Free The Heir and the Spare by Maya Rodale Page A

Weren’t men in love always trying to be near the object of their desire? Stealing a kiss, a touch, even a secret glance? Perhaps she had been reading too many novels.
    He had done so once. But he clearly had no intention of doing so again. Promise me it won’t happen again, he had said. Oh, the thought burned still. But couldn’t he even show the smallest sign of affection? He could hold her hand, at least . . . It was dark, and they were seated quite close to one another, and her chaperone was in all likelihood more focused on what was transpiring in other boxes.
    Twice he had made his desire clear, and both times he had seemed like a different man.
    “The Lady bade take away the Fool. Therefore, I say again, take her away.”
    Perhaps she was the fool, to want to bond herself to him for life based on the memory of one kiss. It had been the greatest five minutes of her life. But supposing she did marry Phillip, supposing he even asked, would kisses like that compensate for a husband who was otherwise indifferent? Who oh-so-rarely had a spark in his eyes when he looked at her. Were love and passion so much to ask for?
    Phillip selected that moment to emit a snore. Appalling. His head suddenly jerked forward, and he awoke. He lazily fixed his eyes on the stage. Emilia turned away.
    “How does he love me?”
    “With adorations, fertile tears, with groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.”
    Oh, to be loved and love like that , Emilia thought.
    “Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth; in voices well divulged and free, learned and valiant, and in dimension and the shape of nature a gracious person. But I cannot love him.”
    She didn’t wish to, but she could not help wondering why she fancied herself in love with Phillip. It wasn’t for his great estate or nobility. He apparently did not possess a stainless youth, according to her aunt, but that didn’t matter to her either. It was that one kiss.
    A gracious person . . . the line stuck in her head. Your Grace—that was how to address a duke or a duchess. And if she married Phillip, she would one day be a duchess, and every time she tripped, fell, or spilled something, someone would ask her, an utterly graceless person, “Are you all right, Your Grace ?” A bubble of horrified laughter escaped her.
    And then she remembered what had first captivated her so about him. The way he moved, the way he carried himself, the way he caught her. How could Phillip ever again catch her if he never stood close enough?
    The curtain drew to a close, signifying the end of the first half. Phillip offered to fetch them lemonades, and then vanished, leaving the two women alone. They spent the duration of the intermission gossiping about the fashion choices, both disastrous and complimentary, of the other women in attendance.
    Phillip returned to the box and handed them each a glass of lemonade just as the curtain parted for the second half of the performance. Sometime in the fourth act, Emilia stole a glance at Phillip, who was staring straight ahead, with his eyes just barely open. She just couldn’t help but look at him. She focused on Phillip’s perfect, aristocratic profile. She saw the planes of smooth, flawless skin, the slope of his nose, and slight frown lines. His mouth that had once offered her such pleasure was now held in a grim line.
     
Phillip was aware that Emilia was staring at him. Finding the play dull, he amused himself while trying to decide which was more irritating—her staring at his profile, or the way she would occasionally mouth the words along with the actors. Since when did females have Shakespeare memorized? No matter, it would all change once they were married. Of course, he would not be such a fool to bring it up until then. She didn’t seem the sort who would take kindly to being told her behavior wasn’t befitting a duchess. He could not afford to jeopardize losing her affections. Or her