Page 23 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

Jilted him rather hard-heartedly, as a matter of fact. Leaving him shredded and holding his hat, made painfully aware, and not for the first time, that his father’s status put him on the backfoot with the British high born.

More fool he for letting down his guard. He’d never been as gullible since, and never would be again.

“Do you live here now, Dante?” Bathsheba asked, ignoring his attempt to establish a chilly distance. “I had heard you moved your family to Cheltenham.”

Now why would she know that, unless she had asked about him among their former acquaintance? It wasn’t as if he were the famous sort whose removal from London would be remarked in the papers.

He was lucky when the Cheltenham journal reported on his movements. He was fortunate when his name surfaced in any discussions at all. The Crescent debacle was only the latest decision of a bigger, more well-known architect on a project to bury Dante’s involvement from view. He’d never be able to establish his reputation without his name on a commission. The more public, the better.

To his horror, humiliation choked his throat. Surprise, unease, and something else—perhaps that long-ago hurt, or else the excruciating pain of knowing he’d been so easily taken in by her— It held him tighter than a boiled pudding. He’d thanked his saints that he would never have to see this woman again in his life, and now she was here in this drawing room, and he would have to endure hours of dinner. What had he done to deserve this hell?

Her amusement showed in the flicker of her lips. He remembered that mouth. He remembered where that mouth had been on his body. Horror held him petrified.

The scent of jasmine floated to his nose. Cerys Evans stood beside him, tapping her closed fan on his arm as if she knew he was petrified and she meant, in the subtlest way, to knock his wits back in order.

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Manelli is building a house just outside of Cheltenham,” Cerys said. The common affectation was gone, and she was the gracious, genteel version again. “I’ve seen the designs. They’re quite elegant. It’s a home anyone would wish over their head.”

“Is he still dabbling about with the Gothic influences? He was much attached to them, once.” Bathsheba surveyed Cerys with new appraisal. She’d dismissed her before, but now, seeing her attached to Dante’s arm, the girl took on a new interest.

“No, he is working in the classical style now.” Cerys smiled sweetly. “You’d be astonished at how very much a man’s tastes can change.”

Oh, that was a cut, claws out. Dante saw his own surprise mirrored in Dutton’s widening eyes. Lady Diana smirked.

“Indeed?” Bathsheba’s smile became tense around the corners. “I think when you are older, Miss Cerys, you will realize men rarely change their stamp.”

“Oh, you may call me Miss Evans, as I am the eldest of my father’s house,” Cerys said serenely. That grace, that elegance, that superior smile. She was practically beating Bathsheba into a froth. She turned to Dante, and the glint of mischief in her eyes said she knew exactly what she was doing.

“I think Francesca’s room particularly charming. She will adore that motif of rosettes.”

Dante would only stare down into her face. Her skin glowed like the pearlescent inside of a sea shell. Her dark eyes were nets that had entangled him like a creature fished from the deep.

“Francesca?” Bathsheba’s voice sliced, and Cerys widened her eyes, the picture of innocence. “Dante, have you introduced Miss Evans to your mother?”

“I admit I have not yet had the honor, but I look forward to it. I have a feeling Mrs. Manelli and I will get along famously.” Cerys fanned herself lazily, giving a small shrug, as if hugging herself.

She was making herself a target. Dante had to stop her.

Lady Diana bit her lip, tamping down her amusement as she watched the younger woman baiting the newcomer. Andover looked between Bathsheba and Dante with surprise. One could practically see the machinery of his mind jolting into motion. He was curious about Cerys’s attachment to Dante, but he was more interested in how Dante knew Bathsheba.

“Hobnobbed in your London days, did you?” Andover asked.

Bathsheba let her lips droop seductively. “You might say that.”

“I made a bid for a project her—patron was considering.” Dante found himself speaking to Cerys, as if he needed to explain. He only just managed not to say protector. Lord Bacon—or Baeccon, as Bathsheba seemed intent to style him—was not the kind who would marry another man’s mistress, though he’d amuse himself with another’s leavings well enough. Bathsheba would not have let him find out the truth about herself, not if she wanted more than a slip on the shoulder.

“I was not hired for the project, in the end,” Dante added, bitterness biting through his tone despite himself.

Cerys’s eyelids flared briefly. Because he had used the word hired and reminded them all that he was in trade? That he earned his coin through his work? But so did she. She studied his expression, staring into one eye, then another, as if she were peering into the depths of his head.

“More fool he,” she said, still in that sweet, drawling tone, and she slipped a hand around his forearm.

This time, Dante was truly rooted to the floor, but not for becoming stone. His entire being pulsed with blood and heat. He was very much made of flesh.

“Patron, Bathsheba?” Lord Baeccon frowned. “I thought you said earlier that Manelli had been a friend of your father’s.”

“Did I say that, my love? My father had so very many acquaintances. High and low.” Lady Baeccon turned to Cerys. “What about your family, child? Tell us where you are from.”

She wanted to find a way to humiliate the younger girl, of course. Bathsheba was practiced at that. Cerys flipped her fan closed.