Page 4 of Burning Secrets of a Lady's Pen
Not passionately. Not with that crooked grin of his or the smirk that had almost made her forget grammatical rules.
Cordially.
She didn’t understand how he could becordialwhen the last time that they had seen one another, he’d dared push the rules of society so far. How he could becordialwhen he had run the side of his hand along her thigh under the dim lighting of the theatre or brushed his thumb against the corner of her elbow so brazenly at dinner.
Her heart stuttered in her chest as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his tawny eyes pleading with her for understanding.
“Corin…”
“I had a speech planned,” he cut her off brusquely. “I was going to ask you to tea and explain things. I was going to go about this with finesse. Slowly. But standing here, I cannot for the life of me remember the words I rehearsed. My dearest Imelda, I was going to say, I think—but now, in the face of things, that seems cruel and like a form of address I shouldn’t be using. Imelda, alone, seems too cold. Miss Merrit, however…” He trailed off, wincing as he did.
And Imelda wanted to shut the door in his face there and then to stop him from what he had to say next. To stop herself from hearing it. As it was, her knuckles blanched white from the hold she still had on the door, her spine tense.
“I wanted to reach you before the papers did. To tell you of my betrothal before you were forced to read it—”
As it turned out, that was all she had needed to hear.
There was more. She knew. She heard him talking, but the words faded as she focused on those that broke her heart so fully in her chest, and the rest of the world faded with it.
All the colors she had seen since meeting him, all thejoie de vivreseemed to fade into simpler shades of black and white.
And she closed the door.
On Corin Langford and his explanation. On the life she had allowed herself to imagine and the love she had thought she felt.
She closed the door. And Corin didn’t knock again.
Chapter 1
February 1818
London was colder and damper than Imelda remembered. A fact that she hadn’t been able to escape ever since having arrived. She had tried being optimistic. After all, she quite regularly felt the same way about Lancashire after returning from one of her travels, but that was different. It was more marked, probably, because she wasn’t arriving in London from some far-off tropical destination, but Lancashire itself.
“Oh, stop slouching, Spencer!” Lady Merrit cried, pulling Imelda’s attention off of the drab streets of London, passing by the window of their carriage and back to the company within it.
“I’m not slouching,” Spencer argued glibly, pulling at the lapels of his coat with a pointed eye-roll in the direction of their aunt.
“You were definitely slouching,” Sir John snorted in clear amusement.
The trio, despite their argument, all worse smiles as they bickered, their evening finery shadowed by the buildings their carriage passed under.
“Imelda, dearest, tell your brother that he was slouching,” Lady Merrit commanded as she twitched the skirts of her dress to better face everyone at once. She was a fine woman, with or without the lovely dress that she wore. At an age she wouldn’t allow anyone to announce, she was only just beginning to show the regal streaks of silver throughout her auburn hair, her blue eyes even brighter and more rapt than they had been in her youth.
Imelda adored her. It was why she didn’t hesitate to smile at the way she was being ordered about.
“I can hardly say that I saw him doing so,” Imelda teased. “Though I can also hardly say that I doubt he was doing such a thing.”
“Imelda!” Spencer chimed, the faux-hurt in his voice almost unbearable. He widened his hazel eyes, so similar to her own but just a shade more gray than green, and leaned forward. “As your older brother—”
“By two minutes and forty-seven seconds,” Imelda reminded him dryly.
“As your older brother!” Spencer raised his voice slightly to speak over her. “I think you should show a bit more deference—”
“What do either of you know about deference?” Sir John boomed, laughing through the words. “The two of you could have given Castor and Pollux a run for their money, you know. And I say that with all duedeferenceto their very references in our newest play—”
“Oh, your play!” Lady Merrit fanned herself with a fond smile toward her husband. “God save us from another lecture on your newest play, my love. Everyone within this carriage knows that you are a playwright. Everyone within this carriage has listened thrice over to the premise of your newest production! We are on our way to drop Imelda at her first meeting of the Woman’s Word, my darling. Shouldn’t we be talking about that instead?”
Imelda’s cheeks warmed as her aunt sent her a jaunty wink, the reminder of the favor her uncle had done her, sending her once more into a frenzy of nerves and excitement.
