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“Try to be nice, Didi” Edwina whispers quietly into Kate’s ear as she grips her arm a little more tightly.
“I am always nice.” Kate volleys back, smiling at a few nameless couples who are watching the sisters ascend the stairs. It seems to happen more now, that feeling of being watched. As if walking around with a diamond, a diamond engaged to a viscount no less, suddenly makes one a spectacle. It just makes Kate want to run away and hide.
“That is not entirely true, sister. At least not where my intended is concerned?” Her intended.
Her sister’s intended. The faceless man they’d risked everything to find, traversed oceans, and left everything they had ever known for. The unknown man who held the key to their everything.
Only now he had a face.
And a name.
“Lord Bridgerton.” Edwina coos, and her little sister bounces gently upon her arm at the sight of him, her body quivering in her excitement. In contrast, Kate feels everything still.
“Miss Edwina.” His lips stay tightly together but turn up enough at the edges for to pass for a smile.
She hates it. Hates how aware she is of him. How she knows every inch of the dishonesty in that smile. How she knows he is not looking at Edwina at all, even though his eyes never move from her sister’s face.
“Lady Danbury, Lady Mary.” He bows politely, smiles sweetly, nods gently. “Miss Sharma.”
She hates that it feels like he’s been waiting to say it. Like every moment up until the second his eyes find her was just anticipation, just a waiting game. It is brief, his gaze, but enough, before his eyes travel back to her sister’s. Where they belong.
Edwina is looping her arm in his now, Kate following on behind. Alone. They ascend a final staircase, leaving the hubbub of the crowd below them as they all file into the darkness of a small holding room.
“Is that not correct, Kate.” Her sister’s voice is asking, though she can barely see her in the dimness, just the occasional glimmer of light catching the sequins of her dress. When Kate does not respond, the question comes again. “I was just saying how this is your most favourite opera.”
“Is that so, Miss Sharma?” His tone is friendly. Nonchalant.
But he knows. She told him once. On a promenade some weeks ago now, when somehow they both fell to the back of the group and were forced to exchange pleasantries under a beautiful autumn sun, warming their backs as they strode in unison. She had been trying to outfox him, of course, by challenging his knowledge of opera only to find her love of the art was matched by his. An hour had passed all too quickly then.
“Yes, and Kate was so very upset when she heard we had missed the London series. What a pip that that they are performing just one more time. We are so very lucky, are we not, Kate?”
As Kate goes to respond, the heavy curtains before them are held open and suddenly the great expanse of the opera house is revealed to them, and her words are stolen from her.
It is the most opulent sight she has ever seen. Rows and rows of red velvet seats line up orderly below her, as they are filled with the black and white suits of the Ton’s respected gentleman, and the sparkling gowns of the ladies. The stage is hidden behind a vast, royal red curtain, fringed with gold, and it stretches the full height from the floor to the ceiling, giving a sumptuous grandeur to the well-worn wooden boards that it covers.
The domed ceiling though is what steals her eyes. At first, she marvels at the skilled artistry, images depicted with such a delicate hand but soon she recognises the scenes. Moments from the operas that she has always dreamed to see, etched with such beautiful lightness that Kate loses herself to the study.
It is the slight charge of the air that finally pulls her attention away. A pressure building between her shoulder blades, a weight of expectation pressing against her until she cannot ignore it. It forces her back to the room. To his eyes. Watching her. Something brewing there, a question he is not asking.
“Kate?” Edwina again, still smiling, still eager. “I was saying how upset you were that you thought you had missed this.” Edwina is bouncing on her toes, her enthusiasm at odds with his stillness. His proud shoulders straight, hands clasped tightly behind his back as he watches and waits for her reaction. He is standing at the edge of the box, body turned out to the hall but his face is angled towards her. Waiting. Asking. For approval?
“Yes, I was most upset.” And his eyes narrow as she says it.
She wonders if he remembers their conversation. How she had lamented that the only operas they were showing whilst she was in London were old French and Italian ones, those in vogue gothic operas that lacked any passion, any humour, any gumption.
