Page 15 of Burning Secrets of a Lady's Pen
Damned doors.
“I was asking how you found Miss Merrit.” Aunt Lydia sniffed, clearly put out by the lack of attention she had been getting. “There did seem to be some tension between the two of you the other night at dinner…”
Corin’s weight shifted as the carriage slowed, his shrug artfully dismissive. “I’m sure you must have mistaken it,” he lied smoothly. “I don’t have any impression one way or another. We’ve barely strung two sentences together.”
If one didn’t count the hours spent in Florence or the letters sent back and forth between them following his departure.
If one ignored the baring of their souls that had taken place so shortly after having been introduced.
It had been so long since he had allowed himself to think of Florence, of Imelda. Her appearance came like a dagger that ripped a jagged hole in the carefully woven fabric of his life. A jagged, bleeding hole that he couldn’t quite seem to bury once more.
“Hmm.” Aunt Lydia didn’t look at all convinced as she shifted, lifting herself up off of the carriage seat imperiously. “Come inside for some tea, dear. Perhaps I can—”
“I have a prior engagement,” Corin cut her off, already knowing where she intended to go with her offer. She wanted to convince him to get to know Imelda. He knew well enough when his aunt took an interest in someone. And it was apparent that Imelda was set to be her newest project.
That, combined with her haste to see him married again, boded ill for any plans he or Imelda had concerning their pasts.
“Well, really, Corin!”
But whatever the really was Corin was tuning out even as he helped his aunt and cousin alight from the carriage and to their front door.
He couldn’t be bothered.
Doors and secrets, scandals and intrigue. He’d had enough with the lot of it for the day. All he wanted was a glass of brandy and the solitude of his study in which to drink it in.
He wanted to banish thoughts of Imelda, of Alice, of all they could have been that kept whispering in his head ever since he had laid eyes on Imelda again.
He wanted to drink until he could no longer form coherent sentences. It was a vice he very, very rarely allowed himself. The last time he could remember had been the day after Alice’s funeral, and that had been more guilt-driven than anything else.
The ride between his aunt’s estate and his own was quiet, his brooding overtaking all else as the horses carried him from one house to the other.
Even when he went to exit the carriage himself, he was solely focused on the goal of getting from outside to his study unencumbered.
At least until he saw the unfamiliar carriage parked just in front of his house.
And until the face that he had been trying to force down into the darkest recesses of his memory appeared angrily just in front of him, eyes blazing and mouth tamped into a thin, irritated line.
Damn it all to hell.
Chapter 5
If Spencer sighed one more time Imelda was going to elbow him again.
He’d been doing nothing but sighing the long-suffering, put-out sort, ever since she had recruited him to assist her earlier that morning.
“Are we just going to sit here all day?” Spencer finally asked peevishly, peering out of the window of the carriage again with a resigned expression. “I thought you said we were going to some actor’s house?”
“A critic,” Imelda corrected her twin distractedly. She was looking out of the window herself, trying to make sure that they were, indeed, at the right address before she got out. “And if you wanted to get out of the carriage you could have gotten out of the carriage. I can hardly help myself down out of it, you know.”
Spencer sighed again but saved himself from the wrath of Imelda’s elbow by hastening to open the door and step out before she could react.
It was, Imelda had to admit, a much nicer house than she had been expecting. She didn’t know why she’d imagined some dank hole-in-the-wall apartment for the critic. Maybe it was his acerbic way of writing, or maybe it was just because he had put her in such a foul mood.Prospero.
Well, he was certainly prospering, wasn’t he?
“And this is the house?” Spencer asked skeptically as he held out his hand to help Imelda alight from the carriage herself.
“Yes, this is the place.” At least she sounded more confident than she felt. She still had no idea how one went about asking after a pseudonym. ‘Hello, I’m looking for Prospero. Does he happen to live here?’
