Page 41 of Burning Secrets of a Lady's Pen
Corin had to clear his throat to buy for time and pretend that he hadn’t been staring off up toward the stage as he stepped closer to Sir John in the pit. Distracted himself, he looked over the final version of the play the older man held out, to try and buy for even more time.
Anything to try to distract from the fact that his eyes had been glued to where Imelda and that useless Fellowes chap were talking on stage.
“Rushed? No. I think you fixed that issue by extending the final act.” And he did. It just took Corin a moment longer than it should have to remember such a fact.
Sir John hummed, his eyes bright and focused as he looked Corin over, a lingering knowing to his gaze that made Corin feel at once as if he were under the spotlight on the stage himself.
“It’s very good, Sir John,” Corin continued quickly.
Sir John didn’t look at all fooled.
“You seem preoccupied,” he commented dryly, tilting his head slightly and that knowing look in his eyes seeming to sharpen.
Corin laughed, but even to his own ears, the sound was forced.
“Tired, maybe,” he lied. “Still ready to see the rehearsals, though.”
Sir John seemed to consider his words for a minute, his smile less effusive than normal, before he nodded. “Yes, yes. I am, as well. Hopefully, Terrin doesn’t miss his mark this time. I’ll have to replace him otherwise.” The latter half of his sentence was said in a raised voice as he headed off absentmindedly in the direction of Terrin and a group of other actors at the other end of the pit.
Corin smiled, a more real expression only for his general fondness for the old playwright, before turning to take the stairs up the stage.
He had no ready excuse for why he was approaching Imelda, though he knew that he ought to. There was nothing he could say, even, to explain needing to speak to her privately. But he did. After the events of the night before, and everything else, Corin couldn’t seem to help himself.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Imelda’s voice carried over to him as he neared the pairing still on the stage, her words hurried as if she had only just rushed them out as she had caught sight of him approaching
“Of course,” Mr. Fellowes offered charmingly. “I suspect your uncle is gathering us all in the pit now, if my eyes don’t deceive me. Maybe I’ll see you after rehearsals?”
“Maybe,” Imelda hedged, her giggle sounding nervous as she whirled off and hurried to the other end of the stage.
Theodore Fellowes looked smug as he passed Corin, as if he thought her nervousness was on account of him. And Corin had the immense urge to punch him squarely in that smug, pinched mouth of his as he did.
But his focus was on Imelda. Imelda who was hurrying in the opposite direction, ducking behind one elaborately hemmed curtain in her attempt to escape him.
It was as if she had forgotten how much taller Corin was in comparison, as if his legs couldn’t make short work of that distance, his own hand twitching the curtain out of his way as he followed her into the wings.
“Imelda!”
“I have nothing to discuss with you!” she called over her shoulder, her steps quickening.
Corin was left with no choice other than to grab her arm, halting her mid-step and forcing her to spin and face him.
“On that,” he growled, “we disagree entirely.”
“Unhand me this instant!” she hissed, her green eyes narrowing to slits as she jerked against his grip. “I’ve heard everything that I need to hear. I do not need you muddying my head any further with your lies and—”
“You heard everything that you needed to hear from Belle Mansel?” Corin scoffed. “I find that hard to believe.”
“She told me about your courtship!” Imelda accused, her eyes burning with that same betrayal from the night before as she ceased pulling against his grip and instead stared him down angrily.
“Our courtship.” The words alone were sour on his tongue. “An exaggerated telling of it, no doubt. I promised nothing to her. I did not even pursue her, Imelda. If anything, it was the other way around. She was the one to approach me. It was she who concocted this relationship in her mind that I never had any intention of following. Hell! She was the whole reason for my hasty departure to Florence in the first place!”
An escape that he could hardly be mad about considering what it had led to, but those words were buried beneath the anger of the accusations leveled against him. And Imelda’s skin in his hand was warm and vibrant, the flush that stained her cheeks seeming to travel all the way down into her arms and—
God, how often had he imagined what her skin would feel like under his hands? How often had he dreamed about it?
Her chest heaved as she stared at him, seemingly torn between whatever story Belle had concocted and his explanation.
He ought to have explained more. To tell her exactly what all had happened and how he had found himself attached to such a vapid socialite in the first place, but when she swayed on her feet, he forgot all of that.