How she was so sad to have missed this opera specifically. Of course, he would not remember. Probably did not even recall their walk. Did not remember how her hand had wrapped so perfectly around his forearm. How their hips had bumped against each other pleasantly, as they found a steady rhythm together. How, just as they had caught up with the others, there was a fraction of a moment when her pinkie finger had pressed against his. Skin on skin. So fleeting and yet she could almost feel it now. The fierce, searing heat of his skin on hers.
“We are most lucky indeed to be watching from such a fine vantage point, my Lord.” Mary places a comforting hand upon Kate’s shoulder as she addresses the viscount, her smile reassuring as Kate looks back at her. “Thank you so much for inviting us tonight.”
“My pleasure, Lady Mary.”
“Then us stop our jabbering and take our seats before we miss the show, shall we.” Lady Danbury reproves in her usual irritated tone as she pulls Mary to a trio of seats in the second row, allowing Edwina and Lord Bridgerton the honour and privacy of the two seats overlooking the balcony.
“Oh no, Kate, you should sit here at the front.” Edwina beams.
“Pardon me?” Kate and Anthony say in unison, and she is not sure who sounds more panicked.
“You know I do not care so for opera, and you have been speaking of wanting to see this for years. You should have the best seat in the house.” Edwina raises her shoulders a little as she taps her fan against her palm, looking ever so proud of her idea.
“I hardly think that is appropriate, Edwina. I am sure your betrothed would wish to sit beside you.” Kate flicks a look over to the man in question, who is pulling at the edges of his waistcoat and straightening his impeccably neat cuffs. Eyes resolutely on his toes.
“Quite.” He manages, almost beneath his breath.
“I am sure he will not mind one evening in your company, Kate. And you will not be in London much longer so who knows when you will have a chance like this again. I am sure Lord Bridgerton and I will come to the opera all the time once we are wed.” Edwina’s smile is impossibly bright as the viscount looks up at her sharply.
His fidgeting hands still. His mouth parts slightly as he looks for a long time at her sister. When he finally looks back to Kate there is a darkness, a sadness, clinging to him.
“Miss Sharma?” He holds a hand out then, lightly placing his fingers just before her.
Kate will not look at him, cannot, and so she looks over at Edwina. Smiling so surely that Kate’s heart shatters a little.
“My Lord.” Her words are almost too quiet to make out over the rising murmurings of the crowd below, but as she places her hand in his she hears her own heart pounding as if it were drumbeat. He squeezes her fingers, leading her forward before lowering her to the seat beside him.
He does not let go.
Not straight away. He just stands there, looking down at her. Silhouetted by the light of the theatre behind him, he is cast in the shadows, not hiding his face, just playing at the edges. Darkening his features and deepening his gaze.
The sharp bell of the curtain call jolts them both and he pulls his hand back quickly. He shifts on his feet for a second more before carefully sitting down beside her.
The silence between them is deafening.
She longs to say something. Or for him to say something. But instead, the unease just stretches on. Behind her she can hear the other women chatting happily, and it just makes their quietness so much louder.
Before her, she sees a small pair of opera glasses and she decides to pass the time studying the art above her. Gripping the long handle, she flicks the glasses up, expecting them to catch so they are more easily held. Instead, they hang limply. She tries again, more forcibly flicking her wrist but still, they do not catch and dangle uselessly. She huffs, irritated. “These are broken, mine are broken.”
As she moves to put them back down, his hand falls softly upon hers, taking the glasses from grasp.
“Allow me.” And with a smug smile, he flips the glasses over fully and they catch on the other side of the handle with a reassuring click. As the viscount holds them out for her to take, she prepares a cutting retort, refusing to let him feel superior, but there is something about his smile now, gentle and kind, that dissolves her need to bite.
A moment passes, before he leans forward and whispers far too closely to her ear. “Who is it that you wish to spy on?”
His tone catches her off guard. It’s almost friendly. Playful. Perhaps teasing.
