Chapter 8 #3
His gaze paused on Lord Baeccon, who glanced between his wife and Cerys as if he didn’t know whom to skewer first. Then his survey landed on Dutton, who was trying to interest Cerys with a jelly molded into the shape of a lion.
Manelli’s eyelids tensed at he observed this exchange—he did not like Dutton’s attentions to Cerys.
Very well. She would start there. Quite forgetting the etiquette that said she must drink with a partner, Cerys bolted another swallow of wine to fortify herself for the task ahead.
Somehow she must inform Dante Manelli that, in addition to making him the company’s architect, she had also cast him in the role of her lover.
She could imagine a myriad range of responses he might have to her ploy, and none of them were encouraging.
The ladies withdrew to the parlor after, and the wait was unendurable.
It was too hot. Lady Diana insisted that all the fires be roaring.
The mirrors and windows cast back strange, distorted reflections of the candlelight, recalling the night Dorsey’s players had tried to stage a pantomime from the Inferno.
The descent into Hell had nearly burned down the theater at Chipping Camden.
Lady Diana fretted that the tea was too cool and the cream too warm.
She wanted brandy. After a wearisome half hour of Lady Baeccon holding forth about the grandeur of her homes, the expense of her jewels, and the designs of her new carriage, Cerys wanted brandy, too.
She had enough of Lady Baeccon asking about the various plays Dorsey’s had put up, and then describing performances she’d seen that, she implied, were better.
It gave Cerys new resolution about the performance she planned to put on for Lady Baeccon.
Finally, the men adjourned from their port and tobacco and came to add to the oppressive heat and noise of the room. Against her will, Cerys turned toward the doorway as the men’s tread approached.
Mr. Manelli was as severe as ever, his neckcloth tucked beneath the stiff lapels of his coat and his even stiffer jaw. That set to his shoulders hinted they were hard as granite. His hair held its shape still, no doubt a combination of heavy pomade and sheer will.
God help her, she wanted more than ever to muss him. While Lady Baeccon was watching.
She posed herself beside an Oriental vase and stood with careless elegance, chatting with Mame and Dottie.
She pretended not to observe how his eyes searched the room and stopped when they landed on her.
His brows knit together in a glower, his lips tightened, and for some ridiculous reason, his reaction pleased her.
He was still annoyed by the very sight of her, but displeasure was better than the stony mask that dropped over his face when he located Lady Baeccon.
Her ladyship began her pitch at once. “Dante, I recall how much you have always enjoyed music. Do ask Miss Evans if she will perform for us.”
Ah, the classic drawing room competition to see which lady could display the most accomplishments. Cerys had seen this farce before.
She arranged her mouth in an agreeable smile. “My talents, such as they are, are more suited to the stage, milady, not the drawing room.”
“Nonsense, you have us all believing you are a gently bred young lady, though how such a one ends up on the stage, I’d dearly like to know. Come, Lady Diana is falling asleep in her chair. Give us some entertainment.”
Lady Baeccon’s smile conveyed that she expected the entertainment to be thin and poor, at best. Like weak gruel. She was trying to intimidate Cerys by exposing her deficiencies before these well-born and titled men. And Dante.
Little did she know that Cerys had grown up learning how not to be cowed by those born to better circumstances, as this constituted most of the population.
She glanced under her lashes at Dante, who had adopted the patient look of a man who knew that, to be agreeable, he had to suffer the display of feminine accomplishments. But there was a heat in his eyes behind the wary guard. He was still trying to figure out what Cerys was up to.
She flashed him a smile full of demure invitation. “Perhaps a tune or two, then.”
Thankful now for the tutoring Lady Vaughn of Greenfield had insisted on providing her, Cerys seated herself at the pianoforte and performed a creditable version of “The Last Rose of Summer” by Thomas Moore.
“Charming,” Lady Baeccon sneered. “If sentimental. I can see why that piece should appeal to you, Miss Evans. Do you know the one about the pert girl who declares that no one shall govern her, and ages into a sour and fretful spinster?”
“I do not know the tune of it,” Cerys murmured, “though I understand the sentiment, at the end, is the young lady declaring she’d gladly be governed by a worthy man of her choice.
” She sent another heavy-lashed look at Dante.
