Chapter 5: Opera Obscenity
The opera was a distant storm. From the private corridor, it swelled and receded in waves of strings and woodwind, a polished soundtrack to the polite torture of the evening. Kate stood before the heavy velvet curtain separating the Bridgerton box from the hall, her hand trembling as she reached for the handle. She didn’t go in.
Instead, she turned, her slippers silent on the cool marble. She moved away from the light pooling under the curtain, deeper into the shadowy throat of the corridor. Gilt-edged mirrors and sombre portraits of past patrons watched her pass. The air smelled of melted beeswax from the wall sconces and the faint, floral trace of perfumes that had drifted from the boxes.
She checked the folded paper in her reticule for the tenth time, though she’d memorized it.
Corridor. A quarter hour before the final act.
She was early. Purposely. She needed a moment to simply breathe, to unclench her jaw, to stop feeling like a thief in her own skin.
The moment evaporated.
“Punctual again. I’m starting to expect it.” Daphne’s voice came from a velvet-draped alcove to her left, a shallow niche meant for a statue. She stepped out, a vision in sapphire silk that drank the dim light. She looked perfectly composed, as if waiting for a friend to return from the powder room.
Kate’s heart hammered against her ribs. “You said the corridor.”
“And here we are.” Daphne took a step closer, her smile not reaching her eyes. The music from the main hall dipped into a melancholic adagio, leaving their silence thick and exposed. “You look tense. Was the performance not to your liking? I find the soprano a trifle shrill tonight.”
“Where is the Duke?” Kate asked, her voice too tight.
“Simon? Indulging in port with Lord Granville, no doubt. He finds the third act interminable.” Daphne closed the final step between them. The corridor was deserted. From a nearby box, a burst of polite laughter filtered through the door. “He won’t interrupt us.”
She didn’t touch Kate. Not yet. Her gaze was a physical inventory. “You’ve been thinking about this,” she stated.
“I’ve been thinking of nothing else,” Kate admitted, the truth torn from her.
“Good.” Daphne’s gloved hand came up, not to caress, but to trace the high neckline of Kate’s gown, a proprietary gesture. “It’s all going so well for your sister, you know. The wedding plans. Anthony is the model of devotion.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that smelled of mint and champagne. “In fact, he’s with her right now. At Bridgerton House. Taking tea with Mama and Lady Mary. Discussing the guest list, I imagine.”
The image was a sucker-punch: Anthony, his dark head bent in polite attention, Edwina’s sweet smile. A perfect, sanctioned scene. While she stood here, in the dark.
“He’ll be telling them how he cannot wait to make her his viscountess,” Daphne continued, her fingers now toying with a loose curl at Kate’s temple. “How perfect she is. How fortunate he is.” Her other hand flattened against Kate’s abdomen, pushing her back until her shoulders met the damask-covered wall. “He’ll mean every word, too. He’s very good at meaning them.”
Kate’s breath hitched. The wall was unyielding. Daphne’s body was a soft, relentless barrier in front of her.
“While you,” Daphne whispered, her lips now chillingly close to Kate’s ear, “are here. With me.”
The hand on Kate’s stomach slid downward, over the silk of her skirt, gathering the fabric in a slow, deliberate fist. Kate squeezed her eyes shut. The opera’s melody soared again, a tragic, beautiful distraction.
“Look at me.” Daphne’s command was soft, absolute.
Kate opened her eyes. Daphne’s gaze was unnervingly clear, analytical. There was no lust in it, only a cool, terrifying curiosity. The rustle of silk was obscenely loud as Daphne’s hand slipped beneath the gathered hem, past her stocking tops, finding the bare skin of her inner thigh. Her fingers were warm through the kid leather of her glove.
“He’s probably holding her hand right now,” Daphne murmured, her fingers applying a steady, inward pressure. “A chaste, proper touch. The kind a gentleman offers his future bride.” Her own touch was anything but chaste. It was clinical, deliberate. “Do you think he’s thinking of you while he does it? Of how you taste? Of the sounds you make?”
A whimper escaped Kate’s throat, part shame, part something else entirely. Her head fell back against the wall with a soft thud.
“I doubt it,” Daphne answered her own question, her movements becoming more insistent, more specific. “He’s probably thinking of his ledger books. Or his horses. That’s the tragedy of men like Anthony. Their passions are so… compartmentalized.” She shifted, her body pinning Kate more firmly. “We aren’t like that, are we? We feel everything all at once. The shame. The anger.” She twisted her wrist slightly. “The need.”
Kate’s nails dug into her own palms. The music from the hall was building to a crescendo, the singer’s voice piercing the air. It matched the frantic, forbidden pulse building inside her, orchestrated by Daphne’s cruel, knowing hands. She was a instrument being played, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps that she tried to stifle in the crook of her own arm.
“That’s it,” Daphne coaxed, her own breath now slightly uneven. Her eyes were fixed on Kate’s face, watching every flicker of surrender. “This is what you come here for. Not for her. Not even for him. Not really.”
The finale of the act erupted in a thunderous wave of sound from the hall, applause beginning to roll like distant thunder. At that exact moment, Daphne’s touch hardened, a final, precise stroke that unraveled Kate completely. A choked cry was torn from her, lost in the covering noise of the applause. Her knees buckled, but the wall and Daphne held her up.
As the climax receded, leaving her hollow and trembling, Daphne slowly withdrew her hand. She smoothed Kate’s skirts down with a disturbingly domestic gesture, then produced a small, monogrammed handkerchief from her sleeve. She wiped her gloved fingers with fastidious care.
“There,” she said, her voice regaining its previous lightness, as if they’d just concluded a mundane chat. “Now you can go back to your sister. You can look Anthony in the eye. You can play your part perfectly.” She tucked the handkerchief away. “Because this is your part, too. The most important one. The secret.”
Footsteps sounded at the end of the corridor. The interval had begun; people were spilling out.
Daphne took a step back, adjusting a perfect sapphire earring. “Next week. My drawing room. Three o’clock.” It wasn’t an invitation. It was a schedule.
She turned and walked away towards the murmuring crowd, melting into a group of elegantly dressed ladies without a backward glance.
Kate remained against the wall, the cold damask the only thing keeping her upright. The taste of bile rose in her throat, but beneath it, deeper, was a throbbing, humiliated ache that felt suspiciously like hunger. The applause from the boxes finally faded, replaced by the buzz of conversation.
She had to move. She had to return to the real world, where Anthony was taking tea with her sister. She pushed herself upright, her legs unsteady. As she walked back toward the light, the grand staircase, the waiting footman, she realized Daphne was right.
This was her part now. And a horrible, silent part of her was already rehearsing for next Thursday.