“I will have you know, my lord, that I planned to enjoy the artwork.” She says as haughtily as she can, pointing up at the dome.
“How very dull.” His small grin is so childish, and twinned with such a mischievous look in his eyes, that she finds a giggle escapes her. When he smiles back, she is sure the room lights up a little brighter.
“Very well. Entertain me.” she challenges.
“My pleasure. Let us see who we have in tonight.” He leans forward then, elbows resting on the edge of the box as he peers out across the crowd. “Ah, interesting. Over here.” He leans across slightly to draw her attention, his fingers cupping her elbow and it’s like a jolt of energy. She brushes it off quickly, letting him draw her in as she matches his position resting over the edge of the railings.
“Lord Trowbridge, of Essex. Famously married the incomparable of his season, a true love match they say and nothing to do with the fact she was worth triple that of his own family. And he is here tonight with, well, would you look at that, it is certainly not Lady Trowbridge.”
“That woman is young enough to be his daughter.” Kate gasps.
“Granddaughter more like.” Anthony chuckles, and she looks at him then, wanting to see his smile. His eyes bounce generously across her face as he watches her laughing along with him. He stays studying her for just a beat too long, long enough that she feels something growing uncomfortably between them. Only it is not wholly discomfort, it is something else too. Something she won’t name.
“Who else?” she suggests, and he breaks away, looking back out across the crowd.
“We have Lord Burlington, see him over there by the end of the third row?” She follows his gaze and leans forwards a little more, their knees knocking together. “Last I heard, he drank so much whisky during a game of cards that he lost half his fortune. Drowning his sorrows afterwards, he came up with the genius plan to win his money back by buying a stable full of racehorses. A venture he decided to move forwards with immediately, sadly he only remembered that fact the following morning when his long-suffering wife and servants woke to half a dozen racehorses walking about in their sitting room.”
“No?” Kate exclaims, and the smile on his face makes her descend into a fit of giggles. “Well only a fool would buy a racehorse without thinking through the consequence.” She raises an eyebrow at him then and has to bite her lip not to dissolve under the brightness of his smile.
“Touché.” he mutters, clearing his throat with a smile before turning back to the crowd. “And there is Miss Cressida Cowper.”
“Oh yes, I know Miss Cowper.” Kate sighs. “A particularly unpleasant and cruel young lady.”
“Everybody knows Miss Cowper. And do not take heed, she will always do her best to cut down any woman she thinks more beautiful or more intelligent than her, I can imagine she would despise someone like you.” He pauses then, realising his unexpected compliment and swallows heavily before continuing. “Did she tell you of her attempt to seduce a visiting marquis from France a few years ago? I was fortunate enough to be in ear shot at the time, she was trying her best to outsmart the other ladies by speaking in some terribly poor French, and rather than inviting him to the dance floor she accidentally told him to put a frog somewhere quite unmentionable.”
Kate’s answering laugh was far too loud for the smallness of their box, and she felt herself draw the attention of the other occupants, but she could not quite bring herself to look away from him. Not when he was laughing so heartily, his head thrown back and shoulders heaving. “I think she did more to damage English and French relations than Napolean.”
“My goodness, my Lord. Why have you not shared all this gossip with me until now. We have wasted so much time at balls bickering when you could have been entertaining me.”
“I was trying to act the gentleman.” He says it flippantly, with another smile, before he realises when he has used that term before. The position he has put her in when trying to be a gentleman. And suddenly they are not laughing.
But he does not pull away. Their forearms still touching as they lean across the balcony. Their faces close enough that she can feel his every exhale across her cheek, can smell the faint scent of the whisky he must have had while he waited for them to arrive. The soap from the bath he had this evening. The warm, comforting familiarity of him.
A long, drawn out note from a single violin echoes across the dome above them and shakes the tension that had settled between them. They both pull back together, flush against their chairs as they look resolutely ahead, studying the stage and lost for a moment to their own thoughts. Their own memories.
