To Sketch a Sphinx - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,27

the same.

She had never felt more out of place in her life, and that included any and all events in London.

“Remind me what we are seeing this evening, de Rouvroy,” Pratt said in a surprisingly calm and seemingly interested tone.

The baron grinned as he led their procession down the crowded corridor. “In honor of you both, Pratt, we will enjoy Elisabetta, regina d’Inghilterra. Extraordinary music, simply marvelous.”

Pratt only grunted and pasted a would-be pleasant smile on his face.

Hal pitied that false smile, least of all because it looked as though it pained him.

“I saw this when it played in London,” Hal whispered to Pratt as they continued towards the box her cousin had reserved. “Middling at best. Rossini wrote the role of Elizabeth for his mistress.”

“You aren’t serious,” her husband muttered back.

“I never jest about opera.” She grinned up at him, nudging his side a little. “Don’t worry, I heard that he married the woman a few years ago.”

Pratt glanced at her, his lips curving just enough to be encouraging. “Because that was my primary concern.”

Hal snickered, covering her mouth to stifle the sound from her relations. Sometimes, her husband’s dry humor really was quite perfect. Had she noticed that during their previous encounters? Not that she would have found anything praiseworthy in him, given their disputes and opinions in the past, but surely he’d shown some humor then.

Or had they only met under stressful situations where any sort of joviality, dry or not, would have been inappropriate?

If she knew anything about John Pratt, it was that he was never anything less than appropriate.

Never.

As they moved up the stairs, de Rouvroy began to wave at other guests and greet them warmly, his French taking on a more formal tone, though nothing in his behavior changed from the manner Hal had seen from him so far. All warmth and friendliness, all affability, and he seemed to know every single person who greeted him.

Hal marveled at her cousin and shook her head to herself. She had never been that person, and she would never be. Where he seemed to revel in the attention, she would have shrunk back from it. She knew a great number of people in Society, and they knew her, but she would flee from any occasion that would have involved being in the center of them.

Her cousin would have apparently preferred to collect them all and let the attention fall in showers of praise around him. This meant that whatever number of people were greeting her cousin, their attention would also fall upon her by association.

Her cheeks flamed in response to the realization, and she found herself tucking closer to her husband, though there was no shield anywhere from the curious eyes. The staircase was open to the level above, and so well attended was the opera this evening that those eyes were everywhere. Every aspect of Hal, of Pratt, of de Rouvroy, of them all, would be witnessed by anyone watching them. All scrutinized, all commented on, and all creating an impression, for good or for ill.

There was no comfort to be found in that.

None at all.

Don’t trip. Don’t slip. Don’t fall.

She repeated the orders in her mind as she placed one foot in front of the other on the stairs, praying she did so with a modicum of grace. Poise had never really been an emphasis for her, more due to the lack of concern rather than a lack of necessity, yet now she felt that thread running through her spine and tugging herself upright. Could feel the books piled atop her head. Could feel the fingers beneath her chin pressing it up just enough to be perfect.

She could hear Miss Walker’s instructions now and could feel the disappointment in her efforts.

That wasn’t exactly the sort of feeling she wanted at the moment.

Perhaps now she could rewrite the past, in a way.

“Smile,” Pratt murmured beside her. “We’re not porcelain, even if we look it.”

“This coming from you?” she murmured through her teeth. She managed a laugh. “You never smile.”

“I’m a gentleman,” he retorted. “Smiling is not required. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for young ladies.”

Hal would have snarled if her face had let her. “I’m not young.”

“Ange,” Pratt grunted. “Smile.”

Something about the mixture of frustration and amusement in his voice made her want to smile, but the sound of his name for her was the only thing that actually brought a smile to her face. Not a grand one, that was beyond her during the