Page 27 of Burning Secrets of a Lady's Pen
Corin, for several long moments, continued to thumb through the papers before he suddenly stopped. With a clearing of his throat, he picked one paper out of the bunch she had handed over, his eyes narrowing as he perused the paper quickly. And then he began reading aloud.
“The mist clung to the earth like a shroud and the wind whispered secrets of bygone days, the desolate expanse of the Scottish moors howling their horror as Lady Evelina fled. She moved with a desperate haste, her heart pounding with fear and apprehension. Behind her, a haunting specter, cloaked in the shadow of death, pursued her with relentless determination. His spectral form was illuminated only by the pale light of the moon.
Lady Evelina’s breath came in ragged gasps as she stumbled over the uneven terrain, the damp earth sucking at her skirts like the very grasp of the vengeful spirit. In her mind, she could hear the rattle of his breath, too, long gone though it was.
With each passing moment, the distance between them narrowed, and the oppressive weight of despair threatened to overwhelm her fragile resolve. She didn’t dare glance back for fear of meeting his accusing gaze.”
Imelda winced. She wasn’t particularly proud of that passage. She had needed it to bridge the gap between her arrival in Scotland and her passage to the chapel where she would first really confront Sir Reginald.
“Your writing is reminiscent of Radcliffe in these other passages,” Corin murmured, already thumbing through the papers again. “Walpole even. But there, what I just read. You are telling the reader again rather than showing them. I don’t want to be told that he is her old lover come back from the grave. I want to be shown it. Do not tell me he is a specter. Have him be some far-off figure who she pauses to possibly greet only to see the holes in his clothing and the pieces of flayed skin from being buried for however long it has been.”
Imelda frowned, pulling a fountain pen and a small pot of ink from within her reticule and tapping it idly against the table. She didn’t like the skin bit. Sir Reginald was breathtakingly handsome even in death, though somber. But the rest…
She scribbled on the paper that she had pulled out, her pen only just leaving the paper before Corin snatched it from her.
“There it is.” He hummed appreciatively. “These flashbacks you have of the two of them are quite good. Haunting, really.”
Oh.
Imelda couldn’t meet his gaze then. She knew exactly where she had drawn inspiration from those scenes—long-forgotten Florentine summers with hot breath in her ear and a hand dangerously high on her knee under the dim lighting of a theater. Her heart skipped a beat in her chest.
But Corin didn’t pause.
“So many of these scenes only need to be polished,” he continued, surprising Imelda by putting those papers into his own belongings instead of handing them back to her.
“Corin!”
“I’m going to read over them without an audience,” he explained firmly. “I’ll make notes. Deliver them back to you, meanwhile, you can keep writing.” There was no bite to his words. Indeed he sounded almost…patient.
Imelda felt silly for having gotten so worked up. If she was protective of the story it was her own fault. Corin had no way of knowing that he, in no small part, had influenced a good deal of Sir Reginald. He had haunted her in much the same way, if not so incorporeally as Sir Reginald did Evelina…
“I appreciate it,” Imelda said with some difficulty, lifting her teacup to her lips and taking a sip as she sat back somewhat. She knew their time was drawing to a close, and yet…“My mother used to read over my works, you know. Losing her…”
Her mother’s death had devastated her, on so very many levels.
Corin’s eyes flashed as he nodded, finishing his own cup and not moving to get another. “I was very sorry to hear about her passing.” He glanced away, something dark moving over his features. “The loss of one’s mother is a terrible thing to go through at any age.”
Imelda felt a lump in her throat as she nodded. She had almost forgotten he had lost his at so young an age. “I was lucky to have as much time as I did with mine,” she said softly, reaching out without thinking to place her hand softly over the back of his.
She felt his fingers shift, something passing between them that she didn’t have words for as their eyes met. For a long moment, she thought that he might lean in, but as soon as she considered it and what she might do, he jerked his hand hurriedly from beneath hers.
“Damn it all to hell,” he muttered, surprising her with the speed he stood up.
Her heart sank, a sick feeling lining her belly, but he was already holding his hand out to her as his face took on the look of a storm cloud, eyes cold and hard before glancing at her apologetically.
She felt as if she had whiplash, taking his hand and allowing him to assist her to stand.
“Corin, wha—”
“Oh, Lord Salthouse! Darling! I almost didn’t see you there!” A feminine voice cut Imelda off as Corin tried to all but drag her through the archway they’d only just recently come through.
Every muscle in Corin’s body tensed as he turned, his smile tight as he turned with Imelda to face the woman speaking with such familiarity.
And she was a beautiful woman.
She was quite a bit taller than Imelda, her beautiful blonde hair the color of sun-ripened wheat. But there was something in her blue eyes that made them appear almost glacial, something hard and untempered.
“Lady Belle,” Corin replied quickly. “I’m so sorry to rush out on you. My companion has a time-sensitive matter to which she must attend—”