The audience falls to a hush.
A lone figure appears on the stage, draped in a deep blue velvet cape, an elaborately crafted wig is set atop his head and his skin chalky white beneath the intense candlelight of the stage.
Kate watches as he takes a deep breath, his chest expanding before a note of sheer perfection is released from his lungs.
She gasps.
…..................................
Anthony adores the opera. He always has.
His parents had first taken him as a young boy and he had been enraptured ever since. The music, the stories, the drama. And as he grew, it became an escape from the humdrum of reality, the crushing pressure of his real life was suspended whilst the curtain was raised. It became his joy. His passion.
But he soon realised he had never truly experienced the opera. Not really. Not until today. He had never been so utterly moved, never felt it really stir his soul, until he saw her experience the opera.
From the very first note, he was captivated. The little gasp she made, the way her eyes had widened in surprise, in awe. It made him want to drop to his knees before her. It is possible that for the entire performance he barely looked at the stage for more than a few moments.
Kate Sharma was a conundrum. One that had fascinated and scared him in equal measure. Ever since he had made her acquaintance all he wanted to do was figure her out, see beneath the surface, understand her, know her. Though her façade never slipped. Every emotion was schooled before it flowered. Everything prim and proper, and hidden. Until this moment, when she bloomed.
In the semi-darkness of the opera hall, with the drama unravelling on the stage, it was as if she had drawn back her own curtain. Every emotion was expressed with abandon. When she laughed, she did so loudly, throwing her head back unreservedly. When she was shocked, she clutched a hand at her bosom, mouth parted in her surprise. She was so alive. So at ease. It was the most endearing thing he had ever seen.
It was only when he felt a pain in his cheeks that he realised he was smiling. That he had been smiling at her for some time.
He’d been so lost in his study of her that he had not realised the performance was nearing its end. The music growing ominous as the lovers on stage contemplated their future apart. Theirs was a forbidden love that could never prosper. A tale as old as time.
And Miss Sharma sheds a tear, for the characters on stage. Her eyes watery and still now, as her sadness seemed to drown her.
When she lifted a hand to gently wipe away the tear, he found he tracked her every movement religiously. The soft pass of her fingertips across her cheek. The way she spread her fingers across her lap as she lowered her hand, her thumb catching lightly on the soft silk of her skirts as she traced a gentle circle there.
He knows he should not have. He knows that now. But it had felt so intimate, sat there in the darkness. Miss Sharma so close beside him, hurting and sad. It felt so natural to let his little finger rest against hers, skin against skin. Warm, reassuring. To show her she was not alone. Not yet.
She inhaled sharply, but otherwise did not move. And they sat there like that as the performers sang their final aria, the star-crossed lovers facing their fate. Together and then alone.
When the final note sounded, she jumped to her feet in her applause. A few others amongst the crowd followed suit.
He was slow to stand, needing a moment to compose himself because the whole world had been suspended. Held aloft. As that final note had played she had turned to him, her smile so bright it was if the sun had come out. It was all for him. That smile. Just for him.
And he had smiled along with her. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It was worth everything, that smile. It had been worth it all.
….........................................
“What did you think, Lord Bridgerton?” Lady Danbury is looking at him somewhat peculiarly. Lady Mary and Miss Edwina have gone to powder their noses, leaving the dowager and Miss Sharma waiting for the carriages in the ticket hall. The area is filled with excitable audience members, and he is trying to steer the three of them to a slightly quieter corner.
“Captivating.” He calls behind him, as he spots a quiet alcove and begins to move towards it.
“Yes, I noticed you were most enthralled throughout the performance, Lord Bridgerton.” He turns back to look at her then, her tone is filled with warning and the look she flashes him was enough to freeze him to the spot.
“Quite. Shall we?” He nods his head toward the small area he has acquired, averting his eyes as Kate brushes passed him to avoid the burning glare from Lady Danbury.
“Do you think you can behave yourself with your future sister-in-law for just a moment whilst I greet an old acquaintance.” she says beneath her breath.
