Chapter 3
Perseus had very likely just made a terrible mistake.
He knew it deep in his bones. He had said the word act to a young lady of the ton, and in a way that suggested she should do it.
Even in his family, the young ladies did not act outside of the house. Only his aunt, Lady Juliet, had ever dared take up acting. And she’d married an American. That seemed to explain her choices with aplomb.
Of course, they all acted multiple times a year in multiple plays at Heron House or the country estate.
Oftentimes, the family, in the evening, would put on a little show for the pleasure and entertainment of everyone in the house.
It was just what Briarwoods did.
They valued the enjoyment of watching each other pretend to be other people and make use of the greatest verse ever written. Humans, since the dawn of time, as far as he could tell, loved to do this. But a lot of young ladies in the ton certainly were not encouraged to do this now.
Though it used to be far more common to do within the privacy of homes.
They certainly weren’t allowed to do it professionally.
Young ladies weren’t allowed to have professions at all. Their profession was to raise children and to manage their husband’s estate and social life. He had a great deal of respect for that.
It took immense work, in his personal opinion, to be a sparkling socialite.
He’d seen the toll it had taken on some of his aunts and the ladies of the ton, who often did not have the support that the ladies in his family had.
He had seen countesses, duchesses, viscountesses, struggling to sparkle, many bearing heirs, and making certain that the most powerful people came to their balls, parties, dinners, masks.
He went to most of them. He was a Briarwood.
When one was closely related to a duke, there was very little one did not get invited to.
But he knew that it was no small thing for a lady to have to organize so much.
And not only that, but to organize the marriages of their offspring too.
Such things shaped the political reality of their world.
The Briarwoods were a little bit different.
Well, they were a lot different. Miss Muriel Mitchell was likely not so very different, though it was clear she did not have their wealth or status.
She was clearly a little different from the rest of the ton because she was here in his family’s library, alone, studying.
“Don’t you have a chaperone?” he suddenly asked.
She tilted her head to the side, causing her curls to dance most delightfully along her long neck.
A neck he suddenly longed to stroke, to kiss…
“Your grandmother assured me that one was not necessary,” she said rather boldly. “But I did not expect to be cornered in a library by someone like you.”
“Oh, bother,” he said, minding his manners, though he dearly wished to cast them aside. “Have I cornered you?”
“Not exactly,” she clarified, shifting on the seat and clasping the back with her delicate hand as her lush lips pursed. “But this is certainly not appropriate.”
He groaned. “I should leave then, should I?”
“Yes, you likely should.”
He didn’t want to though. Not a bit.
He had come down this morning after a night’s revels, wrestled with Deimos, won the last, quick round, and then he had honestly not known what to do, which was why he was here.
He’d been unable to ignore the positively cacophonous curiosity he had felt about Miss Mitchell in his head.
It was not her job to entertain him. He knew that. And he likely should leave her to whatever work she’d come to do. And yet he could not.
The weather was grim. And she… Well, she was like a light in the darkness.
He had grown rather bored with ton life, which was inexcusable, he knew. But the rounds of parties this year had not improved his mood. He’d been so certain when he’d returned from the Isle of Wight that ton life, with all its distractions, would do the trick.
It had not. He was in a rut.
And Miss Mitchell was fascinating. Oh, how she was.
She was diminutive, fairylike, and clearly intelligent.
He also loved the fact that she loved the theater.
So did he, so did all his family, some of them more than others.
And suddenly he wondered if maybe it hadn’t been a mistake at all to use the word act.
“Would you like to act with me?” he ventured.
“No,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I would not. That sounds like a most absurd notion.”
“I rather like absurd notions.”
She did not reply. Instead, she narrowed her eyes.
The crackle of her look was positively divine.
“A young lady like me cannot act,” she finally stated. “I’m aware that your aunt, Lady Juliet, acts in America, but she doesn’t act here in London. And your grandaunt, Estella, does, but she is not…” Her voice died off. She was clearly at a loss about how to say the truth without sounding rude.
“Technically a lady?” he supplied.
“Technically,” she whispered, clearly mortified at potentially causing offense. Then she scowled, sat up straighter, and said, “Though I find the whole idea of categorizing women into different roles, lady or not a lady, quite offensive.”
