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It had served as a stark reminder of the lives he’d taken and the horrors that would haunt him for the rest of his days.
    The sound of applause interrupted Drake’s dark musings. Act I had concluded.
    “Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer to join me in a game of Hazard right now?” Sin asked.
    Drake passed an absent gaze over the theatre that swarmed with bodies. The hand of a silent specter gripped his throat and squeezed, making breathing difficult. Vivid, unflappable memories and images of friends in arms swept past the floodgates of his mind, flooded him with their overwhelming intensity.
    He jerked as the crowd’s murmurs gave way to the agonized cries of his men as they were cut down around him until he wanted to clamp his hands over his ears and drown out the remembrances. Except there was no escaping his loyal horse, Midnight’s tortured last whinny as the faithful creature was shot out from under him. Or the men, screaming for a God who didn’t exist, as the physician sawed their limbs from their person.
    He needed out. Black remembrances of the war had crept in , and if he left the theatre, perhaps he could also leave the memories behind…just for the night, anyway. “Let’s go,” Drake growled.
    He bolted from his seat just as the curtains of his box were thrown open.
    And a hand slipped through , hitting him in the face. “Oomph!” he barked around a mouthful of the billowing, red velvet fabric. The curtains fell neatly back to their respective place, revealing the identities of the intruders.
    “My Lord, how good to see you!” One young lady greeted, her voice dripping with effortful charm, either unmindful, or uncaring, that he had been hit square in the face.
    Drake froze, a prickle of unease travel ed up his nape. After the weeks he’d spent trying to banish thoughts of the lady’s impressive showing from each corner of his mind, all his efforts were ground to dust in this instant.
    Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh stood before him, her spine erect, a determined glint in her eyes.
    ***
    Emmaline’s smile stretched so taut she thought it might crumple and shatter if somebody didn’t fill the void of silence following her unexpected intrusion of Lord Drake’s private box.
    Almost as one, the two gentlemen seemed to remember their manners, bowing deeply. “My Lady, Miss Winters,” Lord Sinclair murmured, claiming first her hand, and then her companion’s for a chaste kiss.
    Respectful was the word tantamount to the exchange.
    Stiff, formal, respectful deference.
    It made Emmaline want to stamp her foot. Drat, the man was her intended. And he hadn’t exchanged so much as a word with her. Well, that was if one didn’t count the startled exclamation he’d let out when she’d hit him in the face with the curtains.
    Thank Heavens for Sophie. Sophie dipped a curtsy. “ Lord Drake, Lord Sinclair.” She smiled and then proceeded to do one of the things Emmaline dearly loved about her—she filled the awkward silence.
    She waved her hand about, like a small hurricane, gesturing animatedly to the crowd milling about the Opera House. “My father’s box is very nearly opposite your box, my lord, and it was of course Lady Emmaline who mentioned this.”
    Three sets of eyes swiveled to look at Emmaline.
    Loved in the past tense, Sophie’s uncanny ability to fill voids was one of the things she had loved about her.
    Emmaline cleared her throat, flushing under the veiled scrutiny she received from her betrothed and the hint of smile his friend, Lord Sinclair favored her with.
    “Yes, Viscount Redbrooke’s box is located just over there.” She gestured vaguely; glad when the three sets of eyes in unison moved in the direction she was motioning.
    She did not go out of her way to point out that the box in question was in fact situated a good deal f arther to the left and significantly lower than Lord Drake’s box.
    “But I saw you, my lord, and….and,” Words fled. His jade-black gaze pierced her,