She’d think he was playing some game to catch her, but he didn’t seem to play any games. He certainly didn’t seem to notice her in that way. Or care if she was drawn to him. It maddened her.
If she could just figure him out, she could prove whether he’d make a reliable husband. It was all she could hope for these days, with Mama going to increasingly desperate lengths to catch her a rich fellow. Vanessa lived in daily fear that her mother might trick her into being caught in a compromising position with the likes of Lord Lisbourne.
Fortunately, Sheridan wasn’t known to be a debauchee. Unfortunately, after their initial three dances, Sheridan had avoided her. At first, she’d chalked it up to his being in mourning. But mourning had ended for him at the beginning of last season, and still he’d kept her at a distance. Meanwhile, Mama had nearly thrown Vanessa into Lisbourne’s arms half a dozen times. One day she would succeed . . . if Vanessa didn’t find a husband herself before that.
Her uncle leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “If it’s not Armitage you have your eye on, who is it? Juncker, perhaps, as your mother claims?”
Oh, dear, this was a dicey conversation. “Mama doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“No? She’s not the first person to say you’re enamored of him.”
That was her own fault. She cursed the day she’d told Grey she had a tendre for some unnamed poet. She’d said it just to tease him . . . and to keep him from guessing she really had a tendre for Sheridan. Because if he were to tell Sheridan and Sheridan were to disdain her for it, she would die of mortification.
After that, at Grey’s wedding, Sheridan had asked her, rather condescendingly, about the identity of the poet she was romantically interested in. First, she’d wanted to brain Grey for telling him about her “poet” at all. Then, desperate to think of a poet she might know, and having just read a book of Mr. Juncker’s poetry, she’d told Sheridan it was Mr. Juncker.
From there, her white lie had run amok with her life. Mr. Juncker had discovered it and had started flirting with her. Grey had learned of it and started teasing her regularly about it, while Thornstock had taken her aside to warn her about Mr. Juncker’s raffish ways. Even Mama had heard and now lectured her frequently about not being taken in by people of Mr. Juncker’s “sort,” whatever that was.
Out of that, however, had come one distinct advantage. Sheridan had seemed jealous. She couldn’t be certain, since he was mostly as inscrutable as ever. But having him regard her as a grown woman—no matter how infrequently—was better than not having him regard her at all.
Which prompted the question: Was Sheridan even here tonight? Leaning forward enough to see if he sat in the Armitage family’s box would give Vanessa’s interest away. Then a thought occurred to her. “Mama,” she whispered, “do you have your polemoscope with you?”
With a nod, her mother drew it from her reticule. But before Vanessa could seize it, her mother asked, “Whom are you using it to observe?”
After her mother’s diatribe against Sheridan, she dared not say it was him. “The marquess, of course.”
“Don’t toy with me, girl.” Funny how Mama always assumed other people lied as much as she did. “I know you have your heart set on that playwright, and he is far beneath you.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Taking the polemoscope from her mother, she put it to her eye and leaned forward. Mama had purchased the curiosity after Papa’s death, but Vanessa had never used it.
Until now. The polemoscope looked exactly like an opera glass or spyglass, which was ironic because it literally allowed one to spy on the people in the boxes to one’s right or left without anyone knowing. She could easily see everyone in the Armitage box.
Thornstock and Sheridan sat behind their sister, Lady Gwyn, and their mother. The two ladies were clearly chatting, but although his brother chimed in from time to time, Sheridan seemed disengaged from them, cloaked in his usual stoic manner. Like a saint.
Or a sphinx. A sphinx fit him better, given his impenetrable character. Suddenly he looked over at her, and she started, unnerved by his attention, though she knew he couldn’t tell she was watching him.
She dropped the polemoscope into her lap.
“Is he there?” Mama asked.
“Who?”
“Your Mr. Juncker.”
Good Lord, she hadn’t even checked. “Yes,” she said, praying he was. She lifted the polemoscope and scanned the other boxes. And there he was, Mr. Konrad Juncker, the supposed object of her affections. Plenty of women worshipped him for his wild golden hair and his Nordic blue eyes, though he wasn’t really accepted in good society. He dressed like a poet and talked like a playwright. Indeed, at the moment, he was clearly flirting with some lady Vanessa didn’t even know. That was why she would never be enamored of him. He was rumored to be quite the rakehell, resembling her late father too well to suit her.
Still, she wished she’d never blurted out the words that had set her on the path to pretending to care for him. Because if she seemed to switch her affections to Sheridan at this juncture, Sheridan would think her fickle. Or worse, playing some deep game. Which she hadn’t been initially. But as Sir Walter Scott had written, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave / When first we practice to deceive.” Her web grew more tangled by the day.
She set the polemoscope down. Vanessa had prayed she’d get a chance to speak to Sheridan, but she despaired of that happening. Especially as the play reached the end of the first act, and a quick glance at the Armitage box showed he’d disappeared. No doubt he was flirting with some other—
“Good evening,” said a smooth-as-brandy voice. “I trust you’re all enjoying the performance?”
Vanessa’s pulse jumped as Sheridan came around the chairs to lean against the balustrade, facing her and Mama. Sheridan was in her uncle’s box? How unexpected.
How delicious.
“We’re liking it as much as one can, given that it’s not new,” Uncle Noah said from his seat behind Mama. “Still, I’ll take an old play by Juncker over a new one by just about any other playwright. He knows how to entertain, I’ll give you that.”
Only the slight furrowing of Sheridan’s brow told her he wasn’t pleased by the praise of Mr. Juncker. She only wished she could be sure why.
“Armitage,” Mama said coldly. “I don’t believe you’ve met my brother, Sir Noah Rayner.”
Given the rude familiarity of Mama’s greeting, Vanessa wouldn’t have blamed Sheridan one whit if he’d left. Fortunately, Uncle Noah glossed over it by rising and coming around Mama’s seat to thrust out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Duke.” His gray eyes twinkled a bit. “I’ve heard so much about you from my sister.”
“Don’t be silly, Noah,” her mother snapped. “Ignore my brother, if you please, Your Grace. I am not a gossip.”
What a lie. Mama was both a gossip and a manipulator.
Her uncle gestured to the seat beside his, the one directly behind Vanessa. “Do join us. My niece was just saying she would love your opinion on the performance.”
Clearly Mama wasn’t the only one who could turn a situation to her advantage. But at least Uncle Noah was pushing Vanessa toward Sheridan and not toward Lord Lisbourne.