“Effective, no?” His mouth hovered by her ear.
It certainly affected her!
“Very.” But she didn’t want it to be fake. She wanted it to be real. “Practice makes perfect, I suppose.”
His shoulders tensed beneath her hands. His breath hitched beside her ear.
They were talking about the stage, but that was not what this was about. Was it?
“Indeed, it does.” He loosened his hold.
“Is that all?” Elle asked.
Mr. Dodd did not answer right away, his gaze flicking from her lips up to meet her eyes. “To make any scene believable, actors and actresses need to understand their character’s motivation.” She felt his fingertips caress her cheek. And then he proved that not all of this was play-acting.
“What motivates you, Miss Sparrow?”
“Elle,” she said. Not Drusilla.
“Elle.”
What motivated her? Elle’s father’s voice jumped into her thoughts. We never should have allowed her to read… Writing is a waste of time… Elle lacks self-discipline when it comes to performing her proper duties…
“I just want…” She blinked. She didn’t want much, only to be herself. “I want to live my own life, Mr. Dodd.”
“Carter.” He sounded almost hoarse.
“Carter.” Elle savored his name like the sweetest of gifts.
“Whose life are you living?”
Elle considered the question. A month ago, the answer would have been different, but lately... “Mine.”
And it was hers. Finally. But she did so secretly, under a false name even, with her parents’ looming disappointment hovering over her. They could never understand. They didn’t even want to.
Mr. Dodd—Carter—searched her expression, and she barely suppressed a shiver.
“Are you really?” The question was a challenge.
“I am.” She smiled. “Thanks to you—and the theater. I just wish… I want my writing to be taken seriously.”
“Who doesn’t take it seriously?” He gave her a perplexed frown and Elle barely prevented her fingertips from smoothing the lines on his forehead.
Instead, she made a fist and huffed out a choking sound. “My father thinks it’ll make a fine hobby someday—along with other womanly pursuits.”
“And your mother?”
“Believes I’m wasting my time—She want me to—” Elle caught herself, realizing how dangerous it was to talk about herself. “Your family must be proud of you,” she said, to turn the conversation.
“Ha,” he laughed. “According to my father, I’m doing the work of the devil—at the very least, wasting my time.”
“But that’s horrible!” How was it possible that a famous director like him could disappoint his family? “The theater provides thousands of people a much-needed escape from reality. And not only for the wealthy. Tickets to the gallery are cheap enough that almost anyone can enjoy it.”
“It is not a waste of time.” He locked his stare with hers.
“Nor is it evil.” She couldn’t look away if her life depended on it.
He loosened his embrace and coughed into his hand. Elle bit her lip and stared at the wall behind his shoulder. She reached for the desk, feeling wobbly and forcing herself to breathe.
