The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

When the curtain fell after the first act, Kate was dismayed to see that Lady Bellingham was gently dozing in her chair. She was uncomfortably aware of how close the earl was sitting to her. She tried to draw away, for his leg was but an inch from hers, but Lady Bellingham’s ample figure prohibited it. She felt his eyes upon her, and she paled, hating herself even as she felt herself go white. He was big, too big, and she knew that he’d set himself upon a course and would do his best to bring her to heel.

“Are you enjoying the play, my dear?” he asked, leaning close to her.

She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek and was uneasily aware of something insidiously warm deep inside her. Her heart was pounding loudly; surely he must hear it. Without turning to him, she said, low and vicious, “It’s quite tolerable, if only I could enjoy it fully. That is, if you were absent.”

“Only tolerable? You surprise me, for I thought you quite animated over Kemble’s performance, despite my presence. Know too, my dear, that you couldn’t attend the theatre without a gentleman at your side. Since I am the devil you know, don’t you prefer me?”

“A devil is a devil. I wish all of you in hell, where you belong, certainly not here with me.”

“I really do wish you would face me. Although you have a lovely back, I would much prefer conversing to your face.”

She didn’t move.

He said, his voice ruminative, “I hadn’t thought you a coward. It’s a disappointment to have so misjudged your character.”

She turned quickly in her seat, her mouth open, doubtless to shoot him verbally. He said quickly, “That’s much better. You really must cultivate that look of innocent outrage, it makes your green eyes sparkle quite attractively, you know. Please don’t turn away again, for I’ll think you’re afraid of me.”

“Afraid of you? I’d just as soon split your gullet, my lord. Afraid, ha! Your perfidy passes all bounds. If I had you alone I would surely make you sorry for what you’ve done to me.”

“Done to you? Surely I’ve done naught but very acceptable things for you. You’re out of your father’s house and with Lady Bellingham, surely a gracious hostess, though I imagine that you torment her quite enthusiastically when the poor lady happens to mention me.”

She gave him a long, bitter look. “I wish you would go away, my lord. I told you very nicely that I wouldn’t marry you. I meant it. I wasn’t being coy. Please, just leave me alone.”

“That’s much better, though you’re still not up to your former repartee. I feared that your wit had grown dull during my absence. Poor Bleddoes, he had not the wherewithal to keep pace with you. Rest assured, my dear, that I will keep you properly amused, when it pleases me.”

She’d never met his like in her life. He was so different from the kind gentleman, nay, the kind friend, at St. Clair. Here he was the ruler; here he commanded, he ordered, and everyone obeyed without a blink. She couldn’t begin to understand him, nor could she seem to hit upon a strategy to reduce him to rubble. He was deliberately provoking her, taunting her, letting her know quite clearly that he was the one in control. Well, she couldn’t let him succeed. She shrugged her shoulders as if in only slight irritation and turned to look at the elegant audience. She was immediately diverted.

“I do wish you would tell me who that oddly dressed man is who is waving at us. How very curious he is wearing a yellow-and-green-striped waistcoat.”

“That’s Mr. Fresham. He’s always fancied himself Brummell’s greatest rival. You must see him walk, his heels are so high one fears to see him to topple over at any moment. One fears or waits with gleeful anticipation, myself included.”

“How altogether ridiculous. Men should appear as men, and not as painted peacocks. Someone really should take him in hand.”

“Shall I take that for a compliment?” he said, humor and a good deal of satisfaction in his voice as he returned Mr. Fresham’s wave.