“I do not know what you are insinuating.” Though by the arch of her impressive eyebrow it is clear they both knew exactly what she meant. He huffs loudly, but nods, and watches her cross the floor to greet an elderly couple near the doors.
When he turns away, he finds Kate is waiting quietly for him, hands clasped before her and looking suddenly small and sad. The smiling, open woman from a moment ago now lost to him.
He needs her back, just for a moment, before they run out of time.
“So, was it everything you expected Miss Sharma?” he asks, trying to draw her attention.
“I suppose.” She does not smile, but when he dips his head in disappointment it seems to soften her a little more. “It was more than I could have hoped for, my Lord. It was breath-taking, really.”
“Good.” The pride blooms in his chest unabashed.
“Thank you, for allowing me to accompany my sister. I hope I did not overstep by sitting beside-”
“I did not mind.” He says too quickly, the memory of her closeness making him a little unsteady on his feet and, perhaps by mistake, perhaps on purpose, he falls a little closer to her now. Just a step. And perhaps it’s his imagination that she mirrors him, and sways that little bit nearer too.
“My family have a box, though none of them are really opera lovers. I am glad to have found someone who shares my passion.” The final word hangs in the air for a few moments, just floating between them, neither willing to catch it. “Why this opera?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said this was your favourite, why?” He tilts his head, curious. It had plagued him all night, his need to know. As he’d watched her bite her lip in anticipation during each aria, as she’d caught her breath at a vibrato, her eyebrows scrunched together as she lost herself completely to the performance. It was maddening, this need to know every part of her. Peel back every layer.
“A few reasons.” She steps a little closer still. The echoing chamber of the ticket hall carries the sound of a few dozen voices so she is forced to lean up towards him to make herself heard. “When I was little my father bought me the sheet music as a gift when Edwina was a baby. I may have been a little bit of a handful after she was born, elder sibling jealously.”
“Hmm” he hums, a smile quirking on his lips. “I can imagine you being a handful.” The smile she flashes back at him makes his stomach drop.
“All elder siblings experience it and I can imagine you were worse than most.” He puts his hand against his chest, in mock outrage and then there it is again, that smile. “And this opera, above all else, is about the love between the sisters, do you not think? I know it is meant to be about the King and his lover, but really for me that is secondary. It is the sister’s love that I always adored. It was what my father was trying to tell me, that there is nothing more important that the bond between family.”
“Ah.” He drops his hand then and goes to clasp it behind his back, as usual. Though he hesitates. Looking down he sees she is playing with the edges of her shawl, her long, elegant fingers twirling the embroidered edges so he drops his hands to his side.
He begins to lightly drum his fingers against his thigh, so close to her hands that they almost touch. He can feel the light brush of air against his skin as she twirls the fabric, and it is almost electric, to be so near her again.
“And as I grew it became something my father and I shared. He would ask me to sing the arias to him. Every night, we would sit together on our little terrace, and it didn’t matter how tired he was, or in the latter years, how ill, he would still sit there with me when I sang to him.” Her eyes watered a little, but she still had a sure smile on her face. It was a happy memory.
“I did not know you sang.” He says quietly, and she raises an eyebrow at him, and it takes him by surprise, that he knows that exact angle. That he knows everything she is saying just from one tiny quirk of her brow. Why are you always surprised by me. “Are you a good singer, Miss Sharma?”
“Absolutely terrible.” And the strength of her smile was so unexpected that he barks a laugh, loud and clear and bright. It booms through the room until a few people turn to look at them. She lets him have the moment, chuckling along with him, she gives him just enough before she takes it away again. “But love blinds you to someone's faults, does it not?”
“I think perhaps it blinds you to everything.” he says sadly, and she nods very gently.
He wonders how long they would have stood there like that. Lost in each other's eyes, lost to the world, despite being surrounded by people. Fingers so close to touching, though not quite. So close to saying it all, though saying nothing. But they are interrupted. And it ruins everything.
