Page 47 of The Lady Plays with Fire

He had chased a wild hare, half to tamp down his need for her, to remind himself of the pleasures, the necessity, of being alone.

And half because she, with her bright eyes and mischievous smile and way with a pen, had reignited a joy in wordplay that he had all but lost.

She would laugh to see him here. Not in the malicious fashion of audiences at a Blackadder play. She would be amused by his impulsiveness. Bemused, he corrected himself, remembering her expression the day he’d dropped her at Porter’s Bookshop. She didn’t know what to make of him, of his gruff, taciturn ways.

And she didn’t like wanting him, any more than he liked wanting her.

Draining his glass, he pushed himself more upright in the chair, forced himself to eat the bowl of Mrs. Tetley’s good stew and a few bites of bread, then carried everything back into the kitchen. After storing the food, he shrugged into his greatcoat and grabbed an apple, munching away at its tart crispness as he strode to the outbuilding to check on the horses. Fallon whickered softly; Findlay nosed the apple core out of his palm. A sleek tabby cat wound around his ankles but refused an offer to be petted.

Finding everything secure and settled, he returned to the house, banked the fire, and went upstairs, though it was hours earlier than he usually retired for the night. Nonetheless, he found himself drained by the events of the day.

In a room lit only by the moon, he stripped off his clothes and slipped into bed. When he’d started out as a writer, the best ideas for his plays had come to him in those hazy moments between waking and sleep.

But tonight, what came to him were more thoughts of Julia.

Decidedly improper thoughts.

If his strange fatigue weren’t enough, the chill in the air ought to have put a stop to them. He rolled onto his belly, hoping the rough, cold sheets against his bare skin would have the desired effect.

A few moments later, he caught himself grinding his hips into the mattress as he relived their first kiss in his mind: her hot, soft mouth and eager groan.

You’re no’ a randy lad anymore, he chided himself, flopping onto his back again. Though admittedly, schoolboy Graham would have been impressed by the way his cockstand tented the bed linens.

It would be tawdry and desperate to frig himself. But his body didn’t seem to care. He slid his palm down his belly and cupped his aching bollocks before taking his cock in a firm grip and jerking at his flesh almost frantically.

He would scratch the itch and be done with it.

Stave off this foolish need.

In any case, she would never know about this place. This night.

She would never know—

He would never—

“Ah, God,” he groaned into the darkness as his legs went rigid and his spine bowed against his impending climax. He was worse than a randy lad, spending almost as soon as he’d begun, and ending something less than satisfied.

What if he never saw her again?

When the sun rose Wednesday morning, he contemplated the prospect of another day in Brereton Cottage, surrounded by silence. A few more hours with only his own thoughts for company might yet do him some good—provided he could keep those thoughts in check.

Rehearsals for The Poison Pen would go on without him. Perhaps Fanshawe and the rest would perform better without Blackadder’s patron looming over them, correcting their every breath.

But in the end, he dragged himself out of bed to eat cold stew, hitched up the horses, and returned to Town. Unshaven and unkempt, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, he arrived at Covent Garden at half past two. Hailing the most responsible-looking of the ragged boys who hung about the theater, he handed over the reins of his curricle, squared his shoulders, and went inside.

Chapter 15

When the massive door at the back of the theater swung open, Julia refused to turn and look. It would be someone who painted scenery, or another actor. She would not allow herself to appear either eager or disappointed.

Even if she had been foolish enough to imagine that Lord Dunstane attended every rehearsal.

She was here to discover the inner workings of the play, to protect her name, to save the magazine. She had not come for him.

And she would remind herself of that until she believed it.

When she had arrived, Mr. Fanshawe and Mrs. Cole had exchanged words—about her, she could guess. But they seemed to have agreed she must have Lord Dunstane’s permission to attend the rehearsal. When Julia had quietly slipped into her present seat, three rows back from the stage, and made it clear that she intended to observe in silence, they shrugged and largely ignored her.

Without the critical eye and tongue of Blackadder’s patron, the actors relaxed into their roles. In their skilled hands—and when they weren’t being questioned at every turn, they were indeed skilled—the characters came alive. Details of the story, disjointed on the page, now fit neatly together in her mind.