Page 18 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

She sniffed. “Have you built a theater before?”

“This will be my first.”

She turned, a hand outflung toward the bay of windows. “Then perhaps we should find someone el⁠—”

The word disappeared on her lips, because Manelli reached out his hand and grasped hers. The movement was as swift and graceful as if she were turning away from him in a dance and he meant to draw her back into the figure.

“I will do it,” he said.

She could only stare. She’d thrust her hand into a fire. Heat leapt from his skin, and his hand, wrapped around hers, was treacherously solid and reassuring.

His eyes were anything but, somehow dark and bright at the same time, a spark in his pupils that entranced her as if she were watching the weaving coils of a snake.

“Er, what did you say?” Air roared in her ears. The pulse of blood. Something heavy had fallen from the ceiling and struck her on the head, knocking loose every last one of her wits.

She felt the most ridiculous, dangerous, alarming, melting sensation. She yanked her hand free.

“I will do it,” he repeated. “I will make you a theater.” That smile crooked up one side of his mouth, a wry twist in his otherwise oh, so symmetrical face. “And hope you will find the investors to help you build it. But I thought you were dead set on Dorsey not choosing me.”

She tore her gaze away from his face and forced herself to look about the room. Ah, yes. Suffolk House. Cheltenham. Her name was Cerys Van Der Welle Evans.

“That was before I saw this house, and your sketchbook.” She wanted to live inside the beautiful spaces he knew how to create. “If you will agree to the designs we want, I will ensure Dorsey gives you the commission.”

“You are very confident in your persuasive powers.”

“It will be a beautiful design, Mr. Manelli. Unless I have greatly overestimated your ability.”

“You have not,” he said, with all the arrogance a man could possess.

He was still staring at her. In fact he studied her as intently as she had surveyed his sketchbook and its architectural designs. He stared as if she were an intricate blueprint and he wanted to understand every line and weight that went into the making of her.

She was an actress. She was accustomed to eyes watching her; she craved it. That was her purpose. And yet Manelli’s focused attention made her feel she stood on a wherry crossing the Severn, rocked by the incoming tide.

In theater, when one wanted the audience to look elsewhere, one used misdirection. “Beatrice and Benedict,” she blurted.

Finally, the spell broke. He retreated slightly, though not enough. The raw look in his eyes disappeared as he recalled himself.

“Who?”

“Benedict from Much Ado About Nothing,” she said. “When you called me Lady Disdain, you were quoting him. It’s from the first act, when the Prince and his company arrive at Leonato’s. Benedict says to Beatrice—” Out of habit, she struck a pose— “My dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?”

A smile flicked up the other side of his mouth, balancing him. “Is that where I heard it?”

“And Beatrice responds.” She fell into her posture; she had played Beatrice many a time. Her Beatrice was the reason their stay at Tewkesbury had been extended for three extra weeks. “Is it possible disdain should die, when she hath such meet food to feed upon as Signor Benedict?”

“Ah.” The smile disappeared. “Lady Disdain. No doubt you are excellent in the part.”

He was guarded again, no longer warm clay in her palm. The fragile connection, the small bit of rapport, had broken.

For the best. And yet she found herself wishing to draw him back as he returned his attention to his sketchbook, something bleak falling across his brow.

“It is set in Italy,” she said.

“Hmm?”

“The play. Much Ado. It takes place in Padua.”

“A place I doubt Shakespeare had ever seen.”