Page 68 of The Lady Plays with Fire

The uniform made it less immediately obvious that the other man was slighter of build and shorter of stature than Graham. It also made it easier to forget that his father had been a clergyman, that if circumstances had been different, Captain Addison might have followed the same peaceful path.

It was, above all, a visible reminder of his willingness to fight for what he believed to be honorable and right.

Graham weighed whether to offer some explanation for his conduct, even an apology. He’d intended to write, had even started a letter. But the revelation about Miss on Scene and yesterday’s conversation with Julia had made him hesitate. Better to wait until he had her answer before approaching her brother for his consent.

Not that he was particularly worried about acquiring it. If Julia said yes, then if necessary, he would take her back to Scotland, where she could do as she pleased.

“She’s a grown woman,” he pointed out. “The decision of whom, or whether, to wed ought to be hers.”

To his surprise, Sterling gave another nod of agreement. “And I would be thought a fool if I refused to grant my permission for her to marry a gentleman of rank and fortune.” As he spoke, his gaze traveled around the well-appointed room before settling again on Graham. “But I am her brother. I wanted some reassurance that you’re the man to make her happy.”

Graham fixed his eyes on a point over Sterling’s shoulder. Across the wallpaper, the frolicking figures of maidens and swains made sheep’s eyes at one another; their expressions still set his teeth on edge.

He understood, even admired, her brother’s protective impulse.

But how could he promise Julia happiness when he’d known so little of it himself?

“Then, as I made my way here,” Sterling continued, a new, slightly self-deprecating note in his voice, “I thought of what she would say if she discovered I’d made such a demand on her behalf. She has a bit of an independent streak, as you may have discovered.”

Graham bit back an incredulous snort.

Would that be the same independent streak that had taken her to Covent Garden alone? Taken on Shakespeare? Taken charge of his racing curricle?

Taken hold of his heart.

“Still,” Sterling went on, “since I’ve come all this way . . .” He leaned back in his chair. Graham braced himself for a military-style interrogation.

But the first question wasn’t even a question. “Mrs. Hayes tells me it was a mutual interest in the theater that brought you together.”

Graham thought of Miss on Scene’s review. Of the first time he’d seen Julia, that night in his box. Of the light in her eyes as she’d ascended to the Covent Garden stage. “Aye. That’s fair to say.”

“Julia explained something about your connection to—to this playwright fellow—a satirical sort, or so I’ve heard . . .” Sterling circled a hand, searching for the name.

“Ransom Blackadder,” Graham supplied, more reluctantly. Blackadder certainly had never been a source of happiness. Only an outlet for misery.

“Exactly. His patron, she called you. And unfortunately, it seems we’ve caught you just as his next play is set to begin. The business of it demands your attention,” Sterling went on, sounding almost regretful for the intrusion. “That’s why we’ve not seen you or heard from you since our arrival in Town, she says.”

Julia might have said nothing, offered no explanation at all. Certainly, she would have been within her rights to express reservations about his intentions or their future together, to prepare her family for the possibility of their engagement being called off.

But evidently she hadn’t. At least, not yet.

In spite of himself, hope swelled in Graham’s chest. “You’ll come, I hope? All of you,” he offered rashly. “On opening night. You’re welcome to the use of my box.”

“Very generous of you.” Sterling’s face eased into a smile. “It will be like old times. I’ve taken my sister to a good many performances over the years, you know.” Memory softened his expression further, making Graham think he recalled the long-ago outing to see the actors on the village green with the same fondness she did. “And watched her recite lines from the plays she’s seen without me—nothing like amateur theatricals to pass a winter’s evening, eh?”

Finding such a scene easy to picture, Graham nodded. But what would Sterling say to the discovery that those evenings at home had been preparation for the Covent Garden stage, albeit in the privacy of closed rehearsals?

“Yes,” her brother continued, his gaze still far away, “it seems she’s always loved a play—the farce, especially.”

“As do I,” Graham confessed. The admission would astonish Julia, who imagined him incapable of a smile.

But the spark of a forgotten emotion had flared to life in his chest and now began to emit a steady glow, a hint of warmth.

He did love the theater, though he hadn’t always known it. Certainly, he hadn’t always shown it.

He loved to hear peals of laughter coming from the audience—not wry or cynical, but . . . well, genuine.

Most important of all, he loved Julia.