Hart stretched out his legs as best he could and leaned back, unwilling to betray his awkwardness. He didn’t look at Loxleigh and Loxleigh didn’t—so far as he could tell—look at him. They sat for some time in silence as the idiocies in the amphitheatre continued.
Not speaking to him, not acknowledging him, simply seemed to make Hart more aware of him. He was vividly conscious of Loxleigh’s presence, the compact form, the thighs encased in tight kerseymere cloth which were all he could see out of the corner of his eye, the soft sound of his breathing despite the noise and chatter around him. He became irrationally aware of his own breath, which seemed to be in time with Loxleigh’s, and tried to change the pattern by breathing slower, then felt short of air and had to restrain himself from gasping.
This was absurd. But he couldn’t stop noticing Loxleigh, and he was sure, absolutely sure, the man knew it.
The musical interlude ended, and another began, this time a pastoral comedy dance announced as ‘Who Stole the Sheep?’ Hart gave an involuntary grunt of distress.
Loxleigh leaned over. He didn’t touch, nothing like it, but Hart thought he could feel the heat of his body all the same. “Are you enjoying the performance?”
“Frankly?”
“I don’t expect you to sugar-coat your words.”
“Then, no.”
“What a shame. I’m sure you’ll love the dancing dogs,” Loxleigh said, and sat back.
Hart had to look at him then. He was watching the stage with an expression of absorbed innocence, yet Hart could swear the bastard was laughing at him. He leaned over in return. “I suppose you’re enjoying this? The sheep, I mean.”
Loxleigh’s brows went up. “Why?”
“You made a point of being a country boy. I’d expect you to be particularly fond of sheep.”
He intended that vulgarity to provoke offence. Instead, Loxleigh gave an involuntary, explosive choke of laughter, which he attempted to stifle with a cough so noisy that Alice looked round in some alarm. He took a moment to recover his composure. “I fear you have greater knowledge of countryside practises than I, Sir John.”
“Weak,” Hart said, quietly enough that it could be meant for himself, just loudly enough to be heard. Loxleigh didn’t reply but his lips tightened. He was clearly trying not to smile, and Hart had to bite the inside of his own lip. They were not supposed to be entertaining one another.
The sheep people went off. The dancing dogs came on. Hart watched the younger girls shrieking and cooing in the front row while Miss Loxleigh and Giles talked quietly, heads together. Loxleigh sat in silence, his presence throbbing in Hart’s awareness.
The dogs went off. The magician came on. It was possible the evening might last forever. What was he doing here? He’d come to ensure Loxleigh didn’t spend the evening flirting with Alice, but they’d barely exchanged a word, and she was entirely absorbed by the entertainment. That was a relief—a young lady in the throes of calf-love wouldn’t apply all her attention to dancing dogs. Perhaps they’d made a great to-do over this for no reason. Perhaps Loxleigh had made no impact on her at all.
But he glanced over at Loxleigh—at his generous mouth made for kissing, at his clever, fluent hands and the shifting light in his eyes—and he couldn’t quite see how that was possible.
Chapter Six
Days after the trip to Astley’s, Robin was still thinking about it.
Bloody Hartlebury. As if it wasn’t enough to be mannerless and inconvenient and intimidating, with those ridiculous eyebrows and that magnificent, unapologetic nose, he was so obtrusive. He’d sat in the corner of Robin’s vision the whole endless evening. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he’d put all his attention into his intended prey’s uncle and none into the prey herself until Marianne had asked him, somewhat tartly, which one he was trying to seduce.
Hence he was walking with Alice in the park now, well wrapped up against the cold. She was a sturdy walker, who probably tramped tireless miles in the countryside for pleasure. Robin had tramped a lot of miles himself out of necessity. It was why he intended to become sufficiently rich to take carriages for the rest of his life.
“I’m glad you enjoyed Astley’s,” he said.
“Oh, it was marvellous! Thank you so much. Did Marianne have a good time?”
“Very much so.”
“She seems to be good friends with Giles—Mr. Verney. You know he is Uncle Hart’s best friend, and the families are very close, so I have known him all my life.”
Robin filed that away as a warning for Marianne. He had not failed to notice her black head next to Verney’s fair one, deep in laughing conversation all evening. It was ill-judged when she should be concentrating on a marquess. Verney seemed adequate from the little attention Robin had paid to him, but they had bigger fish to fry.
“I wondered if you would care to see Grimaldi’s Pantomime,” he offered.
“Oh, I am to go with Jennifer Verney tonight. I’m sorry. It was very kind of you to invite me. I hope you will go anyway?”
He smiled down at her, making it a little amused and very tender. “Not without you. The pleasure you take in theatre is better than the piece for me.”
Alice blushed. “I do enjoy it awfully. I suppose I should be more restrained.”
“Why? It’s there to be enjoyed. That’s its purpose.”
“I suppose so. It’s just, most people are used to it here, whereas we have very little chance to see these things at home. There is some theatre, tours and so on, but not the grand spectacles. So I do like being able to see them, and I can’t pretend to be sophisticated and jaded about it.”
“I’m glad you don’t. Would you prefer to live in London, and have these things to hand?”
Alice considered that for a couple of steps. “Would it be terribly boring if I said, not really? London is awfully large and very dirty and there are so many people. And I can’t be myself. At home I have my friends and my studies, and people know I’m a bluestocking but they consider it an oddity, rather than a terrible ailment to be concealed.”
Robin laughed. “Are you that much a bluestocking?”
“I study mathematics,” she said in a rush, as if admitting to stealing the spoons. “With a tutor, Dr. Trelawney. He has a doctorate from Oxford and went to the university at Heidelberg too.”
“Good heavens.”
She searched his face. “Do you think that’s unseemly? My interest, I mean.”
“Not at all. If you enjoy it, why should you not pursue it?”
“It’s not what most young ladies do.”
“But you are not most young ladies,” Robin said, a practised line that he hoped would evoke another blush.
It got a scowl instead. “Well, nor are any other young ladies, by definition.”
“I meant, there is nothing wrong with having unusual interests.”
“Or usual ones, either. I think it must be very nice to be interested in the things one is expected to be interested in, as well as a great deal easier.”
“Lord, that’s true,” Robin said with deep feeling. He’d have been saved a lot of trouble in life if he were interested in women, for a start.