Page 16 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

“It’s a bad turn, but thas the way o’it.” The visitor hesitated. “Not often the genmum does such a turn to one another, though.”

“As I have recently been reminded, I am not a gentleman. No doubt Masters does not see me as his equal, and that is why he hadn’t allowed me to work with the Read brothers directly. Or perhaps they feel that only Masters and Pitt harbor any ideas worth listening to.” The ensuing sound, Cerys guessed, was Mr. Manelli grinding his teeth.

She knew what that felt like. When you had marvelous ideas—superb, stupendous ideas—but no one around gave them proper audience. Because you were young. Because you were inexperienced. Because things had always been done a different way, or someone else knew better.

Or, sometimes, because the other face was a pale and English-looking one, and yours was not.

The other man departed, and Cerys contemplated her situation. She was attempting to nonchalantly conceal herself on a low-backed chaise while a guest in the house of a man she didn’t know, alone and unchaperoned in a room with another man she knew nothing of. Her mother would be casting her eyes to the ceiling and muttering prayers for patience and strength.

Well, Cerys knew some things about this man she was trapped in the room with. He was a large and well-built man, and none of his bulk seemed due to fleshiness from a too-soft life. She knew he had some Italian blood. She knew he was an architect who was proud of his work and supremely skilled. The designs she had looked over and this house itself spoke to his talent.

She knew she most decidedly should not be alone in a room with him, here or anywhere.

“Madonna santa,” he muttered. “How long do you intend to sit there and stare at me? Just long enough to cast il malocchio, I suspect.”

Cerys rose, smoothing her skirts so she could look downward and attempt to hide the tight heat in her cheeks. “I beg your pardon. The what?”

“The evil eye.” He spared her an impatient glance. Dear God, the man was easy to irritate.

He had also, somehow, become more attractive since she’d seen him last, his cravat tugging free of its careless knot, his coat creased over the stretch of his broad shoulders, one lock of hair defying its styling to fall over his brow.

His pantaloons still fit ever so nicely. Cerys veered her gaze away. “I am not casting the evil eye on you.”

“You would if you could, I imagine.” He turned to the desk and moved aside a roll of paper she’d been studying but moments before. “Were you eavesdropping?”

“I beg your pardon, I was here before you. You and your friend intruded on my peace.”

“You decided to lounge in my study.”

“It is the Earl of Suffolk’s study.” She glared at him. Never let it be said Cerys Van Der Welle Evans was cowed by derision from a man; she’d spent too much of her life casting off public opinion to care what one near-gentleman thought of her manners.

Pointedly, to demonstrate that she had taken possession and intended to stay, she began to browse the objets d’art scattered among the shelves. Suffolk had a decent showing of books, all arranged in symmetrical groups with matching bindings, and the other items fulfilled their purpose of providing learned decoration. A large terrestrial globe sat in its cradle, as high as her waist, while its mate, the celestial globe, flanked the other side of the bay of windows. An easel holding a pencil sketch of a set of crumbling classical ruins stood beside a tall vase of decidedly Far Eastern origin.

Cerys moved to the bookshelf and found, at eye level, a small but full-length replica of a classical statue of a discus thrower, poised in the act of drawing back his arm.

A flush of heat pulled her cheeks taut again. She did not wish to be reminded of what Mr. Manelli might look like beneath his clothing.

“The Discobulus,” Manelli remarked. Of course he was watching her. Of course he caught her staring, wide-eyed, at a statue of a naked man. “The Massimo family has a full-size replica on display at one of their palazzos. It’s ages old. They consider it quite a prize.”

“There’s another on display in the British Museum.” Cerys pretended nonchalance, as if she came to face with a well-sculpted nude male form every day of her life. “Acquired as part of the Townley marbles. I’ve seen it.”

“I’ve seen that one too.” Manelli’s voice held a curious note, and he regarded her more closely. “In fact I saw it back when it was in Townley’s private collection. He invited my father for a viewing. The English are very eager to ransack the peninsula for ancient artifacts, and the other British dealers in antiquities are happy to provide.”

Cerys shrugged. She was a woman, and the Grand Tour was reserved for men, or had been until Napoleon started his rampage across the Continent to build himself an empire. “Was your father an artist?”

Why was she making pleasant conversation? She had no wish to be pleasant to him. She wanted him gone from the room directly.

“A sculptor,” Manelli said warily, as if he suspected her motives also. They’d not exchanged one civil word before, so why should they start now?

“And you travel to London frequently?”

“I grew up there. Or rather, we resided in London more often than anywhere else.” He watched her as if he were the kite with folded wings and she the mouse crouched in the meadow. He would strike at any moment. “Do you visit often?”

“Occasionally during the Season. Not since I joined up with Dorsey’s group.” Her perambulations brought her to the table, and she came to her point. “These are your designs.”

He hovered a hand over the sketchbook as if he meant to protect it from her inspection. “Yes.”

With a small huff she tugged the folio from beneath his hand. Too late for him to be bashful now; he’d left it open on the desk for all to see. She flipped back to the sheet with the beautiful house, the one where he meant to hide his lovers. “This does not seem the design for Suffolk House.”