He was leaning against one of the marble mantelpieces, a casual stance that showed off every line of his strong and well-formed body.
He likely knew that, the dratted man.
“But I believe your ladyship’s aim was to please Mr. Manelli,” Cerys added. “Shall we ask him if I ought to continue?”
He gave her a cool stare in response. “Lady Baeccon will please herself, as she always has,” he answered in his deep rumble. “My wishes matter very little, I’m sure.”
“Come now, Dante, that is not true. I put great store in your feelings.” As if she sensed the stare her husband leveled at her from across the room, where he was in conversation with Andover, her ladyship added, “On the basis of our past friendship, that is.”
“One would easily suspect, given the nature of his appearance, that it is an impossible task to please Mr. Manelli,” Cerys returned. “Herculean, even. But let us see if we can persuade him to reveal his softer side.”
She threw him an arch glance that suggested an understanding between them no one else in the room was aware of. Lady Baeccon, in response, appeared aggrieved. Mr. Manelli simply looked baffled.
Taking a gamble, Cerys performed one of the few Welsh ballads in her repertoire.
Translated, it wasn’t that interesting, a maundering message about religious wanderings and spiritual solace.
But it had been written by a woman, a fact Cerys appreciated, and she quite liked the tune.
It was the ideal range for her voice, which was pleasant in tone but not altogether strong.
Manelli was at her elbow, the bored indifference gone. “What language is that?”
She gave him a full-bodied smile, practically feeling her ladyship’s eyes cutting into her shoulders. “Welsh, Mr. Manelli. I told you I was raised in Newport.”
“I thought most British tried to discourage the use of the language.”
“The British, perhaps.” She rose from the bench. “But not the Welsh. Mame, would you like to have a go?”
Mame happily monopolized the instrument, while Lady Baeccon, having demanded a musical interlude, was obliged to stay and make admiring noises. But her ladyship was not to be sidelined so easily.
“My dear Dante.” She cooed and patted the cushion of the chair beside her. “It has been so long. Do join me and we can catch up. I’m ravenously curious to hear what you have been doing with yourself since we parted.”
Her ladyship and her ravening curiosity again.
The other woman sent Cerys a smug smile as Dante, having little other choice but to oblige, seated himself.
The arms of the delicate mahogany piece were too small for him, and his masculine legs in their breeches and boots quite dwarfed the spindly legs of the chair.
Lady Baeccon had lost her arts, if she ever had any.
Perhaps the woman had merely relied on her sultry expressions and magnificent bosom to have her will be done.
Cerys had only a modest bosom and looks far too uniformly wholesome to ever achieve an imitation of sultriness, but she was also too wise to force an active, restless man like Manelli to perch in a small chair beside her and listen to Mame sing bawdy tunes about hanging villains and rogues who broke ladies’ hearts.
Perhaps Lady Baeccon had become complacent in the effect her bewitching bosoms had on her husband and had forgotten how to do anything else.
Rather than sit attentively, Cerys drifted about the room. She had studied how to move across a stage, how to disappear, how to draw attention. How to convey anger and torment, and how to drift like a flower borne on a stream, relaxed, graceful, dreamy.
She strolled from group to group, ingratiating herself with each.
Shored up Dot, who had run out of things to say to Dutton but stood awkwardly with her cup of tea.
Dot hated tea. Cerys asked Dutton about his children, and then, perceiving that infants, even his own, held little interest for him, asked him which of the wells of Cheltenham he thought conveyed the most excellent benefits.
This subject he held forth on, concluding with an invitation to escort Cerys to several so she might make a sampling herself.
“I should be delighted,” she exclaimed. “I was discussing with Mr. Manelli and Mr. Dorsey how we might begin a survey of acceptable lots for our theater. How helpful it would be to have a guide who knows something of the area.”
Dutton scowled at having his invitation extended to include the other men.
Cerys moved on to Dorsey, who was flushed and pleased with himself after performing his version of Feste’s song at the end of Twelfth Night, with Mame’s accompaniment.
Cerys stood where the oil lamp could cast a burnished glow on her skin, brushing the tips of her hair silver and gold.
She let her shawl fall about her elbows so the graceful silhouette of her gown showed to effect.
She couldn’t look in his direction, of course, so she could only hope that Mr. Manelli took notice.