There were other categories, of course, but he was not about to point them out to her. Given how well-read she was, she likely knew about them, but he was a gentleman, and he wasn’t about to lead her too far astray. At least not too quickly.
“I wholeheartedly agree,” he replied.
“Now, unless you wish me to be shoved into the category of not a lady, you should go. We are alone after all.”
He cleared his throat. “Right. I’ll be off then.”
“Yes,” she said, though she looked as if part of her wished he’d stay, a part she’d never let have its way. “Good.”
He started to go, but then he closed his eyes and couldn’t allow himself to go.
He turned suddenly and blurted from the doorway, “Why were you watching?”
“What?” she gasped.
“The wrestling,” he asked. “Why were you watching?”
She licked those delicious lips of hers, searching for her explanation. “Well, because the two of you were making a great deal of noise, and I wasn’t entirely certain that someone wasn’t dying on the other side of the door. Turns out that was not the case at all,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Very good of you to make sure no one was dying, and I’m sure you would have rushed in and saved me if I was.”
She laughed suddenly.
How could she not?
He laughed at the idea of her tiny personage rushing into the room to save his great giant of a person too. It was most amusing. But he’d also wager she had the will to be so brave, despite her diminutive size.
He turned to go again, but then he paused, for he had to ask, “You continued to watch, didn’t you?”
She let out a sigh and tucked a curl behind her ear, even as she blushed. “I will admit it. It is a fascinating process. Your limbs moving about like that.”
“My limbs, not my cousin’s?” he had to clarify, though he was rather embarrassed that he felt the need to do so.
“I wasn’t particularly interested in your cousin, if you must know,” she said simply before she frowned. “Even though I shouldn’t admit it, but you’ve asked, so I’m going to tell the truth.”
“Do you always tell the truth?”
“Don’t you?” she replied.
He grinned. “I do actually, but most people in the ton don’t. Most of them color the truth, prevaricate, say something close to the truth, or they outright lie.”
“How sad for them,” she said. “The only time I think that lying is at all worth it is upon the page or on the stage.”
“That’s not lying,” he pointed out. “That’s fiction.”
“It is lying,” she firmly. “It’s just allowed.”
He laughed, a deep booming sound that made him feel like it was spring outside and not winter. “You’re interesting.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But may I ask in turn, why am I so interesting?”
“I don’t know,” he said softly, “but you are.”
She tilted her head to the side and arched a brow. “Is it because I’m a lady in the library making notes?”
He snorted. “Don’t be preposterous. Half my family are women, and they come to the library, read vastly, and take notes. Most of them could run intellectual circles around we fellows, if I’m honest. It’s a crime none of them can go to university.”
“Oh,” she exclaimed.
“You already knew that,” he said. “Didn’t you?”
Her nose wrinkled as she considered this. “Well, I suppose I did in a way, but I’ve never heard a gentleman talk like you.”
“Like what?” he asked.
“As if my interests matter.”
He groaned. “That’s not good. I always forget how awful it is for young ladies who aren’t in my family.”
She nodded. “I confess it’s why I’m trying to put off marriage for as long as possible.”
“Are you having a Season this year?” he asked, half dreading her reply.
She nodded. “But I’m not expected to marry for some time, which I’m deeply grateful for. My sisters must marry first, so I am allowed to do other things.”
“Good,” he affirmed quickly. He hesitated, then asked, “Such as?”
She beamed. “Well, read all about Ben Johnson, for instance.”
“I don’t particularly like his plays,” he said honestly.
Her jaw dropped.
“Well, I suppose I understand,” she said. “They aren’t as complex as Marlowe’s or Shakespeare’s. I often think it most fascinating the way those authors used their plays as a mask to discuss the political difficulties of their time.”
“You are truly a scholar.”
“Indeed, I am,” she said, sitting up proudly before she narrowed her eyes. “I say, was that a test?”
“Perhaps,” he teased. “Even though I may not adore Mr. Johnson, one must say that he did a good turn with his dedication in the First Folio. The very fact the Folio came into existence was a miracle. Do you know my grandmother managed to get a hold of a few of the original rolls?”
Her eyes lit like jewels. “I do know, and I hope to see them. But they are so precious. And it is such a tragedy that so many were lost.”