But he hadn’t been able to spot whoever Lady Georgiana was aiming to impress at the opera this evening. He’d observed with fascination the various expressions that crossed her vivid little face as she watched the stage, following the story, seemingly as open as a child in her responses. She gave every indication of being wholly enraptured by the opera.
Her profile was limned by the light from the lantern behind her, a golden halo, outlining a firm little nose, a determined chin and the soft curve of her cheek. She was dressed in pale amber, the scooped neckline subtly enhancing the shadow between her breasts.
The more he’d watched her, the less he understood. This was the “boy” who’d taken him on a wild, exhilarating chase? The boy who rode as well as any jockey? This seemingly demure young lady watching the opera with her two elderly aunts?
And then she’d turned on Monty and his friends and ripped into them like an angry little governess, seeming not to care in the slightest what anyone thought. A slender, entrancing firebrand.
She glared at him now, her lips pursed. Her skin was smooth, like rich cream or satin, not pale like most of the women he knew, but warm and faintly sun-kissed. Or was that the effect of the theater lights?
Her face had a slight elfin suggestion, with high cheekbones and a delicately pointed chin, but her nose was small and straight and imperious. And her mouth—oh, lord, her mouth—plump and lush and altogether enticing. Hart stared at her mouth and swallowed.
Soft, plump, satiny-looking lips, dark against the purity of her skin. They didn’t seem to go with the rest of her, all lissome and leggy and . . . well, he wasn’t able to think of her as boyish, not dressed like this in an amber gown that clung to her slender curves and subtly enhanced them.
Short, glossy dark locks clustered and curled around her face. In this light he couldn’t quite make out the color of her eyes—something light, possibly blue or gray. He would have to see her in daylight to be sure. Fringed with long dark lashes, they were beautiful, even when narrowed at him as they were now.
He tried to put this Lady Georgiana with that other one: mud-spattered and dressed as a boy—in breeches and boots, no less!—in the middle of nowhere, riding a magnificent stallion that was—that should have been—far too strong for a lady.
She glared at him and folded her arms beneath her bosom. He tried not to drop his gaze to take in the gentle curves, and failed.
However had he imagined that the rider he’d pursued across the heath was a boy? There was nothing boyish about her. It was more than a little disturbing. Why had he never noticed her before?
He’d met her, what—half a dozen times? Exchanged no more than perfunctory greetings with her. He vaguely recalled a couple of comments she’d made—erring on the cheeky side as he recalled—but certainly there had been no actual conversation.
But he’d never really looked at her, not really. His attention had always been elsewhere, on the other people in the room. Or the church. And who noticed other women when you were betrothed and in the process of being jilted? Still . . .
Blind. He’d been utterly blind. But now . . . now he saw her.
“Enjoying the evening?” Lady Georgiana repeated. She glanced pointedly at his companions. “Trying to—and failing.”
“Ah,” Hart said, adding with deliberate provocation, “so, you have no interest in fat men and women caterwauling in public?”
She gasped and her slight bosom swelled with indignation. “How dare you!”
He ostentatiously fingered her broken fan—two of the ivory ribs had snapped. It was no mere flirtatious tap she’d given to Monty’s friend—and raised a brow. “How dare I?”
Her eyes sparked. She flushed but held out her hand in an imperious gesture. Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he slipped the fan into his pocket.
She lifted her chin. “Thieving now?”
“I say, miss,” one of Monty’s friends interjected. “Don’t you know who this is?”
“Of course she does, lackwit,” Sinc said in a low voice. “Lady George was one of the bridesmaids at his wedd—the canceled er—the Unfortunate Event.” His words carried across to the other box.
His friend sniffed. “Gel lacks respect.”
Her eyes flashed. “Respect? What have you—any of you—ever done to deserve respect? Nothing except be born into a life where you’ve been pampered and petted until you think you are tremendously important.” Hart had no illusions about who her little speech was addressed to; she might have waved a scornful hand at all of them, but she hadn’t taken her eyes off him.
Sinc, Monty and friends were shocked to silence.
“Georgiana!” Lady Salter hissed something else Hart couldn’t catch.
“And am I not?” Hart said, all ice and silk. Women rarely challenged him. Not like this—head-on. He wasn’t sure whether he was aroused or annoyed. Perhaps a little of both.
“No, like your friends, you’re an arrogant, ignorant boor.” Ignoring the gasps all around her, she gestured angrily toward the stage. “These people have talent, serious God-given talent, and they’ve devoted their lives to honing it. And when they make music, people should listen and be grateful that they’re alive and privileged to hear it. Not blunder in with their drunken friends, responding to . . . to glory with crass jokes and mindless, mocking, suggestive bibble-babble.”
“Georgiana!” her aunt snapped. Lady Georgiana lifted her chin, but otherwise ignored her.
Hart raised his brow. “I see.” Was she serious? Taking him to task in public? An arrogant, ignorant boor, was he? He was no longer intrigued. He was seriously annoyed.
She snorted. “I doubt it. I doubt whether you—”
“Georgiana! That’s quite enough!” Lady Salter said with freezing authority. “Come, Georgiana, Dorothea, we’re leaving.” She rose and, gripping the girl by the arm, turned to Hart. “I apologize for my niece’s outrageous incivility, your grace—”
“I don’t,” the niece interjected. “I meant every word.”
“Hush, you appalling gel!” Her aunt hustled her out. Plump little Lady Dorothea, gathering up shawls and various bits and pieces, lingered a moment and threw him a mischievous smile over the division between the boxes. “Will we see you at our ball, your grace? Next Wednesday, Berkeley Square?”
Cheek must run in the family. She was old enough to be his grandmother. As if he would honor the blasted Rutherfords by attending their blasted ball.
“Dorothea!” Lady Salter snapped from the door. The little aunt winked at him and hurried out. The door closed behind her. The box was empty.