Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
She’d kissed him. The little minx had kissed him.
Dante was supposed to be making sketches and taking notes. He held his sketchbook open before him, at least, braced over one arm, crayon in the air as if he were making a good effort. But he was watching Cerys Evans.
The winter had been chilly, and the spring air had not yet truly warmed.
She wore a woolen pelisse of Parma violet that covered her fully, the hem brushing the tops of her yellow half boots.
The tiny puffs at the sleeves and the folded collar made for a demure effect, while the high waist and drape of the wool gave her the slender, dainty silhouette so in fashion.
In her yellow kid gloves and the simple capote bonnet with its shirred brim and twists of ribbon, she looked like any genteel young damsel visiting Cheltenham with her family and strolling the spas to take the waters.
When she was anything but.
What was she?
She had the confidence of a young woman who’d been born to a high rank and assured all her life of her place in it. She had all the small airs and graces that his mother had tried so hard to cultivate in his sisters, so that they could pass muster in genteel circles.
But Cerys Evans mingled with actors and the low as easily as she curtsied to earls and gentlemen’s wives.
She had the directness of a barmaid and the boldness of a courtesan.
Dante hadn’t known many courtesans in his life—Bathsheba was the only woman he’d been with who had made the sensual arts a profession rather than a hobby.
But the little minx had waltzed right up to him and shattered the knot of his cravat that he’d spent a painful amount of time making.
And then she had planted her hand in that cravat and yanked him into a kiss.
His mouth burned at the memory. His shoulders still felt the press of her hands.
He still tasted her, sharp and sweet at the same time.
The scent of lemon ever so faint in her hair.
The small gasps she made deep in her throat, surprise and pleasure, as if she’d never been kissed before, or never been kissed by someone who knew how.
His sisters—he hoped—would never kiss a man in the shadowed corner of a house, at least not a man they were not married or already affianced to.
They would never, he hoped, be so bold as to presume upon a man’s affections.
Yet Cerys Evans had informed him that she had made up a story about their courting as if she were doing him a favor.
As if she expected him to gratefully, eagerly agree.
And now she strolled the gravel walks with her companions from the acting troupe, chatting and laughing and at her ease, and all three of the important men in the vicinity had flown to her like bees to a flower: Dutton, Thompson, and Thompson’s son, who did his best to claim a place at Cerys’s side while Dorsey engaged the elder Thompson in a proposition, or so it appeared.
The manager waved his arms wildly—he was wearing the same coat he’d worn to dinner, somewhat creased—and Thompson listened and nodded along.
Miss Evans dropped a comment here and there, no doubt steering the conversation in precisely the channels she meant for it to go.
She was a cunning baggage, manipulating them all to some end of her own. She was a talented actress—more talented than he’d given her credit for. He must not forget that. She was trained to make people see something she wanted them to see.
He would not allow himself to become enchanted with an image a woman created for him. Not again. Dante told himself to return to his sketchbook and the business at hand.
Then she glanced his way, a probing look, as if she were confirming to herself where he was. To see if he were watching her. He scowled.
She lifted her eyebrows, widened her eyes, and tilted her head toward the carriage that paused in the drive a short distance away.
They were promenading near Thompson’s Spa again, Dorsey with some intention of canvassing sites for a temporary theater, and Dante was supposed to be designing buildings for the Montpelier Parade.
Not watching the parade of Cerys Evans, a performance all of its own.
Her look held warning, and he followed the tilt of her head.
The Baeccons had brought their town carriage to Cheltenham, a ridiculous expense, but of course, Bathsheba would only go about in a conveyance with her hard-won family coat of arms on the door.
The woman had aimed for a duke and settled for a baron, but as they both counted as peers, she was content to advertise her conquest.
He forced himself to unclench his jaw.
“We were at the Old Well, but it is quite thin of company.” Bathsheba’s voice carried in the clear air.
“And the Orchard Well was dull. Because everyone, it would seem, is here at Mr. Thompson’s.
” She gave her practiced smile to the proprietor, condescension and elegance together.
It was likely a look she practiced often, to complement her new status.
“Your ladyship.” Thompson bowed low. “If you but try my chalybeate waters, I think you will find yourself refreshed. The minerals are quite fortifying.”
