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He saw a smile in her eyes, so he kept talking. “It’s gone beyond kippers, Cleo. I think about you in the bath. While dressing. I accompanied Merry to church last Sunday, and the Almighty would have been very dismayed if he could see the object of my worship. In short: I’m bloody well in love with you.”

“Romantic,” she said, a tinge of irony in her tone. “You need to practice.”

“I’ve never had to.”

“Practice?”

“Never wanted to.”

“No Juliets? Because I’ve seen that in the theater world. Theater owners sometimes look at young actresses—”

“I don’t.” He shook his head. “Never. I inherited the theaters from my father. He would have loved to be an actor, but an Astor can’t perform on the common stage, so he bought theaters instead and then gave himself over into opium dreams where he ruled the stage as lead actor. I have tried my damnedest to make a go of them. For him.”

“I wondered,” Cleo said. “In London, actors often hold shares in their own theater. Even the impresarios have theatrical backgrounds. Whereas you seemed to have no real interest in the dramatic arts.”

“May I sit down?”

Dismay filled her eyes. “I’ve kept you standing when you have an injury!”

Jake snorted and picked her up into his arms.

“Oh.”

“It’s nothing, Cleo.” He bent his head and nuzzled her nose. “Nothing.” He headed toward an oversized plush chair to the side of the room. “Do notice how proper I am. I’m not heading for the bed.”

“I should hope not!”

He heard a distinct ripping sound as he sat down. “My breeches,” he told her. “It’s not meant as a criticism of Martha’s sewing skills, but no actor playing Hamlet could get through the sword-fighting scenes without causing a scandal.”

“That’s my fault!” Cleo exclaimed. “I told Martha that she needn’t double stitch the garments she made for you. In my defense, very few gentlemen engage in vigorous exercise of any kind. Which reminds me that you didn’t tell me how you received today’s wound.”

“A couple of fools thought my marigold buttonhole signaled that I was an easy target.”

She leaned her head against his chest, her weight settling into his lap with all the rightness of a puzzle piece linking to its match. She ran her hand up his bare arm. “I’ve only seen a man’s arm bared on stage.”

“Those productions must be more daring than American ones,” Jake said. He was ordering his tool to settle down and not insult Cleo by throbbing against her bottom. Her delicious, rounded—

It was useless.

“Julius Caesar,” Cleo supplied. “Togas, remember?”

He reached out and grabbed the brandy decanter. He held it to her lips. “A taste?”

“No, thank you. Mother and I saw John Philip Kemble’s famous production a few years ago.”

“He was wearing a toga, I presume?”

She nodded. “So short that his knees were visible.”

“Men’s knees are uninteresting,” Jake said. He took a swig of brandy. The brawl had been nothing, but his nerves were on edge.

Cleo seemed to understand; she looped an arm around his neck and rubbed her hair on his shoulder. “I like men’s knees. Have you ever been to a revue?”

He frowned. “Perhaps the word means different things on different continents.”

She gave him an impish smile. “On the day I turned eighteen, my mother took me to a Greek and Roman revue held in a brothel that catered to women. A parade of good-looking men in togas were available for bedding at a price.”

“Did you?” His heart was thudding because if she had welcomed a man to her bed . . . well, then, perhaps she would—