her—not those squabbling over a seat in the pit—his penetrating gaze searching her face. But then the orchestra launched into the overture, drawing everyone’s attention to the stage. No doubt the mournful strains were meant to set them on edge, to create an atmosphere ripe for impending horror. Indeed, the curtains opened with a scene of a gothic chamber in Victor Frankenstein’s house. They were introduced to his laboratory assistant, Fritz, asleep in a chair but woken by a symphony of song.
Finlay leant closer. “I don’t recall reading of an assistant in Shelley’s novel.”
“I believe Presumption is a melodrama. I was told to expect dancers, gypsies and peasants, too.”
If Mr Peake intended to frighten the audience, he succeeded. Women gasped and swooned upon witnessing the sight of the bulging-eyed creature. The demon corpse. Husbands cradled their wives and scrambled in reticules to find trusted vinaigrettes. Many in the pit jumped to their feet, unsure whether to remain frozen or flee.
Sophia couldn’t help but compare the stranger in Blackborne Wood to the monstrous figure on stage. An unhealthy need drove both devils. Both devils sought to harm an innocent woman in the name of vengeance. That the doctor’s assistant was named Fritz, and her stepson Fitzroy, seemed more than a blinding coincidence.
The end of the first act culminated in a fight between the creature and his master. “Fiend!” the doctor shouted, drawing his sword. The thunderous thud of drums and the clash of cymbals tore shrieks from the audience.
Sophia’s heart thumped in her throat. The crowd’s hysteria proved contagious. Swept up in the moment, she reached out and gripped Finlay’s thigh. Honed muscle flexed beneath her fingers. She suspected his sharp intake of breath had nothing to do with the violent struggle on stage.
Her focus shifted from the play to the handsome man whose gaze turned intense. His slow perusal of her body seared her skin like lust’s fiery flames. The way those dark eyes reached deep into her soul spoke of a more powerful connection. The kiss they’d shared said he wanted her, but could he learn to love her again? That was a more complicated question.
Perhaps she should have snatched her hand away, but the power beneath her palm was a potent aphrodisiac. She loosened her grip slightly and drew her gloved hand slowly up Finlay’s thigh.
His hiss of approval mingled with the audience’s hiss of contempt.
But he did not cover her hand or push it away.
Sophia dared to edge higher.
Finlay relaxed back in the seat, spreading his legs wide in open invitation.
She ventured closer to the placket of his black breeches, couldn’t resist stroking the noticeable bulge. He was hard—hard for her. The thought sent her heart galloping.
Were they anywhere but in a theatre full of people, she would hike up her skirts and straddle his lap. He would push into her body, stretch her wide, thrust so deep she would know she wasn’t dreaming.
Indeed, she considered slipping her fingers inside the opening, wrapping them around his throbbing manhood and pumping him to completion. He seemed willing, almost desperate for her to take matters into her own hands.
But then the curtains fell amid a chorus of gasps.
Sophia removed her hand but could not temper the lust pooling low and heavy between her thighs.
His breathing was ragged, too, his expression pained.
“Finlay, you’re the only man I’ve ever wanted,” she said, for she could no longer suppress her feelings. Desire blurred reality. Desire made one act on impulse. “I don’t want to leave this world without knowing your body. I’m tired of feeling empty.”
He made no reply.
“I need you. If only for tonight.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“What harm can it do, Finlay?” Every syllable oozed with desperation. “Two lonely people taking comfort?”
He reached across and captured her hand but still said nothing.
The curtains parted for the second act. It began with Victor’s turmoil, his guilt, his fear. Finlay sighed numerous times during the soliloquy. He sighed during the marriage scene. Sighed when the sentimental love song echoed through the auditorium.
As the play progressed, the tension on stage was nothing to the tension inside the viscount’s box. The air vibrated with a heavy energy that grew in intensity. Only the shudder of their sweat-soaked bodies and the passionate cries of their climax could curb this agitation.
Musket fire and rumbling thunder accompanied the death of Victor and the creature on stage. The curtains fell to rapturous applause. Patrons pushed to their feet.
Sophia wasn’t sure she could stand. “Are we to remain for