Page 17 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

“No.” His gaze was hooded and dark, still the bird of prey, but he watched her as if aware the mouse might have sharp teeth. “That is the design for my home. The house I am building.”

“If you are building your own home, why are you here?”

His brows lowered. She imagined many a woman, and man, quailed at that fearsome scowl, not unlike a bull’s just before it charged. But she wondered if the expression were more a defensive move rather than aggression. It seemed his reflex whenever something poked him, a slight real or imagined.

“You might take up with the Earl of Suffolk why I am here in residence. Or perhaps the Countess. Terribly sorry to be in the way of your sojourn.”

“Yes, a great inconvenience.” Cerys flipped back to a different page and tapped her finger upon it. Part of her mind marveled at her boldness with this man, her refusal to be cowed by his glower. “This design here, with the porch and the—the triangle thing above, with the statues. This would be perfect for the front of our theater.”

“Pediment.” He scowled, pointing where she did, and Cerys whisked her hand aside before, God forbid, he touched her.

She couldn’t account for the strange sensations rioting through her at his simply being this close. She was accustomed to being around unfamiliar men, older men, powerful and accomplished men, but this—him—there was something different about it. Something that made her belly feel she’d swallowed crickets and they were all jumping about at once.

Perhaps she was developing a violent dislike for the scent of Hungary water.

“That is a pediment,” he said. “And all this below, the entablature.” He ran his finger over the various layers. “This ledge across the top, the cornice. The space below, where you might have carvings or engravings, the frieze. These bands lying atop the pillars, the architrave.”

“Fine,” she said. “I want all of it. But not this bit here.” She tapped at the sketch again.

“The capital. That is what you call the top of a column.”

“This, but without the flowers⁠—”

“Acanthus.”

“None of those,” Cerys said. “Just the two curves. Like this.”

“The volute. You want the Doric order for the columns, then?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“At least you will admit to it,” he said, but it was a statement, not an insult, void of rancor or contempt. He was instructing, not condemning.

He flipped to an early page in the sketchbook and tilted the page toward her. “There are classifications for the types of columns. In the simplest terms, you have three. Ionic, Doric, and Corinthian. This, the scroll at the top, that is called the volute.”

“Yes, that.” Cerys stabbed her finger and accidentally brushed his hand. He was not wearing gloves. Neither was she. She snatched her hand back to her side, focusing on the page and battling the new flush of heat rising in her cheeks.

“You seem to have already given thought to the designs you want for your theater. Is it your project, then?”

“It is all of our project, and Dorsey will listen to our input. He will very much want the classical effect. Something like the new Covent Garden theater, but not a duplicate.” She turned to admire the columns along the room and the entablature, as he had called it. “I adore this construction. We should have this for the interior. In this instance the flower tops would do⁠—”

“Acanthus,” he said, but patiently. “On the capital. Corinthian columns, then.”

“But no carvings along the frieze or whatever you called it. I do like that ledge⁠—”

“The cornice.”

“Yes. You could put statues above it. Gods and goddesses, the patrons of the theater. Busts of famous playwrights, and so on. Instead of the usual arch you might have this design running over the proscenium⁠—”

“The what?”

“Think of it as the space of the actors. The stage, if you must. It⁠—”

“I’m familiar with the term. I’m only surprised you do.”

It was her turn to scowl. “I work in theater. I ought to be acquainted with the architecture.”

“It is my experience,” he returned, “that is not often the case.”