Chapter Eleven

T hatcher stood at the center of the stage as he directed the actors through their scenes. He had a clear vision of how the play should unfold, and he intended to see it realized. But as he spoke, offering instructions and guidance, he felt a pair of intense blue eyes boring into him.

Lottie had arrived at the theatre unannounced, and from the moment she had laid eyes on the rehearsal, it was evident that she was far from pleased with his direction. She stood off to the side, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression one of disapproval.

The tension in the air was palpable as Thatcher’s patience began to wane. He watched as Lottie stepped onto the stage, her determination clear. “Stop!” she exclaimed, her voice cutting through the room.

The actors froze, looking between Thatcher and Lottie with a mix of confusion and curiosity.

Lottie marched up to one of the actors, a tall man with a quiet demeanor. “You, sir, are playing your part all wrong,” she declared.

Thatcher’s jaw clenched as he resisted the urge to interrupt. He knew that this collaboration wouldn’t be easy, but he hadn’t expected Lottie to be quite so…assertive.

The actor, unsure of whose direction to follow, exchanged a bewildered glance with Thatcher. “Um…”

Lottie turned to the rest of the cast. “And you, you should be emphasizing the subtext in this scene, not glossing over it like a schoolboy reciting his lessons.”

Thatcher had had enough. “Lady Lottie, I appreciate your input, but I am directing this play,” he stated firmly.

Lottie spun to face him, her eyes flashing with defiance. “Your direction is leading this play into mediocrity,” she retorted, her voice dripping with disdain.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, you overinflated scribbler.”

“What did you call me?” A scribbler ? “Oh, I beg to differ,” Thatcher growled, ready to do battle over that insult.

Their exchange grew heated, and the actors watched in stunned silence. Rainville, drawn from his office by the commotion, observed the scene with a raised eyebrow. “Is there a problem here?” he loudly inquired.

Thatcher and Lottie both turned to him, their faces flushed with anger and frustration. “No problem at all,” Thatcher replied, his tone laced with forced civility.

“Absolutely none,” Lottie agreed, her voice tight with indignation.

The actors exchanged knowing glances and stifled chuckles at the obvious tension between the two.

Rainville, however, was not so easily fooled. He regarded them both with a shrewd expression. “It’s clear to anyone with eyes that there’s something more than just creative differences between the two of you,” he remarked with a smug, knowing smile.

Thatcher was instantly appalled, his protests of innocence quick and vehement. “Nonsense,” he scoffed.

“Utter nonsense,” Lottie echoed.

Rainville chuckled, seemingly entertained by their denial. “Well, then,” he said. “Let’s get back to work, shall we?”

Thatcher quietly stormed off the stage, his frustration evident in every step. Lottie followed closely behind. “This discussion is far from over, Mr. Goodrich.”

Their fire had only just begun, and the undeniable chemistry between them simmered beneath the surface, waiting to ignite. He felt it, try as he did to ignore it.

Thatcher seethed as he walked. Lottie’s determined steps echoed in the corridor as she kept pace with him. As they moved away from the prying eyes and ears of the actors, he experienced a strange mixture of irritation and attraction toward Lottie. She was infuriatingly opinionated, but her passion for their project was undeniable. Despite their many disagreements, he couldn’t deny that there was something intriguing about her.

They entered a narrow hallway, the walls adorned with faded posters from past productions. Thatcher stopped abruptly, turning to face her. “Lady Lottie,” he began, his voice low and controlled, “I understand that you have your own ideas about the play, but I must insist that I am the director, and my decisions are final.”

Lottie met his gaze head-on. “I don’t doubt your abilities,” she replied, equally determined. “But I also won’t stand by and watch this play become a mediocre production when I know it could be so much more.”

Thatcher clenched his fists at his sides, torn between frustration and admiration for her tenacity. “I am not averse to constructive criticism,” he admitted, though it grated on his ego to say so. “But there is a way to go about it, and your approach lacks all finesse.”

