The theater was just as stale and ostentatious as Stephen remembered, though there was one small mercy. The autumn months had thinned the hordes that typically poured in through the doors, which at least allowed him space to breathe.

Stephen helped Miss Westgate and Miss Pearce with their capes and handed them to the attendant stationed in the coatroom. Then he led them up the wide, sweeping staircase and through the saloon to the private boxes.

As they settled into their seats, he studied Miss Westgate. She was not beautiful, but that mattered little. And her sense of fashion was curious, to say the least. Indeed, the gown she wore this evening was an alarming shade of yellow with colored gems stitched into the bodice.

And there were feathers.

Not attached to the gown, as one might expect, but by some mysterious means to her hair. Long swaying feathers dyed to match the fabric of her gown. It was a sight to behold.

“It is so refreshing to be out in society, is it not, my lord?” She didn’t pause long enough for him to answer. “Miss Pearce regards Othello as one of Shakespeare’s most compelling dramas.” She turned to Miss Pearce who was sitting behind them. “Is that not right?”

Miss Pearce glared at Stephen. If she could slice through him with her gaze, she would have. Though why she would feel so hostile toward him, he couldn’t begin to guess. “Indeed,” she said.

Stephen’s mother had developed a headache a mere one hour prior to their departure from Durham House . Miss Pearce now stood in as chaperone, trailing behind them like a shadow, silent and glaring. It was a bit unsettling.

“I am only sorry your mother could not attend,” Miss Westgate said.

“Her headache came on quite suddenly.” Likely there was no headache at all. It was an excuse, a reason to stay home. If only Stephen had thought of it first.

He sat back in his chair and as he settled in for what would surely be hours of tedium, his mind was cast back to Emily. She was alone in that room with nothing to assuage her boredom but the books he’d brought her. And yet, he envied her. He imagined sitting beside her, the evening paper propped open on his knee, a fire burning hot in the hearth.

But before long, he would glance over at her. Perhaps she would glance back, her lips gently tilting up at the corners.

Those lips….Christ, they were pink and plump, absolute perfection. During his recovery, he’d dreamt of those lips. He’d dreamt of kissing her. And now he knew it wasn’t merely a figment of his fragmented mind. It was real. She was real.

“Oh! My Spouse and I will be playing tonight as well.” Miss Westgate clapped her hands together and smiled brightly. “I’ve been longing to see it.”

“You are fond of the theater,” he said by way of beginning a conversation.

He did not converse easily with ladies. He could speak on the topics of economy and agriculture for days on end, but he had come to discover the most women were not interested in such subjects.

She brightened. “Yes, exceedingly. Are you not fond of the theater?”

“I have no love for it.” He flashed her a smile. “But I would by no means deny any pleasure of yours, Miss Westgate.”

“That is a comfort,” she said. “For I require a great deal of activity. Idleness is my greatest enemy.”

From her seated position, she threaded her arm through his and placed her hand on his forearm. Glancing up at him, she flicked her eyelashes in what was plainly an effort to tempt him. To the untrained eye, it would appear she was trying to dislodge something from her eyelash. Not the least bit alluring. But one must credit her for trying.

Miss Pearce swatted Miss Westgate’s hand with her rolled up program. “I must insist you cease. One cannot be too careful about one’s reputation.”

Miss Westgate scoffed, but unthreaded her arm from his. Miss Pearce was tackling her role as chaperone with an enthusiasm that was quite inconvenient. He would have done better to bring one of the maids, but he could not have invited Miss Westgate to the theater without including Miss Pearce. Unfortunately.

The two women were inseparable, which was often the case with ladies and their companions. But there was something irregular between Miss Westgate and Miss Pearce. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

Perhaps Emily was right. What did he know about the woman he planned to marry? He had been content to know as little as possible about Miss Westgate, but Emily’s disapproval chafed.

“So the theater is a passion of yours,” he repeated to fill the awkward silence. “What other passions do you nurture within your breast?”

She tilted her head to the side. “Passions, sir?”

“Your interests, Miss Westgate. The theater aside, where do you find pleasure?”

Please don’t say shopping.

“Shopping,” she said without hesitation.

“Excellent,” he said dryly.

“It must sound like such a frivolous activity to a gentleman of your intellect, but I assure you, there is a challenge to it. For instance, one must know which shops to frequent and which to avoid. Which fabrics to buy. Which patterns are in fashion. It is all quite complex.”

Miss Westgate had no fortune to speak of, but she was well cared for by her guardian. He no doubt indulged her a great deal.

“Yes, I see how that might challenge the mind,” he said sarcastically. It challenged his mind this very moment, but for entirely different reasons.

“Are you teasing me, sir?” When she smiled at him as she was doing now, her appearance was quite agreeable. Not beautiful, but tolerable to the eye.

Before he could answer, she squinted at the box across from them. “Dear heaven, is that Miss Warner?” She drew in a sharp breath, inching forward in her seat. “And with such a handsome man on her arm. I have not seen him before. Lord Devon, do you recognize the man?”

He didn’t even look. He didn’t give a damn whom the man was. “I do not.”

She shook her head. “A blaggard of questionable breeding, most certainly. Indeed, Miss Warner is quite the harlot. She is libel to throw herself at anything with a handsome face.”

