Six months of being the prize buck of the season had taken its toll. Bored, he searched for Miss Merriweather in the crowd. His gilded quizzing glass revealed no sign of her. Strolling behind the private boxes in his row, he heard nothing of her voice, saw no hint of her petite figure behind the thick, red curtains. Last night’s confession was still on his mind. He wanted to see her again, but would she prevaricate and feign ignorance? “You are popular tonight,” Simon remarked. “Jealous?” Francis teased. Simon and Rowena had only come to London recently, and news of their marriage had shocked the haute ton. Everyone wanted Lord and Lady Waverly at their dinner tables and soirees. “I am enjoying your popularity far more than you are.” Francis grinned. “Perhaps I should hide beside the chamber pots until the opera begins.” His grandmother had convinced all and sundry that he wanted to find a wife. “The ladies will merely send a footman after you with more notes,” Simon gestured behind them where an usher stood, carrying two missives.
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