My Favorite Countess by Vanessa Kelly

Author:Vanessa Kelly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2011-03-28T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

For the first time in her life, Bathsheba wished she were sitting in the pit at Covent Garden, along with the half-naked Cyprians, carousing tradesmen, and drunken bucks of the ton who all looked to be enjoying themselves a great deal more than she was. Instead, she was ensconced in Sir David Roston’s private box, hemmed in on one side by the mildmannered baronet and on the other by his sister, the most severely correct woman in London. For the last forty-five minutes, Miss Roston had engaged in a diatribe about the decline of modern manners, delivered in a flat monotone that stretched Bathsheba’s nerves to the breaking point.

She had to give Miss Roston credit—the aging spinster had a nose for sin, homing in with unerring skill on any member of the ton whose behavior suggested even a mild flirtation with vulgarity or vice. Since that represented almost everyone in the theater, she didn’t lack material to fuel her outrage.

Several times, Bathsheba had cast a long-suffering look Sir David’s way, hoping he would rescue her from his sister’s dreary homily. But he had simply given her vague, placating smiles and turned away, launching back into his endless philosophical discussions with Mr. Peters, Lord Torton, and any number of political men who drifted in and out of their box. She might as well have been sitting on a clump of gorse in Yorkshire for all the notice the baronet had shown her this evening. That baffled her, for his attentions in the last few weeks had been quite pointed. She could only hope he had already decided to marry her, and so no longer felt the need to engage in active pursuit.

With a sigh of gloomy resignation, she tried to ignore the twinges sparking at the back of her eyeballs, hoping they didn’t develop into a full-blown headache. The caterwauling on stage didn’t help. Kitty Stephens—she of the dulcet voice—had yet to appear, forcing the audience to endure a number of appalling musical interludes before the real talent appeared. Not that the hundreds of patrons stuffed all the way up to the pigeon holes seemed to mind. They came as much for the show in the boxes and in the pit as for the performance on the stage. Bathsheba usually did, too, often playing a part in the grand spectacle herself. But not one of her regular flirts had cared to subject himself to the utter boredom of Sir David and Miss Roston’s company.

“Good gracious,” droned the taffeta-clad gorgon sitting next to her, “is that Lord Burton sitting with Harriett Wilson? One wonders what Lady Burton would say if she could see her husband openly peering down the front of that creature’s gown. One can hardly imagine.”

Bathsheba pressed the throbbing point between her eyebrows, wishing she didn’t have to answer. But she supposed she had to make some attempt at conversation with the woman who, horrible as the thought might be, could soon be her sister-in-law.

“Miss Roston, we might assume that Lord Burton would not be gazing down Miss Wilson’s dress if Lady Burton were here with him.

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