Page 46 of Burning Secrets of a Lady's Pen
The table erupted in chatter, Lady Merrit’s smile encompassing nearly her entire face. Truly, everyone looked to be excited, outside of Theodore Fellowes, who looked only slightly put out. No doubt he had been regaling them again with some feat he had managed on stage that no one had managed to catch.
“Do you mind if we discuss it in the other room, Uncle?” Imelda asked gently, looking over to Sir John with wide eyes.
The older man’s grin wrinkled the corner of his eyes as he waved his hand dismissively, shooing them off.
Corin was instinctively aware of how close they stood to one another as they walked from one room to the next, the butler trailing them the entire time for propriety’s sake.
“Is this from Mr. Batten?” Imelda asked carefully, her voice all politeness though Corin could swear there was a wariness in the green depths of her gaze.
“It is,” he answered cagily at first. He had no need to be. She was clearly being polite and friendly. It was only he who was the problem. Him and the damned discomfort of standing so close to her and not being able to just reach out and touch her.
“He’s decided that he’s willing to publish your novel, provided you can work with me as your editor that is. I haven’t answered him, clearly. If it is too much for you I can ask for him to take my suggestion as for your editor instead. Really—”
“Oh, Corin, that’s wonderful news!” Imelda cut him off with a happy squeal, her hands clapping just under her chin as she all but vibrated with the excitement of it. “I thought surely that he would tell me no, but he said yes? I cannot thank you enough, Corin. For all of it. Helping edit my work and securing me such an interview.”
Corin searched her gaze for any hint of flattery or discomfort, but all that was beamed back at him was such happy acceptance that he felt something in the pit of his stomach flip.
It was as if he had never held her in his arms at all. As if she hadn’t arched into his touch and moaned against his lips…
“I’m only too glad to have done so,” Corin murmured, catching himself before he could get too carried away within his own thoughts. “And you’re sure that you are all right with the idea of me continuing to act as your editor?”
Imelda smiled prettily, her lips twitching slightly. “Of course! I’m so happy that you and I can remain friends.”
It was such an innocent statement, uttered with all the conviction of one who didn’t think twice about saying such a thing. But to Corin, it was like a dagger to his heart. The words buried themselves in his chest as that thing in his belly petrified, his smile freezing on his face.
Friends.
“A better one I have never had,” he admitted, though his words were slightly stilted. Try as he might, he couldn’t quite recover so quickly as it seemed she had managed to.
“And as my friend who brings such very, very good news, might I ask you to join us for lunch? My uncle is celebrating today as well, and I have it on very good authority that you are partially to thank for that, too.” Imelda’s tone turned almost teasing, and it was all Corin could do to nod woodenly.
Friend.
God, he wished she would stop using the word.
He trailed after her, only paying half a mind to what she was prattling on about the play until they reached the dining room once more, all eyes on the two of them as they entered.
“Well?” Sir John boomed at the same time that his wife chimed in with, “A publishing offer at last?”
“The opportunity of one.” Imelda laughed, gesturing for Corin to take a seat next to Spencer as she took the one just next to it in order to take her place next to Theodore Fellowes.
“Hear, hear!” Sir John called out, lifting a glass as if to toast as a maid hurriedly rushed to put a plate in front of Corin. “A finer writer you couldn’t be!”
“That’s right! Darling, I’m so happy for you!” Lady Merrit beamed, including Corin in her grin. “Oh, Lydia is going to just be delighted.”
Damn it all, Corin hadn’t considered his aunt.
“She will,” he agreed with a snort as he reached for the glass put in front of him.
And nosier than a bloodhound on the scent of a wild animal to boot.
He shifted, his leg brushing against Imelda’s under the table and his entire body going still because of it.
It should be indecent for a woman to run as hot as she did. He could feel the outline of her thigh beneath her skirts, the fabric between them all that kept him from reacting too strongly.
It was strong enough as it was.
His whole body was rigid, their thighs pressed against one another like they were, and he swore he felt her tremble, his mind conjuring all sorts of other imagery of when and how he might make her do such a thing again.