Lottie raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by his condescension. “Perhaps you could use a bit more humility, Mr. Goodrich .”

Their gazes locked, sparks of tension and attraction dancing between them. Thatcher was acutely aware of her proximity, the heat of her breath against his lips. He closed his eyes tight, ready to dismiss her and seek some space away from her before he did something he shouldn’t. Like kiss her again.

“Thatcher, I demand that you listen to me!”

“What is it, Lady Lottie?” He couldn’t hide the exasperation in his voice as he opened his eyes and focused on her.

Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparked with anger. “You can’t just dismiss my opinions. This play is as much mine as it is yours.”

Thatcher’s temper suddenly flared, and he found himself unable to hold back. “You think because you had one good idea, you’re suddenly an expert on playwriting?”

Lottie bristled at his condescension. “I know talent when I see it, Mr. Goodrich. And I know you’re afraid that my talent might overshadow yours.”

His jaw tightened as he stared her down. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I? Or are you just too proud to admit that you might not be the best playwright in London anymore?”

Thatcher’s frustration reached its breaking point, and he let out an exasperated sigh. “This is pointless. We’ll never agree.”

Just as it seemed their argument might escalate into something else entirely, a sudden clearing of a throat interrupted them. They both turned to find Rainville standing there, an unholy glint in his eyes. “I must say, the two of you make quite the pair,” the duke remarked.

Thatcher took a step back from Lottie, their fiery interlude momentarily forgotten in the presence of their employer.

Rainville continued, his tone more serious now. “But let us not forget the task at hand. We have a play to perfect for the king, and I have every confidence that the two of you will find a way to work together.”

Thatcher flicked a glance toward Lottie. They might not like each other very much at the moment, he realized, but they both had too much at stake to let their differences derail their shared endeavor.

“If you’ll excuse me.” He turned on his heel and strode down the hallway before he said anything more he might regret.

*

Lottie stormed into Thatcher’s makeshift office in the theatre, her face flushed with anger and determination. Clearly, she had no intention of letting him evade another argument any longer.

Thatcher, who had been meticulously arranging some scripts on a cluttered table, looked up in surprise as she entered. “Lady Lottie, what is it now?” His tone dripped with impatience.

“What is it now ?” Lottie echoed. “It’s you, Mr. Goodrich. It’s your stubbornness and arrogance!”

Thatcher clenched his jaw. “I could say the same about you.”

Their argument morphed into a sharp exchange of words that echoed through the small, candlelit room. They clashed over every aspect of the play, from character motivations to plot development. He wasn’t willing to give an inch, and neither was she, and his frustration grew with each passing moment.

Her cheeks were flushed with anger, and her blue eyes blazed with intensity as she accused him of being close-minded and dismissive of her ideas. Thatcher, equally frustrated, retorted with biting remarks about her inexperience and her audacity to question his expertise. “You think because you’re allowed to pair with me in this creative endeavor that it at all provides liberty for you to profess opinions far above your knowledge and experience. Well, I am here to assure you that it does not.”

But beneath the heated argument, there was something else, something neither of them wanted to admit. The chemistry between them crackled like electricity, an undeniable attraction that defied reason. As their voices grew louder, their faces drew closer, and in a moment of heated tension, their lips crashed together in a searing kiss.

The world seemed to disappear as Thatcher kissed her, the room around him fading into oblivion. It was a kiss fueled by frustration and desire, a kiss that ignited a passion neither of them had anticipated. Their hands clung to each other, fingers tangling in hair and fabric as she pressed her body boldly to his, and for that fleeting moment, all his doubts and arguments vanished.

But as quickly as the kiss had begun, it ended, leaving Thatcher breathless and bewildered. He pulled away, his eyes locked with hers in a stunned silence, the unspoken tension between them heavy in the air.

Lottie’s lips parted from his in a startled gasp, her breaths coming fast and shallow. She stumbled backward, her voice slightly shaky as she stammered, “I… I… That was…” Her words trailed off into an awkward silence as she attempted to regain her composure.

