Page 48 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

He might have. Perhaps the girl he’d kissed in the moonlight was Cerys stripped down to her core: confident, passionate, clever, beautiful, and all supple silk in his arms.

He ought not think of kissing her again. Therein lay its own kind of madness. He searched for words of congratulation as Andover, bearing his star in his wake, brought Cerys to him.

Bathsheba appeared beside them. She was an inch or two taller than the girl, and far more voluptuous, a luxurious ornament in her expensive evening gown. But Cerys burned with raw presence, and her dignity was greater as she made her curtsy to the lady, who acknowledged her with a cold nod.

“There, milady Baeccon. You cannot say their play didn’t bring the house down.” Dutton, as usual, pushed his way in. People milled about the saloon, still arguing about the action and the characters. Customarily, in the theater, a play was forgotten the moment it ended by all save those who meant to write about it in the next day’s papers. “Your Hamlet was a sensation,” Dutton said to Cerys. “You’ll be the talk of the town.”

“I know Lady Baeccon was most keen to see Ophelia,” Cerys answered. “Would you say our Tryphenie did admirably well, your ladyship?” Her voice was slightly hoarse, after all the long speeches, and her heavy-lidded eyes gave her an expression both tired and content. She had wrung the utmost passion out of herself for hours, and she was spent.

She might wear much the same look after hours in his bed.

Dante shoved the thought away. He should not burn for the girl, and moreover, Bathsheba must not see him burning.

“I think your Ophelia tripped on one or two lines. And she has a weak voice for singing,” Bathsheba said.

“I thought I was going to weep,” Thompson said, joining them with his son at his side. “And I very nearly shouted when Hamlet went after that old wretch Polonius. You handle a sword with some flair, Miss Evans. Considering you’re a woman.”

“But when you threw yourself into Ophelia’s grave,” Pearson Thomspon said, regarding Cerys with the purest adoration. “You made it seem there is nothing more noble in the world but to die for love.”

“Nothing more foolish, perhaps,” said Bathsheba. “I thought that scene was particularly overwrought.”

“Hamlet as a woman!” Lady Diana sailed up to the group, waving her fan beneath her chins. “I admit I heard Siddons had pulled it off once or twice, but I never thought to see it done myself. You were splendid, Miss Evans. Come here, girl, and kiss me.” She presented her cheek, and Cerys leaned in for a soft peck, leaving a tiny print of red behind.

Dante burned.

Bathsheba looked sour. “I cannot say the ploy altogether succeeded with me. Too strange and unusual, to see a woman in men’s clothing. And with the sword fighting, and violence, and madness, and cursing—I cannot think a refined lady would attempt such a role, and a refined lady watch such vulgarity with any pleasure.”

She delivered this to Dante, as if trying to say again that Cerys was not for him. Not the woman who could help his career or his reputation. Not the woman who could bring him status as a gentleman.

At the moment it hardly mattered. What he wanted was to enfold Cerys in his arms and draw her close to him. He wanted to press that slender body against every inch of his own and hold her so close he might feel her heart beat against his skin.

“That must make me a vulgar lady,” Diana reflected, “as I had a smashing good time. And poor Prudence was completely overset, weren’t you, Pru?”

“I admit it is often said of me that I am tender-hearted.” Her friend in widow’s weeds pressed a large embroidered handkerchief to her face. “My friends will tell you that I am too easily moved. But that was splendidly done, my dear. And your Gertrude—she quite pierced my heart. She did not love Claudius, but she could not escape him. She was trapped.”

Cerys nodded. “I will convey your appreciation to our Gertrude, madam. She will be grateful to hear you were moved.”

“And that Polonius!” Thompson remarked. “He got what was coming to him. Scheming, manipulative worm. All he cared about was exploiting his children to get them close to the crown. How I despise ambitious men.”

“I think we can all conclude the production was a resounding success,” Andover said, clearly pleased that the most exciting event of the season so far had taken place under his roof. “I believe that means an accounting is in order, does it not, Lady Baeccon?”

“I would not be so quick to account the play a success.” Bathsheba stood straight and proud, arranging her expensive shawl about her shoulders. “I will have to consult with his lordship, of course. I believe the terms of our wager depend on whether he is satisfied.”

She looked around for her husband. His lordship was deep in conversation with Dorsey, speaking animatedly and with great sweeps of his arms while Dorsey nodded along. The actor pushed aside the furred cloak of his costume and withdrew a flask from which he took a long pull. Then he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and handed the silver flask to his lordship.

Without a qualm Baeccon took the flask and took a long pull, then lowered it with a shocked expression. Dorsey must be finding a way around the privations and taxes of the war to procure a vintage of note, or perhaps something stronger. Whatever they had exchanged, the men looked to have settled something between them, and Dorsey tucked the flask back into his coat with a pleased expression.

Bathsheba’s lips tightened. “I would say his lordship seems satisfied,” Dutton remarked.

“With the play overall, or with the performance of your Claudius, but I thought the question under discussion was whether Miss Evans had pleased, was it not?” Bathsheba said.

Cerys held utterly still. Her face hadn’t lost the glow of triumph, or the weariness, but a mask settled into place. She would not appear so ill-bred or arrogant as to argue with Bathsheba, even though Dante sensed a leashed fury. The great would have their way, and the common people would make the best of what was left to them. She knew that well.

So did he. And he was suddenly sick of currying favor with the great, or admiring those who did.

“I didn’t understand the terms of your wager to depend on how well you yourself like Miss Evans, Lady Baeccon,” Dante said. “I had thought you proposed that, if the play was received well and it looked like Dorsey’s company could make a go of it here in Cheltenham, his lordship should be happy to invest, and be confident of a good return.”

Bathsheba turned to face him. “I am a woman, and my likes are taken very little into account by anyone, Dante.”