Our box – courtesy of the Harper name – was dark, secluded, and incredibly intimate. Velvet seat pressed close together, brocade curtains heavy enough to hide a multitude of sins – a room, or box, as lush as any could be. But the awkwardness hung around the moulded ceilings like cobwebs, too delicate to see in the dark but enough to make one shudder whenever you brushed against one.
I couldn’t help but keep turning their words over in my mind. Not to mention the way they had looked through me, barely even seeing the gold-plated veneer of one of Gideon’s passing fancies. A curiosity that broke the mould and nothing else.
“Not your usual type.”
“Worst predilection for blondes.”
“Legs up to here.”
That could describe a thousand women in our high society, our exclusive, affluent club