His heart still pounded in his chest. He was frazzled and flustered, his thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind.

“I… I’m sorry,” Lottie finally managed, her voice a bit more composed. “I shouldn’t have—”

But before she could finish her sentence, Thatcher cut her off, his voice filled with forced casualness. “No need to apologize, Lady Lottie.” Why was he being so flippant?

*

Lottie felt her heart sink at the abrupt change in his demeanor. She had hoped that their passionate encounter would bring them closer, but it seemed to have had the opposite effect, pushing him further away. She swallowed hard, trying to shake off the embarrassment and confusion that clouded her thoughts.

Thatcher leaned casually against the cluttered desk, watching Lottie with an infuriatingly smug expression. His lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk, and there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. He seemed entirely unaffected by their passionate kiss, as though it had meant nothing to him.

Lottie felt her anger flare as she met his gaze. “Is that all you have to say?” she demanded. “You kiss me like that, and now you’re acting as if it never happened?”

Thatcher chuckled, a low, maddeningly nonchalant sound. “Why, Lady Lottie, it was just a kiss,” he replied. “Surely you’re not one to make a fuss over such trivial matters.”

Her jaw tightened as she clenched her fists, struggling to contain her rising anger. “Trivial?” Lottie retorted, her voice trembling with a mix of hurt and indignation. “You are insufferable, Mr. Goodrich. You kiss me and then dismiss it as if it means nothing.”

He pushed away from the desk and approached her slowly, his every step oozing a maddening confidence. “Perhaps it doesn’t mean anything,” he murmured, his voice low and provocative. “Or perhaps I simply have other priorities.”

Lottie’s frustration boiled over, and she couldn’t stand the way he was toying with her emotions. “Other priorities ?” she spat. “I should have known better than to expect anything more from a man like you!” With a sharp turn, Lottie spun on her heel and marched toward the door, determined to put as much distance between herself and Thatcher as possible. She couldn’t let him see just how deeply his cavalier attitude had wounded her pride. As she flung open the door and stormed out of his office, she could still hear his infuriating laughter echoing in the corridor behind her, a mocking reminder of their fiery encounter and the undeniable attraction that simmered between them.

Lottie’s departure from Rhodes Theatre left her feeling anxious and unsettled. As she stepped out onto the London streets, her thoughts turned to the menacing man she had encountered in Hyde Park. The mention of his “brothers” had sent a chill down her spine. What if he was connected to the Revivalists, the notorious group of noblemen who had a reputation for violence and intimidation?

She muttered to herself in frustration as she walked briskly. “Revivalists, indeed. As if I don’t have enough to worry about.” The gas lamps cast eerie, flickering shadows on the cobblestone streets, and her imagination began to run wild. She knew all too well the stories of the Revivalists’ ruthless tactics and their disdain for those who dared to challenge the status quo. If they ever discovered that she was the true author behind Goodrich’s last play, they’d undoubtedly come after her. For challenge the status quo she most certainly had.

Lost in her thoughts, she decided that walking alone through the dark streets was unwise. It was then that she spotted a lone hackney carriage approaching. With a sigh of relief, Lottie raised her hand to flag down the driver.

The carriage pulled to a stop, and the driver leaned over, casting a curious glance her way. He was a middle-aged man with a weathered face. “Oy! Where to, miss?” he asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.

She hesitated for a moment, not wanting to reveal her true destination in case she was being followed. “Just…drive,” she replied vaguely.

The hackney driver raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. He nodded and gestured for her to get in. As she settled into the aged carriage, Lottie felt a sense of unease. The creaking of the wheels and the rhythmic clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones seemed to echo her own racing heartbeat. She glanced out the small window, watching the city pass by in a blur of shadows and lamplight. Her thoughts drifted back to the lecher in the park, the Revivalists, and the dangers that might await her. It was clear that she needed to be cautious every moment.

Such was a lady’s life.