Page 56 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

“When she is pleased with me, yes. Are you on good terms with yours?”

“My mother is a saint. She will be canonized within her lifetime. St. Dovinia Emerald Van Der Welle Evans. They’ll dedicate a stained-glass window to her at St. Sefin’s.” She tried a new attack. He met it. “And your sisters? Are they older or younger?”

“All younger, each with a few years between them.”

“And they have always adored and looked up to you as their brave, fearless older brother.”

He laughed, but it was short and bitter. “My sisters have always lived in a world unto themselves, one I have little part in, with my mother at the center. They will be glad to have an elegant house of their own, and praise me for giving it to them, but that is all.”

“No companion?” she asked curiously. “A lover? A mistress?”

His brows came down in a hard slash, his mouth a match. “I am too busy with my work.”

“A pity. A waste, really.”

“Now why would you say something so foolish?”

He lunged toward her, and she parried. It was easier to retreat and slip away with her weight balanced as he’d taught her. She stepped to the side, making him turn to face her.

The growing light pressed against the window, a sliver of light showing above the shrubbery outside. The world was waking, warming, and the sunlight burnished his hair with gold streaks, made his cheekbones a high arch, his jaw sculpted stone. She wanted to place her hand there.

She wanted him to touch her again. Perhaps that was not wise, but she did not feel wise this morning.

“A man of your looks and many attractions? You must have many women vying for your attention. It seems a waste of your gifts not to bestow yourself on at least one of them.”

His eyes darkened. “I am very curious,” he said, raising his sword and pointing the tip at her, “what you imagine my attractions to be.”

She grinned at him. So he was mortal after all, and like any man wanted to hear praise of himself.

“Your face is not unpleasant.” She circled the tip of her sword in the air before him. “Michelangelo would have made you his David if he could.”

“Have you ever seen Michelangelo’s David?”

“Sketches,” she admitted.

“In full?”

He was asking if she’d studied the unadorned nude. He’d already seen her come face-to-face with the discus thrower. She grinned wider. “Art is very educational. But we are discussing your attributes.”

“We can stop now.”

She ignored him. “You carry yourself well. You have good manners. You have an eye for beauty. In fact, you make a career of creating beautiful things. Beautiful and useful.”

She circled him, considering. “You are not frivolous. You are not a fop. You never say more than is necessary, which makes you seem mysterious and wise. You do nothing to curry favor or draw attention to yourself, and yet you possess a room when you come into it.” She tilted her head at him. “That could be a very useful quality in an actor.”

“I am happy with my chosen profession, thank you. I wouldn’t wish for another long apprenticeship. Are you finished?”

“No, the list continues. You have a very pleasant voice. You smell divine. It’s quite distracting. And you certainly know how to wear a pair of pantaloons.” She touched the side of her sword, not sharpened, to the clinging fabric of his inexpressibles.

He jumped and knocked her sword away with his own, scowl deepening. “You can dispense with the flirtation. I already said I would design your theater.” His eyelids flickered. “And I will offer a fair price, because I like your group of players. You’re a sensible lot, which cannot often be said of the world at large.”

“That’s why I like them, too. Why are you embarrassed if I should admire you?”

He raised his sword against her. “Attack again. Lunge in a straight line, and bring your arm up as your leg comes forward. Right now you lunge and then raise your sword, and that gives your opponent too much time to attack you.”

She did as instructed, driving her foil toward his shoulder. “I’m only fighting Kiddell. It’s not as if I’ll be challenged to an actual duel.” He didn’t believe she could truly admire him; he still thought her interest only a ploy. Did he not realize how maddeningly beckoning he was?

Or was he simply not interested in praises from her?