She waited, almost leaning forward.
He raised his brows. “Well?”
“It was very nicely said. It’s just that I can hear the word ‘but...’ fair echoing at the end of the sentence. I think you ought to say all you wish to say, Your Grace. Rather the way one ought to like to pull all of the splinter out, rather than leave just that pesky little bit in.”
He studied her and then produced a speculative almost-smile that immediately made her want to retract her suggestion and leave the room with her apology, and at a great clip.
“But... I think you hurl flirtation and childish behavior like boiling oil over a castle wall. Who are you without it? Anything? Anyone?”
She felt the scalding, astounding, all-fired nerve of the man! Duke or no duke. Theinjustice!
And it finally snapped, the tether on her temper.
“Have you ever paused in front of a mirror? Youarea bloody castle.” She nearly hissed it, then raised a hand abruptly. “Yes. I know. I oughtn’t say ‘bloody.’ You don’t know how the epithet jar vexes me. It’s diabolically effective given that I haven’t a sou to spare. I cannot afford to be as expressive as I like.”
“Indeed it is a shame you’ve felt so repressed,” he said tersely.
“I don’t suppose you’ve given any thought to why I feel obliged to... how did you so elegantly put it? Hurl things from a castle rather than roaming about outside of it, free as a...” Hell’s teeth. She could not for the life of her think of what might roam the grounds of a castle freely. And then a memory inconveniently sparked and it was out of her mouth before she could stop it. She said, “...a sheep.”
He stared at her for a time. Lips pressed together.
“As free as a sheep,” he repeated flatly.
“Yes,” she said firmly, raising her chin, committing to her metaphor. When in doubt and backed into a corner of her own making, embrace bravado for all it was worth: that was her credo.
“So you’re saying I’m not wrong about the hurling boiling oil bit.”
“That’s not what I said at all.”
“But—”
“You’re not completely right, either. In the world of the theater, most decisions are still made by men, and to survive and thrive in it, one must usethe language men understand. And that language is flattery and flirtation. But it can be used to both keep people at a distance and to pull them in. When one isnota castle, one must use the tools at one’s disposal. I cannot speak to the childish behavior, as that seems an entirely new inspiration. I’ve a new muse.”
He was silent.
“We’re that simple, are we,” he said neutrally. “Men are.”
“I’m afraid so.” She offered him a tiny, pitying smile. “Well, that, and I like to flirt... some of the time.”
“Very well. We have established I am a castle and you are in a fortress surrounded by free-roaming sheep. We have a sense of each other now, I believe.”
“Are you conceding my point, then, regarding castles, boiling oil, and the lot?”
“Miss Wylde, ‘concede’ is perilously close to the word ‘surrender,’ and the entire point of castles is to prevent one from ever needing to do that.”
“Oh, of course, Your Grace. Your reputation for not surrendering was once featured on page one of theLondon Times. I believe it was the day I appeared on page six.”
“I assume you learned Italian phonetically, then.”
“If you mean by parroting it, why, yes, I did.”
He paused.
“Rather impressive.” He sounded a little surprised.
“You don’tknowhow much that praise means to me, Your Grace.”
He took a breath. “I wondered if I might also make amends for my unkindness by...” he took yet another resolute breath “...offering you lessons in Italian. I speak and write it fluently.”