“Oh, and I see the actors are abroad as well.” Bathsheba’s gaze arrowed to Cerys.
Cerys responded with a dainty, proper dip of her knees, but the small smile about her mouth said she acknowledged superiority in rank only. Minx. She was inviting Bathsheba to bare her claws, just as she’d done last night. Why would she be so foolish?
“Miss Evans, I have a proposition for you. His lordship’s proposition, actually.
” Bathsheba twined her arm around that of her husband, who wore his habitual look of spleen.
He carried a riding crop, though he had not come on horse, and tapped it against his boots.
His irritated gaze ranged over the company, picking out the women. He glanced on Cerys, and settled there.
Dante stiffened his back.
“Our proposition,” the lady went on, “is that his lordship will provide funds to invest in the building of your theater.”
“Splendid! Much obliged, milord.” Dorsey hastened forward to hold out his hand. His steps wove a bit, and Cerys put a hand on his arm to steady him.
“We have only one requirement,” Bathsheba said, with that smile Dante knew hid her fangs. “Our furnishing of funds will depend on whether we are impressed by the performance your troupe puts on for us, Mr. Dorsey. Ophelia, I believe we decided?”
Bathsheba was very eager to see Cerys off herself.
Cerys tilted her head and studied her ladyship with that considering, quizzical look Dante was starting to recognize. It meant the wheels in her clever little head were turning.
“The play is Hamlet, as I am sure her ladyship is aware, and we will be delighted to stage it for you as soon as we might. But I do have a question. How will your ladyship judge the play a success?”
Bathsheba narrowed her eyes. Not a single hair beneath her hat stirred in the light breeze; it wouldn’t dare disobey its owner’s tight control. “Why, in the usual ways, I would suppose.”
“But what criterion would that be, in this instance?” Cerys pressed.
“As you see, we do not exactly have an office to sell boxes. Will his lordship consider us a success if we sell a certain number of tickets? Make a certain profit? Attract a certain number of people for our audience? Or is the consideration something else?”
His lordship tapped his whip in irritation and glared at his lady.
Clearly, this was all her idea. Dante wondered how long it had taken before Baeccon, who had held out his hand thinking he would shelter this delicate, neglected creature and raise her to prominence, realized that he would not be doing the leading in his marriage.
Bathsheba smiled with false sweetness. “You are adorable. The criterion should be how well the play is received, don’t you think?
For if you displease the audience, we can hardly hope you will establish yourselves with any success here in Cheltenham, and that would be a poor investment for his lordship, would it not? ”
Cerys nodded briefly. “Very well. Then we shall do our best to impress, won’t we, Dorsey?”
“Oh, your ladyship will be impressed.” Dorsey grinned. “We rival the Royal Theatre on this one. Be prepared to open your purse, your lordship.”
Some glance of knowing passed between the manager and his actress, and annoyance raked across Dante’s shoulders. Annoyance only. The man had other and more experienced actresses, yet he favored Cerys.
But who would not? She stood out among the women like a stalk of red helleborine rising from a bed of common violets.
Part of it was the glow of youth and native beauty, which of course would incite Bathsheba’s envy.
Bathsheba was older than Dante, and he had a least a decade on the ingenue, who did not need her ladyship’s arts and cosmetics to glow with a fresh-faced appeal.
There was something artless and unstudied to the younger girl’s demeanor, as if she were simply behaving as herself, rather than playing a carefully scripted part.
And while he suspected both women had learned to mimic their elders, Bathsheba had adopted the condescension and command of her rank, while Cerys’s mimicry was of an elegance and graciousness that seemed innate.
Even their clothing showed the difference.
Bathsheba too wore a long pelisse, but with overlapping pipes of black trim that created dizzying designs along the front closure and an elaborate collar that formed a deep V.
Her bonnet spilled with ribbons and puffs and false flowers.
Beside Cerys’s natural simplicity, Bathsheba’s arts looked heavy, overdone.
If Bathsheba was a flower, she was henbane, glossy forked leaves and showy flowers spotted with darkness, the whole possessing the power to give a man hallucinations and drive him to madness, if not death.