Page 55 of The Lady Plays with Fire

“Over the play?”

He swept his eyes over her face. Was that a hint of mischief he saw there?

“Partly,” he answered, stretching out one leg so that she now stood between his knees. “Anyway, I went for a drive. I stumbled upon this cottage. And I decided to . . . write.” He gestured toward the papers on the table with a motion of his chin. “I set aside The Poison Pen, Blackadder, all of it. I let myself remember how it felt to make something new. I’d been so focused on the power writing gave me, I’d forgotten how humbling it could be.” Absently, he brushed his thumb over the thin skin of her inner wrist. “I’d been so caught up in my pain, I’d almost forgotten about life’s pleasures.”

Her expression solemn, she nodded as if she understood. “It’s a lovely, quiet spot,” she said, glancing about the room before returning her gaze to his face. “Perfect for starting fresh.”

“Aye. I’ve never liked London. Too many people. Too much noise.”

She tipped her head to the side, and her eyes twinkled. “But if you hadn’t come to London, you would never have met me.”

“Aye. That’s true.”

“So, what happens now?”

He managed a ragged breath. “Well, come opening night, I think Blackadder’s done for.”

Her brows rose. “Surely your adoring public will forgive one less-than-perfect play.”

“Perhaps. But I’m ready to be free of him. Especially if it means I could have—”

You.

One gentle tug of her hand pulled her off balance and sent her tumbling into his lap.

Rather than protest, as he had half expected, she slid her arms around his neck, her fingers toying with his hair where it fell over his collar.

And then she pressed her lips to his.

Chapter 17

Julia found it far easier to imagine that he’d brought her here to seduce her than that he’d intended to lay his life’s history at her feet.

Though the two things were not unrelated, for her heart, already susceptible, had become entirely his once he’d opened up about his past.

On occasion, she had caught herself thinking, even hoping, that all his glowering and hard words were naught but a mere papier-mâché mask, disguising the real man beneath. But the metaphor had been truer than she had known. Every tragedy, every trauma in his life had been another sticky, messy layer, clinging to him; he’d smoothed and shaped them around his soul as best he could, until the mask and the man were one and the same.

Now that rough, heavy mask had a crack in it, made when he’d revealed his biggest secret to her. She trailed her fingers around the sharp angle of his jaw. Here, in this simple cottage, he’d shown her his determination to peel away the broken pieces of his past. He was trying to set himself free.

But if she in turn revealed her biggest secret to him—that she was the reviewer who had so disdainfully spoken of pity, little imagining how it had added to his pain—it would only plaster over that sliver of a crack, sealing off that glimmer of hope forever.

So, she went on kissing him instead.

One of his big hands came up to cup the back of her head. Ah, but she did not think she would ever tire of the sensation of his mouth on hers, soft and firm at once. It made her forget all about the magazine and her dilemma.

“I suppose you tell this story to all the women you bring here?” she teased, when he let her have her breath again.

He drew back, and his brows dove downward. “I’ve never told this story to another soul.”

“What of the girl Mr. Sawyer teased you about the other day? When you came to rehearsal rather . . . rumpled.”

“Sawyer.” Beneath her, she felt the muscles of his abdomen ripple in a huff of annoyance. “There’ve been no others since I met you, Julia.” His gray-green eyes held hers. “The day I was late to rehearsal, I’d come straight from here, it’s true. But if I looked as if I hadn’t slept, it’s because I laid awake half the night, thinking of you.”

“Oh.” Perhaps such honeyed words shouldn’t please her, but they did. She shifted her hips against his groin, deliberately provocative. “Only half the night?”

One corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Naughty lass. What am I going to do with you?”

The answer, it seemed, was to kiss her senseless again. After learning every curve of her lips, he nibbled his way along her jaw to murmur against her ear. “Dare I ask—did you ever lie awake thinking of me?”