He said, “A word, Mrs. Chalker, if you will.”
As he spoke, before she turned, he looked down at his fingers. They felt warm—no, hot. Yet he’d been rubbing them all night in his box because they’d felt so cold.
Touching her had done that. Her skin warmed him instantly, even though he felt it through her costume. The dress that had appeared sumptuous from his box here showed itself frayed, cheap. This close, he could see that her hair was auburn though some attempt had been made to lighten it. It was why he hated the theatre, its falseness, its front. Like the whole of society. He wanted to tear all that away, get to the essence. Beginning with the woman turning to him now, her elbow burning his fingertips.
skin“Sir,” she said, finally facing him, and he could barely restrain a gasp. He h
