Page 4 of The Secret of Flirting
No reason?Apparently my lady actress had her own delusions of grandeur. And he didn’t have time for such nonsense, damn it.
But before the porter could even answer her, the servant who’d fetched them from the box showed them into a room little bigger than the coat closet in Gregory’s London town house, with scarcely space enough for her and the porter, much less him and Hart.
With a nod at Gregory, the porter slid past them into the hall, leaving them alone with the actress. Too late to escape now. She stared them down unrepentantly, though she had to know they’d overheard her insults.
She was still in costume, but he noticed things about her that his distance from the stage had obscured—like her voluptuous bosom and surprising height. Her prominent chin gave her the look of a woman of purpose. And up close, she looked younger than she had onstage. Even the heavy theatrical makeup couldn’t disguise the tight skin of her neck, her youthful hands, and the lack of lines about her mouth and eyes.
Hergorgeousmouth and eyes. Her scarlet-painted lips were unexpectedly full, the kind that made a man want to taste and tongue and suck. Her stunning green eyes shone iridescent in the lamplight from between long, lustrous lashes. They enticed him, and that put him on his guard.
Those eyes seemed to be assessing him, too—weighing his worth, character, and proclivities in the same way he often did those of other people. It disturbed him to be on the receiving end. Whowasthis chit, anyway?
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said in excellent English. “What may I do for you?”
Hart offered her a courtly bow. “We came to express our admiration for the performance.”
“Did you?” She met Gregory’s gaze coolly. “I don’t think your companion has the same purpose.”
Had he been scowling at her? Probably. The woman had thrown him off his game. He’d spent years schooling his emotions into calm, and it vexed him that she had managed to ruffle it.
Forcing a smile, he dipped his head. “On the contrary, I found your acting quite proficient.”
“What effusive praise,” she said dryly, surprising him with her knowledge of English vocabulary. “I shall try not to let it go to my head.”
“What he meant to say was—” Hart began.
“I can speak for myself.” Gregory wasn’t going to be chided by some French actress. Nor was he going to “fawn over her,” to useherwords. “You’re clearly an adept performer, mademoiselle, at least in a comedic role.”
“What exactly does that mean? What’s wrong with a comedic role?” she asked in a voice smooth as butter. But her gaze sliced into him like a blade of carved jade.
It unsettled him, made him impatient to be done with this. “Surely you will admit that such roles lack the deep feeling of dramatic ones. So of course they are easier to perform.”
To his surprise, that garnered him a light, tinkling laugh that thrummed along his every nerve. “If you think that, sir, you have never been on the stage.”
Hart stepped forward. “He didn’t mean to insult—”
“Of course not.” The gleam in her eyes mocked Gregory. “He is merely stating the usual opinion of an English lord—that great literature should always betrès tragique.”
The wordusualarrested him. “It isn’t merely English lords who hold that opinion, but arbiters of culture of every rank.” Damn it, he sounded as arrogant as she’d assumed, the opposite of what he wanted.
That seemed to sober her. “Everyrank? Truly? Because I generally find that such opinions come from those who have never lived with tragedy, whose moated castles protect them from poverty and violence.”
“Poverty? Yes.” The image of his mother’s battered features swam into his memory. “But no one escapes violence in this age, regardless of their rank.”
“Come now, sir,” she said coldly, “if that were true, men of your sort wouldn’t find tragedy entertaining. But those of us who toil daily in the darkness prefer to be taken away from it, if only for a short while. We prefer to laugh. And I truly believe that making people laugh is a noble endeavor far superior to making people cry.”
Impossible woman. What didsheknow? “You are, of course, entitled to your opinion. But I would point out that Shakespeare is lauded for his tragedies more than his comedies.”
“By whom? I like his comedies very well. Though I confess I prefer Beaumarchais’s farces. Or, in your language, the excellent work of Oliver Goldsmith.She Stoops to Conquercomes to mind.”
She was beautifulandwell read. He began to regret his caustic words earlier, which had put her on her guard.
“That’s my favorite of Goldsmith’s, too,” Hart put in, clearly determined to be part of the conversation.
“I have never seen or read it,” Gregory said bluntly.
Humor lit her face. “Of course not. But you should. You would approve of the hero, I daresay.”
Hart laughed. “Touché.”
