Page 34 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

Lady Baeccon had been wrong about one thing, she thought as she found the door to her room. Dante Manelli was not dead inside.

And somehow, Cerys was going to make him look at her with more than a scowl.

CHAPTER TEN

She’d kissed him. The little minx had kissed him.

Dante was supposed to be making sketches and taking notes. He held his sketchbook open before him, at least, braced over one arm, crayon in the air as if he were making a good effort. But he was watching Cerys Evans.

The winter had been chilly, and the spring air had not yet truly warmed. She wore a woolen pelisse of Parma violet that covered her fully, the hem brushing the tops of her yellow half boots. The tiny puffs at the sleeves and the folded collar made for a demure effect, while the high waist and drape of the wool gave her the slender, dainty silhouette so in fashion. In her yellow kid gloves and the simple capote bonnet with its shirred brim and twists of ribbon, she looked like any genteel young damsel visiting Cheltenham with her family and strolling the spas to take the waters.

When she was anything but.

What was she?

She had the confidence of a young woman who’d been born to a high rank and assured all her life of her place in it. She had all the small airs and graces that his mother had tried so hard to cultivate in his sisters, so that they could pass muster in genteel circles.

But Cerys Evans mingled with actors and the low as easily as she curtsied to earls and gentlemen’s wives. She had the directness of a barmaid and the boldness of a courtesan. Dante hadn’t known many courtesans in his life—Bathsheba was the only woman he’d been with who had made the sensual arts a profession rather than a hobby. But the little minx had waltzed right up to him and shattered the knot of his cravat that he’d spent a painful amount of time making.

And then she had planted her hand in that cravat and yanked him into a kiss.

His mouth burned at the memory. His shoulders still felt the press of her hands. He still tasted her, sharp and sweet at the same time. The scent of lemon ever so faint in her hair. The small gasps she made deep in her throat, surprise and pleasure, as if she’d never been kissed before, or never been kissed by someone who knew how.

His sisters—he hoped—would never kiss a man in the shadowed corner of a house, at least not a man they were not married or already affianced to. They would never, he hoped, be so bold as to presume upon a man’s affections. Yet Cerys Evans had informed him that she had made up a story about their courting as if she were doing him a favor. As if she expected him to gratefully, eagerly agree.

And now she strolled the gravel walks with her companions from the acting troupe, chatting and laughing and at her ease, and all three of the important men in the vicinity had flown to her like bees to a flower: Dutton, Thompson, and Thompson’s son, who did his best to claim a place at Cerys’s side while Dorsey engaged the elder Thompson in a proposition, or so it appeared. The manager waved his arms wildly—he was wearing the same coat he’d worn to dinner, somewhat creased—and Thompson listened and nodded along. Miss Evans dropped a comment here and there, no doubt steering the conversation in precisely the channels she meant for it to go.

She was a cunning baggage, manipulating them all to some end of her own. She was a talented actress—more talented than he’d given her credit for. He must not forget that. She was trained to make people see something she wanted them to see.

He would not allow himself to become enchanted with an image a woman created for him. Not again. Dante told himself to return to his sketchbook and the business at hand.

Then she glanced his way, a probing look, as if she were confirming to herself where he was. To see if he were watching her. He scowled.

She lifted her eyebrows, widened her eyes, and tilted her head toward the carriage that paused in the drive a short distance away. They were promenading near Thompson’s Spa again, Dorsey with some intention of canvassing sites for a temporary theater, and Dante was supposed to be designing buildings for the Montpelier Parade. Not watching the parade of Cerys Evans, a performance all of its own.

Her look held warning, and he followed the tilt of her head. The Baeccons had brought their town carriage to Cheltenham, a ridiculous expense, but of course, Bathsheba would only go about in a conveyance with her hard-won family coat of arms on the door. The woman had aimed for a duke and settled for a baron, but as they both counted as peers, she was content to advertise her conquest.

He forced himself to unclench his jaw.

“We were at the Old Well, but it is quite thin of company.” Bathsheba’s voice carried in the clear air. “And the Orchard Well was dull. Because everyone, it would seem, is here at Mr. Thompson’s.” She gave her practiced smile to the proprietor, condescension and elegance together. It was likely a look she practiced often, to complement her new status.

“Your ladyship.” Thompson bowed low. “If you but try my chalybeate waters, I think you will find yourself refreshed. The minerals are quite fortifying.”

“Oh, and I see the actors are abroad as well.” Bathsheba’s gaze arrowed to Cerys.

Cerys responded with a dainty, proper dip of her knees, but the small smile about her mouth said she acknowledged superiority in rank only. Minx. She was inviting Bathsheba to bare her claws, just as she’d done last night. Why would she be so foolish?

“Miss Evans, I have a proposition for you. His lordship’s proposition, actually.” Bathsheba twined her arm around that of her husband, who wore his habitual look of spleen. He carried a riding crop, though he had not come on horse, and tapped it against his boots. His irritated gaze ranged over the company, picking out the women. He glanced on Cerys, and settled there.

Dante stiffened his back.

“Our proposition,” the lady went on, “is that his lordship will provide funds to invest in the building of your theater.”

“Splendid! Much obliged, milord.” Dorsey hastened forward to hold out his hand. His steps wove a bit, and Cerys put a hand on his arm to steady him.

“We have only one requirement,” Bathsheba said, with that smile Dante knew hid her fangs. “Our furnishing of funds will depend on whether we are impressed by the performance your troupe puts on for us, Mr. Dorsey. Ophelia, I believe we decided?”

Bathsheba was very eager to see Cerys off herself.