Michael had taken a seat beside her and he casually turned his head to look where she indicated. “That’ll be the king’s son, the Prince o’ Wales. He does bear a fair resemblance to his da, though ’tis said the king hates his son most strongly.”
“The king hates his own son?” Silence felt incredibly naïve. How did Michael know this and she did not?
He shrugged. “The king and the prince are never seen together.”
Silence tried not to stare at the florid man with the protuberant eyes. “Oh! And what about the lady beside him?”
“His wife, I think,” Michael murmured. “ ’Tis rumored that he’s devoted to her.”
“Really?” Silence examined the princess. She wore a very elegant silver and white gown, but she was little more than a girl.
She craned to see who was in the boxes on their side of the opera house. “Do you come here often?”
Michael shrugged. “Once or more a month.”
Silence looked at him then. She’d not thought when she asked the question that he would answer in the affirmative. “You do?”
He smiled, his face in profile to hers. He didn’t lean forward eagerly as she had done, but his attention was most definitely on the crowd, the stage, and the atmosphere of the opera house itself. “Aye, and is it that startlin’ a savage such as m’self can find pleasure in music? Or is it the elegance o’ the music I like that surprises ye?”
“I am surprised,” she admitted. She was fascinated by the beauty of his profile, the severity of the straight lines of his forehead and nose, the sensual curves of his lips, and the arrogance of his chin.
He turned and caught her watching him and the smile left his lips. His eyes grew intent, his eyelids drooping, his eyebrows looking quite satanic and a little frightening.
She found him so tempting that she pressed her hand to her chest without conscious thought.
He followed the movement.
A corner of his mouth kicked up as he stared at her exposed bosom. He reached out and trailed his finger lightly across the upper slopes of her breasts. “Ye have no idea how long I’ve waited to see these.”
She caught his hand in her trembling fingers, uncertain if she was thrilled or mortified.
He didn’t try to pull away. “If I knelt right now at yer feet no one would see.”
“I…” She glanced at the low wall in front of her. It hid her from the waist down to anyone looking at the box. An image of him kneeling at her feet popped into her head and she suddenly stopped breathing. “What?”
“I could kneel there and lift yer skirts,” he murmured. “Ye’d have to be very still, mind. Very quiet. And no matter what I did ye couldn’t let it show on yer face.”
She stared at him, mesmerized by his deep, slightly rasping voice as he told her his wicked thoughts. She blinked, unable to resist asking, “What would you do?”
A corner of his mouth curled and his black eyes were intent. His hand left her lax fingers and trailed over her bosom, down her stomach, to her lap. “Do, love? Why, I’d fold yer skirts up, careful like, a little at a time, until I could see yer sweet cunny, hidin’ there between yer thighs.”
He pressed with his palm on the place that he described and it seemed to burn right through the layers of cloth.
She bit her lip, unable to look away from him.
His nostrils flared as if he could scent her arousal. “I’d part yer sweet thighs and touch ye there, where yer pink and wet. I’d slide me finger through yer softness, up until I touched that little spot at the top.” He tilted his head, watching her. “D’ye know the spot I mean?”
“I…” She swallowed, feeling the heat rising over her throat. She knew, of course.
“Tell me.”
She closed her eyes. “Yes.”
“And have ye touched yerself here?” He spread his fingers wide as if claiming possession of her femininity. “Tell me, Silence me love. Have ye touched yerself and thought o’ me?”
She drew in her breath—to deny or confirm, she didn’t know which—but a squeak came from the orchestra.
Michael lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the palm, his lips warm and intimate.
Silence stared at him, her heart fluttering in her chest.
He smiled into her eyes, placed her hand gently back on her lap, and turned his gaze to the stage. “Hush. It begins.”
MICK SMILED TO himself as he turned to watch the stage. He could hear Silence’s quickened breathing, still saw in his mind’s eye the pink tingeing her lovely chest. He was rock hard from their play and were she a doxie he might’ve pulled the curtains and taken her there.
But she was a lady true and he had no intention of making her flee. No, he’d take this slow, seduce with voice and imagination, and when he finally took her to his bed, well then, the victory would be all the more sweet for the anticipation. He sat back and swiftly made his breeches more comfortable as the music swelled.
The musico stepped out on the stage to calls of approval from the audience. The opera singer was Italian, well known, and had quite a following in London. He was unnaturally tall and a bit fat and he stood woodenly on the stage, his body ungraceful. But when he opened his mouth… what delight!
Mick closed his eyes as the mezzo-soprano voice flew, high and precise, confident even when the notes were rapid and complex. Mick had come to the opera a little more than a year ago on a whim and had been instantly enthralled. That a man could produce such a wonderful sound almost made him believe in a God.
Almost, but not quite.
Mick opened his eyes and turned to watch Silence. She was leaning against the rail, her expression utterly rapt. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes wide, and a curl of her hair drifted against her fair cheek. It occurred to him that he was very content thus, watching Silence and listening to the opera. Was this what happiness was? Strange thought. He’d never considered happiness before. That kind of prosaic life was not for him, he knew. But here, now… he had a glimmering glimpse of what happiness might be.
At the intermission he left her and fought through the crowds to a certain hawker he’d seen outside the opera before.
“What’s this?” Silence asked when he returned with laden hands.
“Cream cakes and wine,” he drawled, and felt the warmth light his chest at her delighted gasp.
He watched her eat the pretty cakes he’d found for her and drink the sweet wine and the satisfaction was so pure that it gave him pause. Was this all an illusion? Could he trust her as he’d trusted once before, long ago?