Her fingers brushed against something cool and smooth, and she grasped the fallen glasses. She lifted her head, to find herself staring at the shins of Callie’s brother, the Earl of Allendale. A gentleman of the highest caliber, Benedick was almost certainly there to help her to her feet.

She was not ready.

He seemed to sense that, instead crouching down beside her. “Shall I pretend to help with the search until you are ready to face them?” he whispered, and the lighthearted amusement in his tone helped to steady her pulse.

She met his clear brown gaze, so like Callie’s, and matched his whisper with her own. “Do you think I might stay here, my lord?”

“For how long?”

“Forever is too long, is it?”

He pretended to consider the question. “Well, as a gentleman, I would be required to remain by your side . . . and I was hoping to see the performance,” he teased. When she smiled, he offered her a hand and some quiet advice. “Keep smiling. If they see that you are embarrassed, you’ll hate yourself for it.”

With a deep breath, she allowed him to lift her to her feet. She could feel hundreds of eyes on her, but she refused to look.

Refused to check to see if one set of those eyes belonged to the arrogant duke opposite them. Through her forced smile, she said, “I’ve caused a scene, haven’t I?”

One side of Lord Allendale’s mouth rose in amusement. “Yes. But it’s a theatre. So take comfort in the fact that you are not the first to do so here.”

“The first to do so from so far above the stage, however.”

He leaned in close, as if to share a secret. “Nonsense. I once saw a viscountess lose her wig because she was leaning too far over the edge.” He gave a mock shudder. “Horrifying.”

She laughed, the sound equal parts amusement and relief. Benedick was handsome and charming and so much kinder than—

Than no one.

“First the Serpentine and now this.”

“You are an adventuress, it would seem,” he teased. “At least in this case, you are in no danger.”

“Really? Why does it feel so much more terrifying?”

Benedick smiled down at her. “Would you like to take a bow?”

Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t!”

“No?”

“It would be—”

“It would make for a far more interesting evening, that is certain.”

And Leighton would hate it.

The thought brought a grin to her face. A real one.

She shook her head. “I think I have caused enough trouble for one evening,” she said to the earl, turning to face the rest of the box. She held up the glasses triumphantly, announcing, “I found them!”

Mariana laughed, clapping her hands twice in a sign that she was thoroughly entertained. Ralston’s smirk indicated that his irritation at her scene was overpowered by his pride that she would not cower in fear of the rest of the ton. Her brother had never cared much for society, and Juliana had that for which to be thankful.

As for the visitors to the box, they seemed to be attempting to recall the proper etiquette for the moment when the sister of a marquess reappeared after spending entirely too long on the floor of a theatre box—not that Juliana believed there was an appropriate amount of time to spend on the floor of a theatre box—the lights in the theatre began to dim, and it was time for the real performance to begin.

Thank God.

Juliana was soon seated at the end of the first row of seats, next to Mariana, who had no doubt returned to Juliana’s side to protect her from further embarrassment. The lights came up on stage, and the play began.

It was impossible for Juliana to focus on the play. It was a farce, and a good one if the audience’s laughter was any indication, but she was struggling with residual nerves, a lingering impulse to flee the theatre, and an unbearable desire to look at the Duke of Leighton’s box.

An unbearable desire that, by the end of the first scene, proved irresistible.

She stole a glance from the corner of her eye and saw him.

Watching the play with avid interest.

Her fingers tightened around the delicate gold binoculars in her hands, reminding her of their existence. Of the ease with which she could see him clearly.

It was entirely reasonable for her to check the state of the most important component of the opera glasses, she reasoned. While the handle was broken, it would certainly be a tragedy if the glasses themselves were ruined as well. Any halfway-decent friend would replace them if they were broken.

Of course she would test the glasses.

She should test the glasses.

It was altogether expected.

She lifted the eyepiece and peered at the stage. No cracked lenses—Juliana could see the brilliant scarlet satin of the lead actress, she could almost make out the individual strands of the thick black moustache worn by the lead actor.

Perfect working order.

But there was no assurance that the glasses had not been broken in some other way.

Perhaps they were now affected by light?

Altogether possible. She would do well to find out.

In the name of friendship.

She swung the glasses as casually as possible in a wide arc from the stage, stopping only when she found his gleaming golden curls. Something on the stage made the audience laugh. He did not laugh . . . did not even smile, until the grape turned to him, as if to check to see that he was enjoying himself. Juliana watched as he forced a smile, leaning close to speak softly in her ear. Her smile grew broader, more natural, and she all of a sudden did not seem so very grapelike.

She seemed quite lovely.