“Oh yes. It’s not every day a man’s father turns sixty. I wouldn’t dare miss it.” He scratched the back of his neck, stepped closer. “But what are you doinghere? At the Folly?”
“Enjoying the entertainment. I insisted we see a show as soon as possible and before we left for the country. I ventured backstage after the play to find you but found this instead.” She wandered toward the backdrop she’d been investigating earlier. “It’s ripped and sewn and the painting over the repaired tear is muddled horribly. It quite distracted me the entire performance.”
“Did it now? You saw it all the way from the audience?”
She nodded, drawing her fingertips down the mended rip, the muddled paint. “I can fix it for you.”
He made a noncommittal noise. “I’ll return you to Lady Chattaway. Is she in the lobby?”
“She’s left. I told her not to wait for me.”
“And she agreed to that mad suggestion?” Remmy asked.
“Of course. I can hail a hackney.”
“No. You cannot. I’ll take you home.”
A pause, then. “Very well. That would be most welcome. It has been so long. I must not waste the opportunity to learn more about youfromyou.”
He hooked their arms together and led her to his office, moving with the kind of scowly purpose that always meantdo not approach me, or I will bite your head off. Hopefully Miss Finch would understand if she happened upon them. They reached his office door un-accosted, and he unlocked it and shoved Tessainside.
She spun in lazy circles, taking every detail in. “I am soproudof you, Remmy.”
Pride, yes, exactly what he’d always wanted her to feel for him. Partly. When he’d first bought the Folly, he’d imagined her seeing him as a man,finally. Imagined her kissing him, giving in to him in every way.
She stopped spinning and beamed up at him, and in the bright candlelight of his office, he could see her better. Hazel eyes and orange curls, freckled nose and rosy skin. The corner of one of her front teeth possessed the tiniest chip. His fault for encouraging her to climb the stairs via the banister when they were ten. He should feel guilt for putting that imperfection in her mouth, but it was the only part of her that was goddamnhis, and it was goddamncharmingand?—
He wasnotcurrently charmed.
“I adore it, Remmy.”
He could kiss her, yes? He could kiss her right now. That’s what he did with women, after all—kissed them. And he’d never wanted to kiss them as much as he wanted to kiss her, though he’d hoped the kissing would help him forget. Ithadhelped him forget.
Forget red hair and hazel eyes and the tiniest chip in her front tooth.
She spun away from him, hopping onto his desk and fiddled with his belongings. Inkpot, pen, playbills, letter opener—she ruined them all. He’d not be able to see a single one of them now without thinking of her.
He stalked over to her, raised a brow.
She raised one back. “Yes?”
“You’re acting like you own the place. You do not.”
“I saw the back of the playbill, Remmy.”
“Spectators usually do.”
“Dream sweetly of blue skies, inked right there at the very bottom of the last page.”
He wrapped his hands around her waist and scooped her off the desk, plopped her back on the ground. He only let himself linger there for half a breath because holy hell her waist was delicious just above the flare of her hips and arse, and that was with all those layers between them. What would it feel like without?—
He stepped away from her and grabbed his hat from a hook on the wall, dropped it on his head. He grabbed his greatcoat too, swung it around his shoulders, and shoved his hands in the pockets to hide their trembling.
“Theatre is dreaming. It only seemed appropriate. Come on then,” he grumbled, shuffling her out the back door of his office and into an alley. He helped her over puddles as they made their way toward the main street, and then he hailed a hackney in the quiet of a late London evening.
“I like that you put it there. I’ve always mourned not being able to watch you build the Folly from close-up. Those words, there, make me feel as if I were a part of it.”
“They’re just words.”
