“Of course you aren’t.” Sarcasm dripped off his words. “Have you any secretarial experience then?” One side of his mouth curled, turning his smile into more of a snarl.
That snarl. It was meant to frighten her but achieved the opposite effect.
“You are short-handed.” She was not here to apply for any sort of secretarial position—not in the least. “But rest assured, I am not an actress.”
But what was it he’d said?
Unless you’re a damn good secretary looking for work, I’m going to insist you go.
She paused, resisting the urge to squirm while he watched her from beneath hooded eyes and instead found herself straightening the papers on the desk in front of her.
Actually considering what he needed.
Not because he was exceedingly gorgeous, of course, but because she had always suffered from an abundance of compassion. Her mother regarded it as her greatest fault; her father, as her greatest attribute.
But mostly, because Elle was not prepared to leave.
She winced as she took in scattered documents littering not only his desk, but the smaller desk as well. Had his office been ransacked by burglars?
“I’d like to help.” She forced herself to meet his stare. “But that’s not why I’m here. I’ve come to—”
“Are you an organized sort of person?”
How could a gentleman’s stare be so cold and hot at the same time? More than a little defensive, she sat up straight and allowed her gaze to linger on the disarray of the director's office.
“I’ve spent most of my life learning how to be organized.” It was not a lie.
As the daughter of a powerful aristocrat, she’d been raised to manage the most pretentious of estates—hopefully for naught. Unlike her younger sisters, one of whom had married an earl and the other a viscount, Elle hoped to lead an independent life—something her parents vehemently disagreed with.
This year’s season—her fifth!—was to be her last, one way or another.
Because her father, who’d never even pretended to understand his oldest daughter’s love of writing, had given her an ultimatum. Either she must marry the husband of his choice or be exiled to serve as her Aunt Mary’s companion in a desolate castle in Northern Scotland.
Away from theaters, her mother, her sisters. It might as well be a death sentence.
Which was why she needed Mr. Carter Dodd to produce her play. But more than that, she needed to be paid for the privilege—something she’d learned was not a given.
“Oh really. I didn’t realize actresses received that kind of training.” He spoke the word “actresses” as though it tasted bitter in his mouth.
“I’m not an actress,” she said.
“Then I’m the King of England.”
He trailed his gaze from her head downward and then back to her face. She knew what he saw. She’d worn one of her oldest gowns, an olive muslin that buttoned to the base of her neck, well-worn half-boots, and a pair of borrowed gloves—compliments of her maid. She’d pinned her hair into a stern knot at the back of her head and rejected any embellishments that might reveal her real status.
What did playwrights normally look like? She’d taken extreme measures to ensure that she appeared nothing more than a regular miss.
She hadn’t much choice.
Young ladies who happened to be daughters of London’s elite did not write plays that would be performed on the stage. Rather, they learned Latin, French, and Italian. They mastered the harpsichord, produced acceptable works with both oils and watercolors and could embroider equally pretty designs onto fabric. Aside from dabbling at poetry that rhapsodized over sunsets and flowers, highborn ladies kept their ideas to themselves.
They absolutely did not write dramas consisting of their most personal feelings and thoughts to be shown on Drury Lane.
Elle inhaled as the director rifled through the mess on his desk, drawing her attention to the chorded muscles in his forearms that tapered down to slim wrists and elegant fingers.
She was unaccustomed to gentlemen who dressed so casually, and although this man wore an embroidered waistcoat, he’d cast off his jacket and folded back his shirt sleeves.
As any working man might be expected to do.