“Viscount Bridgerton?” Anthony whips his head around to see who is calling for him, and at the sight his heart begins to hammer.
“Mr Pilkington. A pleasure, but I am afraid we cannot stop. Our carriages await.” He knows his sudden change in countenance will not go unnoticed, and sure enough as he looks down at Kate a frown is etched across her face.
“Lord Bridgerton, just a moment. I could not let you leave without thanking you.” The man does not stop his approach, waving his hands excitedly as he nears them and Anthony is trapped. The alcove they have wedged themselves in allows for no escape.
“It really is not necessary. And time is-” Anthony flicks his pocket watch towards him, trying to discourage him with a withering look but apparently this man is impervious to him.
“Just a very quick moment, my Lord. You were so very generous in your donation, how could I not thank you.” Finally, his approach stops as he takes in the woman beside him. “Is this her? You’re betrothed?”
“No.” Anthony knows he says it too sharply, but he can feel her eyes on him now, puzzled and scrutinising, and its suddenly so hot and stifling in this huge room that he finds he cannot keep his mind steady. “This is her sister, Miss Sharma. Miss Sharma, Mr Pilkington is the manager of the opera house. However, I must insist we depart, our carriages are waiting, so we really must be-”
“I do so hope that she enjoyed it, you’re betrothed, after all the effort you put in to have the company back. Honestly, I have never seen such a feat as getting all the performers back for just one night at such late notice, so I do hope she thought it worth it?”
"What do you mean, sir?” Kate has turned her attention to Mr Pilkington now, her big brown eyes absorbing every word and leaping to conclusions. Probably to very correct conclusions, he fears.
“Oh, did he not tell you? Lord Bridgerton arranged the whole-”
“Please, Mr Pilkington. Now is not the time.” Panic rises in his throat, burning at his edges until he can barely breathe, barely think, barely stand whilst her eyes hang so heavily on him.
“Oh. Oh. ” Finally, the foolish man understands, sensing the unbearable tension he has forced into the tiny space between their bodies. “Oh my, dear me, perhaps I have said too much. I am sorry, my Lord, I assumed- .”
He is backing away now, his eyes bouncing between the couple before him. “Ah, well. I shall leave you be. Just with a thank you from the house, we appreciate your generosity and well, I bid you good night.”
For a few moments, a room filled with bodies falls deathly silent, at least to his ears. She does not move, she does not breathe, she just stands there contemplating him and it is as if time will not end.
His blood feels like it is boiling beneath his skin in his shame. He did not want it to be like this. He just wanted her to be happy. Just for one night. He couldn’t bear her disappointed look, when she had told him all those weeks ago how disappointed she had been to miss this. How she had seemed so sad, and he just wanted to give her something. Had wanted to take away her sadness and make her smile. He had wanted to see her smile exactly as she had done so a few moments ago.
That smile was gone now.
He fixes his eyes upon a window on the other side of the room, the inky blackness beyond the glass being a welcome distraction from the look he knows awaits him otherwise.
“Did you-” it is futile to pretend he will not turn to her. That he will not seek her face one more time. “For Edwina?”
“No.” He says to the window. “Not for Edwina.”
And he turns. But her face does not hold the anger he expects. Nor mockery. Nor disappointment.
It is regret.
And it is the hardest thing he has ever had to look at. But he makes himself look nonetheless, hoping, somehow, that he can carry it for her. Take on her burden. Free her from the fate he has forced her towards.
“Oh there you two are.” Edwina’s bright voice shatters the moment.
“Didi, are you alright, you look white as a sheet.”
“Yes, yes. I am quite well.” Kate is smiling now, a small, timid thing but it is enough to placate her sister. “Just feeling thankful, that I was able to have this night. With you.” He looks up then, and sure enough Kate’s eyes hover just above her sister's head as she speaks. Capturing him in her gaze.
He does not think he will ever tire of that feeling, the endless tenderness of being under her eyes. Though he knows he should stop.
That he must stop.
Enough now, he tells himself. That’s enough.