Page 44 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

His heart might be iron, and the muscles of his chest, but his lips were impossibly soft. So was the shadow of stubble that had brushed her cheek when she went up on tiptoe to kiss him. A strange sensation looped through her middle, as if she’d been knocked off balance and sent rolling down a hill like a child’s hoop.

“You know of someone harboring a tendre for me? I hope it is not one of our company. That might pose some awkwardness in working together.”

“You are being arch with me, dearie, when I am giving you fair warning. There will be a man who will give his heart to you. There have been many already willing I think, but you simply haven’t seen them, or haven’t been ready to see. But a man like Mr. Manelli?” Mame shook her head. “I am not certain that man has a heart to give.”

No, because he had offered it before, to a woman who had shredded every vulnerable muscle and drained any tenderness out of him. No wonder he was so fierce and guarded, ready to fly at anyone he thought might try to wound him. He had built moats and gates and barricaded walls around himself, so no woman might come near his heart again.

The thought made her furious with Bathsheba Baeccon. Such women had no right to use others as they would, then leave them nothing but ruins for the next person.

Not that Cerys was the next woman for Dante Manelli. No. Likely he had scads of women on the line, a mistress for every day of the week. The man did fill out a pair of pantaloons so splendidly. And he knew how to kiss. Glory be, he kissed like a satyr, like the god of love. Her body flushed at the memory of the sensations he’d awakened with his kiss.

And the breathless moment on the Parade a day or so ago when he’d left Lady Baeccon and come to Cerys, seeking shelter, seeking refuge, and she’d stepped close to tease him and thought, for one wild moment, he might try to kiss her again, there in the open field within sight of everybody. As if she were his to claim, and he could be bold and free with the woman he knew belonged to him.

That was foolish. There would be no belonging. She was playing a game, and so was he, and neither of them meant for their hearts to be quoits, tossed to and fro so easily.

“You think I wouldn’t tempt a man like Mr. Manelli,” Cerys said. They all paused to let Dot look in at the cobbler’s, to see about a pair of shoes that needed new soles.

“I think you would tempt him overmuch,” Mame answered. “But I will say again, I do not think he has a heart to give you.”

“I don’t require his heart, and I won’t be foolish enough to ask it of him,” Cerys said lightly. “I know what I am about, Mame.”

The older woman scoffed. “Every woman alive has said that at some point, child. And then Cupid fires his arrow into our arse, laughing.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Nearly a full day had passed without him seeing the little minx, and Dante had control of himself now. The women of the company had spent the day rehearsing and preparing for their matinee, and so he had been spared any chance encounters in the breakfast parlor, or in the morning room later, where Lady Diana, who liked her meals, had laid on a small nuncheon with tea.

At dinner the previous night, an informal gathering with the company, he had been seated on the same side of the table as Cerys, and a few chairs down, so his gaze could not be drawn to rest on her. He could hear her voice, though, see the occasional gleam of a silk glove against golden brown skin as she reached for her wine glass, and could hear how earnestly Dutton, again a guest at his friend’s table, had engaged her in low-voiced conversation, punctuated here and there by her throaty laugh.

After the meal, she had eluded all the men to sit beside Lady Diana, whom she evidently amused, and spoke to at length without distributing a single coy glance about the room to see who might be watching her. It was as though they—and he—had the courtesy not to touch her mind as she chatted easily with their host, now and again plying her fan to move the heated air and waft a gentle breeze over the curls about her face.

There was no coquetry in her as she spoke with the older, highborn woman, and no fawning or flattery either. She conversed as if she were accustomed to the drawing rooms of lords and higher gentry, and saw no disadvantage to herself she need apologize for, nor any advantage she needed to press. She carried herself with the same quiet grace she showed everywhere, as if she were not impressed by wealth or title.

After a suitable interval she rose and withdrew from the parlor with two of the other women, claiming the need for final costume fittings, and the glow of the room had considerably dimmed. Dante had prowled his borrowed bedchamber in the path of the moonlight and grew thoroughly disgusted with himself and the pattern of his thoughts, which were exactly those of an eager suitor who had not been given access to his muse.

He was not courting her, whatever she wanted Bathsheba to believe, and he was not besotted, either. He was far too old for infatuation. It had suited him to escape from Bathsheba’s clutches, and Cerys was his excuse. He would employ the excuse again if need be.

But he saw the trap that lay ahead, now that he was away from her and his mind had cleared. He would not be taken in by the warm humor of her smile, or the charming way her lips quirked at one corner when she was hiding amusement. He would not be enchanted by the silver glitter in her green eyes that flickered like sunlight through treetops when she was curious or interested. He was not trying to arouse her interest. He was not trying to arouse her in any fashion.

He absolutely would not fall under the spell of her charm and intelligence, and thus tumble straight into whatever web she was weaving for him and all of them. He’d been deceived before and had become wise. He would keep his head, watch his step, and stop waiting like a cat at a mousehole for her to come round any corner of the house. He would stop listening for the sound of her voice, and he would most certainly stop trying to discern if the air after she left the room held a lingering scent of jasmine.

Fortunately, at the moment, he had a business discussion to distract him. People trickled into grand saloon he had designed for Suffolk House, the series of interconnected rooms in one wing of the house that could be opened to create a single reception area that could serve as a ballroom, meeting chamber, or, with a few arrangements of chairs, a theater.

Andover, who liked to entertain and could do so at his liberty with his wife and children absent, had relished the prospect of hosting a bespoke performance by the theater troupe he was housing and had circulated invitations widely throughout the town, especially among the genteel. The gathering display of wealth, titles, and blooded history in this room would impress even Bathsheba, he’d wager.

Moreover, it was an opportunity for Dante. Jed Dorsey, already in makeup, left the final preparations for the show to his company and joined Dante at a small folding table in a far corner of the room, where the tall Palladian windows looked out into an afternoon knit of fog. Andover was there, and Dutton, who could not seem to help putting his nose into every business, and Thompson, who could hardly be denied the meeting as he owned the land under discussion.

Dante unfolded the sketch he had made of the built areas in Cheltenham, and the spaces still free for development. “There.” The elder Thompson indicated a patch of field not far from the end of the Colonnade, between High Street and the River Chelt. “I could lease you a plot there. Fair price.”

“It’s not a bog or river meadow?” Dante asked.

“Not that. Near all the major spas, including mine, and the Plough Hotel is right there.” Thompson moved his finger along the scroll of parchment, which each man had a hand in holding open.

“And a fair distance from Watson’s theater, which is in Cambray,” Dorsey said.

“No different from having Upper and Lower Assembly Rooms,” Dutton agreed. “A theater for the each of them.”

“Though we wants everyone to come to our theater.” Dorsey cocked his head, looking from a different angle. “How long a lease?”