“Are you acquainted with her?” If she were, it would surprise him a great deal. Miss Warner was an heiress with twenty thousand pounds. Miss Westgate would be far below her notice. Until tonight, that was. Tonight, she would be well noticed by everyone. People were likely wondering who she was and how she had managed to catch the notice of an earl’s heir.

“I am not acquainted with her at all.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “But I have heard tales of her numerous exploits. It is all quite shocking. I would relay it all to you if I were not bound by the etiquette of a lady. But I will tell you that it is no great mystery why she remains unattached.”

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He’d long ago stopped listening to her. He had no patience for gossip. It had been his torment these last months and precious little of it was true. It didn’t reflect well on Miss Westgate that she engaged in such idle talk.

If Emily were here now, he felt certain she would not have made sport of picking apart the other members of her sex. She seemed far too empathetic to inflict such cruelty, even if the comment was entirely private.

He lifted his head and opened his eyes. “In my experience, gossip is rarely true.”

Without answer, she shrugged and glanced around the auditorium in search of another poor soul to dissect. He was beginning to understand why she enjoyed the theater so much.

“Oh,” she whispered. “There is the Duke of Arlington and his wife, just two boxes down. I had not expected to see him in Town this late in the year,” Miss Westgate said excitedly. “How thrilling to see him in the flesh. His wife is quite stunning.”

Stephen glanced over and his gaze collided with the Duke’s hard, menacing glare. He was looking directly at them, his lip curled up in a knowing smirk. That expression said everything. It said you never should have crossed me.

Stephen’s blood boiled like liquid fire in his veins. Everything he had endured since returning from Scotland was the Duke’s doing. He had never wanted to pummel a man so much as he did right now.

There was one small mercy. Lady Evelyn was noticeably absent. Of course, she would be. She lived in Scotland now with her new husband. There was no reason for her to be in London and for that, he was grateful.

Just as the curtain rose, Stephen’s attention was drawn to Miss Westgate, who was rubbing her arms. “Dear God, do they have they no heat in this theater? It’s positively glacial in here.” She turned to Stephen. “Would you be so kind as to fetch my cloak?”

He turned to relay the message to Miss Pearce, but Miss Westgate stopped him with a squeeze to his arm. “Oh, don’t dispatch Miss Pearce. People will assume I sent her away to be alone with you. You don’t mind going, do you?”

He nodded stiffly. “Of course not.”

By the time he’d retrieved her cloak and returned, the play had begun. He draped her cloak over her shoulders and settled back into his seat.

Minutes later, Miss Westgate leaned over to him. “I am rather parched.”

Christ. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”

She smiled up at him innocently. “That would be heavenly.”

He glanced behind them, toward the doorway. Where were the damn attendants when one needed them? Likely with the reduced crowds, the theater had employed fewer of them this evening. He held back a frustrated sigh. “I won’t be a moment.”

Not a half hour later, she was feeling “peckish,” then she was too hot and required a fan—an item she failed to bring with her. He purchased one for a healthy sum from a woman in the gallery below.

Halfway through the play Miss Westgate declared she was restless and in need of exercise. They spent thirty minutes wandering the theater, engaged in frivolous conversation, Miss Pearce trailing behind them. Would the weather worsen? Did he prefer yellow silk or burgundy muslin? Perhaps she should commission jackets be made for her spaniels on account of the frosty weather…

By the end of it all, a headache pounded in his skull. Not twenty minutes had passed in the course of the entire evening when she did not make a request of him. He was exhausted and in need of a drink. Several drinks.

Is this what his life would be like as Miss Westgate as his wife—her barking commands and him fighting the desperate urge to strangle her?

“Our carriage is waiting,” Stephen said as the curtain fell on the final performance. The thick red velvet had not yet touched the stage floor before the words were out of his mouth.

She laughed. “I daresay our carriage is stuck behind a dozen others. It’ll be a good while before we are picked up. ”

“I took the liberty of calling for it when I left to retrieve your reticule from the gallery.”

In her enthusiasm for the performance, she had managed to fling her reticule over the banister and into the lap of some poor woman below. Again, there had been no attendant in sight and he had been dispatched to remedy the situation. It was while he was on that fool’s errand that he’d called for the carriage, intent on putting an end to this evening as quickly as possible.

“Before we go, I must speak with Miss Taylor. Lord Herstad offered for her hand and she refused him, can you believe such a thing? I will tell you something; she will not receive a better offer. Not with her lack of connections.” Her voice took on a scandalized tone. “Her grandfather owned a shop in Blossom Street. It’s positively scandalous.”

“How unfortunate,” he said flatly as they made their way out to the saloon. “As much as I would like to linger, I fear we must be getting back to Durham House . My mother was quite unwell and may require Dr. Locke’s attentions.”

“Your concern does you credit,” she said. “But I’m certain all is well.”

Dear God, she was persistent. “Nevertheless.”

Her shoulders sagged. “Very well,” she huffed. “Though I must say, Lady Durham owes me a great deal for bringing such a premature end to my evening.”

Thank God.

He offered his arm. “The debit is mine to pay.”

Her eyes narrowed for a split second before she smiled and accepted his arm. “Very well, I believe I shall enjoy having you in my debt.”

As he escorted Miss Westgate and Miss Pearce out to the waiting carriage, he turned his thoughts to what must be done. There was no sense in waiting. He must propose.

Tonight.