Hart’s eyebrows rose a notch.
Hannah leaned over to whisper into her ear, but not quietly enough for Sloane to miss the words. ‘They are estranged from Mr Sloane.’
Miss Hart darted a quick glance at him, one that did not linger.
The orchestra struck its opening chord, but the cacophony of voices from the audience did not subside one bit. The audience was too busy watching the spectacle of each other to bother with the opening of the curtain and the entrance of the first performers on the stage.
Morgana smiled to herself, taking in the disorder in the seats below, the ogling going on from box to box, the beautiful music and powerful, stirring voices. But all seemed mere background to the man who sat so near to her, Mr Cyprian Sloane.
Cyprian was an odd name, one she’d rarely heard except as another term for harlot. What would it have been like to grow up with such a name?
She stole another glance at him, pleased that her cousin sat between them so she could do so without him being aware. He’d said very little to any of them and still less to her, but she thought she perceived a hint of the man who fought with such restrained violence in the park. In a way, fighting in the park seemed a more fitting occupation for him than sitting in an opera box.
He was not quite focused on the stage, but still on the box where his father sat. There was a story there, she was certain. If she had the opportunity, she might ask him why he was estranged from his family. It was the sort of direct question she often later regretted. Such directness from a lady was not at all the thing.
She suspected it was one of the reasons she did not take with young men. It had been four years since she’d last been in a London theatre. She’d been nineteen, like Hannah, and it had been her come-out. But she’d ended that Season without a husband. She’d since decided she was glad of it.
Sloane shifted in his seat, and she stole another glance at him, seizing a few seconds to study his strong profile. His looks were faintly Latin, with his dark hair, strong nose and wide mouth.
She never would have guessed those gentlemen in the other box were related to him. She’d have more readily believed them related to Hannah. Lord Dorton, his son and grandson all shared the fair hair and complexion she saw so often in England and so rarely in Spain.
Sloane turned his head in her direction and she quickly averted her gaze, pretending she’d been watching the stage. She fancied she could feel his grey eyes upon her, and her pulse quickened.
For the first time in her life Morgana wished she were her frivolous cousin Hannah. She wished she’d been brought up in an English country house, with an English governess, attended an English girls’ school, and learned to be thrilled with ladylike pastimes and housewifely pursuits.
But even so, would Cyprian Sloane be sitting next to her instead of her cousin?
She forced her gaze back to the stage.
The opera was Penelope, and Morgana thought herself fortunate to be present at the soprano’s début performance in the King’s Theatre. Violante Camporese’s voice proved rich and full, and Morgana set herself to focus her attention on the performance.
She managed tolerably well, and believed herself in complete mastery of her thoughts when the interval came. A servant arrived with refreshment, but soon nothing would do for Hannah but that she be taken to her bosom friend’s box, and, because she could not go with Sloane alone, they all must go. So Morgana pushed herself through the crush of people all bent on calling upon someone else. She noticed one box with several gentlemen hovering at the door and made a mental note to figure out who was seated there.
When they knocked on the door to Miss Poltrop’s box and the young lady saw who’d come to visit her, there were squeals of welcome and hugs between the two friends. The rest packed themselves in and, for a moment, Morgana had to squeeze by Mr Sloane, very aware of where every part of his body touched hers.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said in his deep smooth voice, as if he, too, had noticed the contact.
Introductions were made. Lady Poltrop and Morgana’s aunt were quickly deep in whispered conversation, and her uncle and Lord Poltrop just as quickly exited the box. While Hannah and her friend Athenia were giggling together, Morgana was momentarily at eye level with the knot in Mr Sloane’s neckcloth. The man had to stand at least six feet tall.
‘Do you enjoy the performance, Miss Hart?’ he asked politely.
She had to tilt her head to look at him. ‘Oh, yes. The drama and intrigue. Who is seated with whom? Who is cut and who not? The conquest by man of woman.’
His eyes crinkled in puzzlement.
She smiled and deliberately fluttered her eyelashes. ‘You meant the performance on stage, perhaps? I was speaking of the entertainment in the boxes and on the floor.’
Then he did a marvellous thing that made her heart quite jump up and down in her throat. He laughed, a deep rumble of a laugh, complete with twinkling eyes and wide grin.
Hannah looked over. ‘Mr Sloane, come talk with me and Athenia. We have great need of your company.’
Morgana’s pulse still raced when he moved away without even a look back at her.
Her cousin Varney came to her side. ‘Glad to see you out, Morgana.’
She was grateful he’d come to distract her. ‘I am glad to be out at last.’
Varney glanced over to where Hannah stood clutching Sloane’s arm in a lively, giggling conversation with her friend. ‘What do you think of that?’ He bent his head in their direction.
Morgana raised her brows. ‘What am I to think? Are they to be engaged? Hannah has said she has hopes of it.’
Varney nodded. ‘Oh, she has hopes, all right. He’s flush enough, to be sure, but I still cannot like it.’
‘Why?’ Morgana could not help but ask.
Varney squirmed a little, glancing back at Sloane. ‘A lot of talk surrounds that fellow. Some people say he was a smuggler during the war, in it for his own profit. He has a reputation as a philanderer and a card player—and not always in gentlemen’s clubs.’
Morgana, too, directed her gaze at Sloane.
‘I cannot think he is the man for Hannah,’ Varney added in a gloomy tone.
Sloane looked every bit the part her cousin Varney described. She could more readily see Sloane at the helm of some smuggling vessel or seated at a green baize table staring at a hand of cards, than here chatting with two misses in their first Season. Morgana said what she was thinking. ‘Does your father know of this talk? Why would he allow Sloane to court her then?’
Varney grimaced. ‘Truth is, the family needs Hannah to make a good match. A wealthy one, that is. Sloane has been the best prospect thus far, and no one can complain of anything in his recent behaviour.’
‘He is reformed, do you say?’
‘I do not say it,’ he protested. ‘But others insist he is reformed. Castlereagh, for example. And the Marquess of Heronvale. Both are known to speak well of him.’
