aunt Harriet said testily. "Celia, move."

She obeyed.

"I fear," Harriet grumbled as she maneuvered her panniers past the chairs and into the aisle, "that everyone here is deaf as a stone."

Celia almost laughed.

"May we take our leave?" Mary murmured.

"Sadly, no, as the duchess fancies herself quite the connoisseur of opera as much as Sandwich fancies himself a naval strategist." That explained quite a bit. "'Twould be mistaken for a Cut Direct."

"Not mistaken for one."

"So right. But we can fetch a bit of air to brace our nerves for the rest of it. Come along, Mary. Celia."

Far too soon they were back at their row of chairs to seat themselves for the remainder of the performance of Hippolyte et Aricie.

"Celia," Harriet said airily as she wedged her panniers back down their row of chairs, following a handsome earl who had wedged himself into their party with promises of a night spent wedging himself between Harriet's thighs, "secure a seat on the end for Lord Covarrubias."

Celia's mouth tightened and she traded unamused glances with her mother, which the marchioness did not see because she and the earl had seated themselves and begun their illicit contredanse in earnest. When, moments later, Rafael gracefully ensconced himself beside Celia, she gave him no chance to speak.

"Why are you here?" she hissed under the bustle and noise of the many guests returning from their gossip and assignations to find their chairs.

"I was invited, of course, because I am handsome, charming, and brilliant. Lady Hylton," Rafael said respectfully to her mother, who gave him a withering sidelong glance and a slight sneer. It was not the Cut Direct, though had anyone observed it, it would be remarked upon with much speculation. "I forgot. Both papí and mamí disapprove of their probable future son-in-law. Excellent recommendation, considering said parents' ... praiseworthy ... history."

Mary blanched.

"That was cruel," Celia hissed.

Rafael ignored that. "I will expect you tonight."

"Whisht! I told you under what conditions I would return to your bed and thus far, I have heard no promises of fidelity."

"Tell me something, my love," he ground out behind a perfectly lovely smile, "if you refuse to live with me as man and wife, what would you have me do? Pledge eternal celibacy?"