To Sketch a Sphinx - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,43

to the others…”

John groaned but nodded all the same. “It would defeat the purpose, but politeness must be observed.”

They shared a look that was so clearly in unison, it was a wonder they didn’t express the feelings behind them more frankly.

What in the world could that mean?

As Hal left to offer the invitations, and no doubt to change for the evening, John stared at nothing in particular, his mind spinning on an entirely different puzzle altogether.

When had Hal ceased to be a trial and become his Ange in truth? When had he found comfort in her rather than conflict? Why did spending more time with her seem to be the best use of his time, and the desire to be alone with her more prominent than to be alone himself? How had he found himself so changed so quickly, and yet feel more like the truth of himself at the same time?

For the first time in many long years, he found himself wishing his brother were somewhere in the vicinity to confer with. Though Jeremy was a rogue and a rapscallion, his advice was usually sound. And he would have a far better idea of these matters than John could ever hope to.

But Jeremy wasn’t here, and he had nothing to go on but his instincts and his desires.

At the moment, they were aligned and told him to spend the evening at the opera with his wife.

His wife.

What a concept.

With that in mind, John took himself off to his rooms to let Leys make him into as much of a peacock as he might wish, not entirely caring what he looked like this evening so long as he was with Hal. Undoubtedly, she would look overdone as well, and the pair of them could laugh about it without the worry of behaving in a certain manner.

An hour later, which seemed a ridiculous amount of time for a man to be situated in apparel no matter what the occasion, John stepped back out into the adjoining parlor.

“Ange?” he called.

“One moment more,” came the almost cheery response. “Collette needs to put on a finishing touch!”

John smiled to himself and began to pace the room aimlessly, the strange lightness in his heart feeling entirely foreign but not unpleasant.

Not at all unpleasant, actually.

He’d never felt anything like it, especially during an assignment. He should have been climbing the walls in agitation over his lack of progress in his work, but instead…

“All right, now I am ready.”

He turned, thought unfinished, and instantly lost any ability to think at all.

What stood before him was a vision belonging on a canvas with meticulous paints attempting and failing to capture the brilliance, magnificence, and beauty in a transcendent, timeless manner. Not a living, breathing, perfectly mortal being sharing the same air he was.

The gown itself was lovely, a shade of blue pulled directly from the palest part of the sky, beaded and embroidered with white flowers and vines that created the illusion of an ethereal garden. The tiny sleeves hung precariously at her shoulders, the expanse of porcelain skin more arresting than the details of the gown itself. Flawless skin, bare from shoulder to shoulder, her neck free from any accessory that would have detracted from her perfection.

Simple, undeniable perfection.

The neckline was surprisingly modest considering the shoulder line, the hint of lace bordering it tempting any imagination to drift there, though John surpassed all that by returning his attention to her face.

Her cheeks held the faintest blush, her smile tucked in a shy expression of inner delight, either at his reaction or her own. And that smile would have undone any man with blood in his veins.

“Ange…” he breathed, unable to voice her name any louder, reverence of expression seeming poignantly accurate.

She lifted a trim brow at him. “Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”

“Non, madame.” He shook his head and closed the distance between them, lifting a gloved hand to his lips. “C’est moi qui dois vous remercier. Merci mille fois.”

He felt her breath catch as much as he heard it, and the desire to smile became irresistible.

“Shall we?” he inquired, his mouth barely lifting from the surface of her glove.

He watched Hal’s throat work for a swallow. “I think we must,” she whispered, her fingers fluttering in his hold.

He nodded and led her towards the door, hardly a word spoken between them as they ventured down to the entrance to retrieve their outerwear.

De Rouvroy met them there, all smiles. “I do hope you have a pleasant evening. Enjoy the opera.