Page 8 of Ladies in Hating
A ghost of an expression passed across the carved ivory of Georgiana’s face. Cat could not quite make it out.
Some part of her brain—a distant and perhaps not entirely sane part—registered that Lady Georgiana had a handful of pale freckles outlining the restrained shape of her mouth.
“You must have noticed,” Georgiana said finally, “that there have been a number of similarities in our recent works.”
Cat’s brows drew together as she took in Georgiana’s words. “I—what? Do you meanThe Witch in the Castle? That was over two years ago, and my publisher said it was nothing to worry about.”
“The Witch in the Castle,”repeated Georgiana, “to begin with. And then there is the matter of our protagonists with identical names, and our books organized around galvanic theory, and our—”
“Wait,” said Cat. “What? Ourwhat?”
Their books had similarities? Notable ones?
How had she not known of it? Why hadn’t her publisher told her?
Cat had been an enthusiast of the Gothic genre for years—she’d read probably a dozen of Geneva Desrosiers’s books back before she’d started to pen her own. But since she’d taken up her quill, she simply had not had the time to read. There was her frantic writing at night and her second job at a pie shop during the day—plus Jem’s tutoring, and the cares of the household, and the occasional demands of the body to eat and sleep. She had not encountered Geneva Desrosiers’s most recent releases, and her publisher, a grim-faced woman named Helen Vanhoven, had not mentioned them.
Cat felt odd and sick as she took in Georgiana’s revelation.
Was—wasthisthe reason for Cat’s sudden and inexplicable success as a novelist? That her books were similar to someone else’s?
She had wondered, sometimes, how it could be possible—thatshe, a woman of no formal education, of no special connection or genius, could have achieved so much unanticipated public regard. She hadwantedto believe that she was talented and amusing, but this sudden revelation caught at her deepest fears and tugged hard.
Perhaps it had been a fluke all along.
Perhaps her success—her security—could vanish the way it had come, as sudden as the dousing of a candle.
She felt laid open, hideously vulnerable. Her throat was tight.
“The protagonists,” Georgiana was saying, “can perhaps be explained by the time we spent at Woodcote Hall—together—but the rest…”
There had been the faintest hesitation before she saidtogether,and she trailed off and bit her lip.
Of course she would hesitate, Cat thought grimly. They had not beentogetherat Woodcote. Their lives had not been at all the same. Georgiana had been the youngest child, the recipient of every privilege.
Cat had been the butler’s daughter.
“Our protagonists?” Cat asked. “What do you mean?”
“Augusta Quirkle. She was in your 1821 novel—and mine—”
Cat was somehow once again taken aback. “Augusta Quirkle? You named your protagonist after one of the dairymaids?”
Georgiana licked her lips. “Evidently so did you.”
“Iwasone of the maids. I can’t believe you even remember her name—”
“Of course I do,” Georgiana said. “I remembereverything.”
And then—as though she had said something untoward, although Cat couldn’t imagine what it might be—Georgiana went pink to her hairline and clamped her mouth closed.
Cat shook her head. “I don’t understand what you’re trying totell me. Our books have some similarities, and so you tracked me down here to—what? Threaten to unmask me?”
“No! Of course not. I already told you, I would never do such a thing.”
“Thenwhy?”
Georgiana’s face tightened, the hint of vulnerability in her blush tamped ruthlessly down. “To tell you to stop.”
