Page 30 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
“The only lasses chasing after me are the ones who want naught but a title.” He shuddered. “‘Oh, m’laird, ye’re so big and strong, and I’m so wee and helpless’,” he mimicked in his highest-pitched tone.
Persephone laughed. “That was horribly done, but I believe I know what you mean. You played your part too well.”
“The idiot giant, ye mean? I played it once, and the gossips took it from there. I just dunnae care for the opinions of all these soft Sassenachs.”
“Yes, but you might use those same gossips to show everyone that you’re not who they think you are.”
“Am I nae?” He put an elbow beneath his head. “I help shear sheep, I pull stray cows from bogs, I argue with my fists, and I’ve been told I have someaught of an accent. And a temper.”
“You also knew I quoted Juliet earlier, and you seem to have a fair knowledge of the Scottish play.”
“Aye, I can read and write, if that’s what ye’re implying.”
“Stop being so self-deprecating. There are people—women—out there who will appreciate your intelligence. And those who think they can lead you about with a smile will take themselves elsewhere.”
“Ye do make it sound promising.” He looked at her for a moment. “A shame ye think we’d nae suit.”
“I don’tthinkwe wouldn’t suit. Iknowwe wouldn’t suit.” Reaching over, she slid her palm along his hip, then past him to dump his shirt and retrieve her gown. “I have another rehearsal this afternoon, for which I will be late, and then we have to be out before four o’clock, when the rovers come in.”
He sat up beside her to pull on his shirt. Whateverpoetry had wandered through his soul, she didn’t seem to be reading the same book any longer. “The rovers?”
“Charlie never lets the theater close. He’s worried we’ll lose all our business to Covent Garden and Drury Lane. When we’re in between plays, he brings in other troupes to perform. This time, it’s a roving troop from York here for the next nine days, while we ready the Scottish play.”
“Then yer evening is free?” Even as he spoke, he scowled at London and all its ridiculousness, all the obligations it pulled out of everyone. “Dunnae answer that. I’ve a dinner tonight at Lord and Lady Crenshaw’s.”
“Good. You can practice not slinging young ladies over your shoulder if they don’t agree to waltz with you,” she returned, grinning in a way that lit up her blue eyes all over again. “Or ravishing one of them, however much she might wish you would, because then you will be obligated to marry her.Ishall be making notes on Lady the Scottish play.”
That made him grin in return. “Ye’re very matter-of-fact about all this.”
With a shrug, she found her shoes and then climbed down from the wagon to pull them on. “I found… find you very attractive. I wanted you. And I believe you’ve already told me something similar.”
Buckling his kilt and checking to make certain hissgian dubhremained tucked into his boot, he jumped down beside her. “Aye. I’m nae adverse to doing it again, either.” Actually, he wanted her again already—repeatedly.
“Well, as I said, I have re—”
“Aye. For the Scottish play. As ye’re Lady the Scottish play.” He shook his head, determined not to push for something more after they’d both made it clear there was nothing more to be had. He needed a wife, and an actress couldn’t be the wife of a viscount. “That fellow—yer Macbeth who willnae say Macbeth—is a lunatic, ye ken.”
“Gordon? Yes, he is. He’s a very good actor, though, which is why we put up with his nonsense. If you’re about long enough, you’ll find that every one of us at the Saint Genesius is more than a little mad, I’m afraid.”
“And what do ye reckon all of Mayfair thinks ofme, Mrs. Persephone Jones?”
One blue eye narrowed just a fraction. “My friends call me Persie. We’re not so much friends as we are partners in a mutually helpful agreement, but I’ll allow it.”
Partners who had sex, but he understood where she was trying to place him. A wee bit of distance so she could think. He felt the same need himself. “Persie? Nae. Ye’re more out of the ordinary than that. Persephone suits ye better.”
Being about Persephone Jones felt a wee bit like listening to a pretty piece by Mozart, but having the orchestra stop just before the last note. He’d spent a fine afternoon, had laughed and enjoyed keeping up with her conversation, had appreciated that she didn’t attempt to simplify her speech like he was some half-witted lummox, and he’d definitely enjoyed the intimacy, but as she descended from the carriage after him at the rear of the Saint Genesius, he definitely wanted more.
“Thank you for escorting me,” she said with a smile, lifting on her toes to kiss him on the lips once they were inside. “I need to be here tomorrow at nine o’clock. Shall I make my own arrangements, as you should be in the park asking for dances?”
“Nae. I’ll be by yer home at half eight. I reckon I can chat with a few lasses before that.”
“Very well. Thank you, Coll, for a lovely and very satisfying afternoon.” With a flick of her skirts, she headed for the back room, where they’d all been rehearsing earlier.
Coll watched her go, then went looking for Charlie Huddle. He found the barrel-shaped theater manager in a wee coffin of a room, occupied only by a small desk, chair, and a cabinet that looked to be full of papers. No one of any size could work in such a tiny space, and with an uneasy roll of his shoulders, Coll stopped in the doorway. “Huddle.”
Charlie looked up. “Ah, Lord Glendarril. I hope you realize Baywich and Humphreys were jesting. I cannot afford to hire you as a dialect instructor.”
“Who’s in charge of checking to see that the sandbags are hung securely, so that the heavy things arenae going to kill anyone below?” he asked, ignoring the first bit of conversation.
