Page 63 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

And what woman wouldn’t descend into bitterness and spite, if she knew she no longer pleased a husband who was not known for his constancy or his virtue. Seeing Dante making a success of his career, establishing his reputation, providing for his family, aspiring to the rank of gentleman—how this must rankle, knowing her gamble on the bigger prize had not paid off as she’d hoped.

But to try to keep him from his own happiness was pure spite. To discourage pursuit of him by women who would choose him with delight and conviction, who would be glad to make him happy⁠—

Cerys hauled her thoughts up short. She fancied she could make Dante Manelli happy, did she? And when had she begun thinking of a future with him?

When she had decided she wanted his arms around her not once, but always.

She shook her head to brush off these dangerous thoughts. “When did you learn all this about her ladyship?”

Mame smiled. “Servants talk, especially when they are enjoying a pint at the Fleece. Her lady’s maid is from the north, acquired when they last visited his seat, and she has none too high an ideal of her mistress. She’ll peel off as soon as they reach London, hoping for a better position.”

Diana shuddered. “I tremble to think what Niblett could say about me. I shall have to terrify her into never leaving my service. Buckle, tell Niblett I need her.” She watched Cerys. “And what will you do with yourself this afternoon?”

Cerys smoothed her skirt over her knees, conscious of how rare and strange it felt to be seated with nothing to do with her hands, no clothing to mend, no food to prepare. “I had told Mr. Manelli I would meet with him in the library to discuss designs, but I wonder if that is advisable. Surely others will have some ideas.”

Mame rose, shaking a crease out of her skirt. “Dorsey is meeting with some investors this afternoon. You might go with him in my place, and I’ll talk to your Mr. Manelli for you, shall I?”

“If you think I might have some input in investment decisions,” Cerys said.

Diana snorted. “You don’t need a head for numbers, girl. Just look lovely and graceful, say a sweet word or two, and the gentlemen will fall over themselves to give you what you want.”

Mame nodded her accord, and Cerys bristled. “And is that how you intend to conduct your discussion with Mr. Manelli?”

“Calm yourself, Cerys, I won’t poach on your gentleman. I’ll only give him a piece of advice or three.”

Cerys burned to ask what advice this would be, but Lady Diana was listening too avidly, and she had already given enough of herself away this morning. It was time to retreat and take stock.

Bathsheba Baeccon was watching her and set on laying thorns in Cerys’s path, if she could. With all the interest being suddenly shown in her past, it was possible someone here would follow the threads back to Newport and discover Cerys’s connections. She walked a fine enough line already, as an actress, and now an actress who had taken on a daring role. She could not let anything in her behavior cause distress for her family and friends, nor reflect badly on them.

It was time to admit she had been silly in getting up a flirtation with Mr. Manelli, and the ruse had served its purpose. He had promised to build them a theater. Funding was imminent.

And she would be wise not to pursue him any further. Reputations could be remade with enough public penitence.

Far harder to mend a heart that had been broken over a man who didn’t want it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Dante paced back and forth on the lawn. Spring showed her every charm, with the scent of blossoms filling the warm air, sun greening the young grass, the chirp of birds drifting over the meadow leading to the river. Yet every clang of a trowel against brick, every growl of a saw cutting beams, every chisel finishing stone gave a high whine that grated on his nerves. The wheelbarrows squeaked as the men ferried tools and materials from their assorted heaps to the house rising like a temple of majesty on its small knoll.

Why had he invited her on a day the men were working? Why had he not thought to tidy up first, or insist on some orderliness in the area? She would find the whole scene aggravating, with the noise of industry and the shouts and occasional curses of the men. She would be overcome by the scent of lime mortar, fresh from the kiln and mixed with the additives to make the Roman cement for the stucco.

He pulled at a weed growing through a pile of broken bricks. Best she see him as he was. Rough. Not refined in the way of the high-born English, not genteel in the manner of those who had owned property for centuries. He was a man balancing his way through separate worlds, a man who feared he belonged in neither. He worked with his hands, but also with his mind. He led and commanded, but he was also subject to the whims of the clients paying his commissions.

He could don a dinner coat and make conversation in a formal parlor, but he was happiest here, in the open air, watching a project take shape. Testing with his own fingers the quality of the mortar and the layer of stucco as it went over the wood or brick. Shaping with his own hands the designs he wanted for cornices and decorative details.

Why would she wish an invitation into his life? Would she ever consider saying yes?

Why had he ever chosen an anthemion design for the capitals of the columns on the front porch? She would think the radiating leaf pattern overdone. She liked simplicity. Her clothing fell in elegant lines, well-made but not overly adorned. She didn’t wear her hair in the elaborate twists that required an hour of sitting under the hands of a patient dresser. She was forthright in her manner and direct in her speech. He liked that about her.

He liked everything about her. He’d realized that when she slid from his embrace the other morning and he feared he’d overwhelmed her with his passion. His exceeding partiality to her was confirmed every morning when he watched her bolt her breakfast and run to rehearse lines, run through staging, or practice sword fighting with Kiddell.

At nuncheon, he did little but listen with vast enjoyment as Cerys, well-dressed and decorous, gossiped with Lady Diana and Andover and Dutton about the people in town and the various improvement projects being undertaken by the commissioners. She laughed at Dutton’s jests, humored Lady Diana’s decided opinions, and cooed as Andover read letters from his wife reporting the prodigious growth of the infants and various amusing things the children had done.

As often as possible, he attended the afternoon performances on the wooden stage that Thompson had constructed near his spa as a temporary theater. Every time, he was captivated by the passion and despair she injected into her Hamlet. Every afternoon, he beamed as he heard the matrons and widows and spinster cousins exclaiming over the daring of a woman Hamlet, or gritted his teeth and clenched fists when he heard the young men about town commenting on the legs of the women in their breeches.

He kicked at a pile of bricks, trying to disguise the broken pieces among the clump of grass. She’d not sought him out at dinners again. She talked with him cordially enough in company, but with a sense of restraint, as if some emotion simmered beneath the surface, showing only in the green glint of her eyes and a tremble to that beautiful, expressive mouth. Yet she watched him when she thought he was unaware. She knew he listened with his full attention when she was enjoined to sing or play for the company.

There had been no more kisses in stairwells, no more flirting, no more slipping of her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. But he wanted those things again. He was certain, from the heat in her eyes when he caught her watching him, that she wanted them, too.