Page 72 of Burning Secrets of a Lady's Pen
Red stained the very edge of the earth, casting the rest of the gray dawn in a kind of pale pink glow. No one was up yet, in or out of the house, an eerie sort of quiet hanging over the superstitious start of the day.
She wasn’t a sailor, but she felt the words sink into her bones and further aggravate that ache that had settled there the night before.
She hadn’t slept hardly at all.
Between the rumors at the play and how disastrously it had all gone and her worry about Corin and the duel, she had lain awake all night, staring at her ceiling and praying to whatever God she thought might listen for things to change.
Her father, as it turned out, hadn’t been nearly as upset over her venture as she thought he might be. Sure, there were questions, after, concerning how she had gone about it all. She’d had to clear things up with her aunt and uncle along with him, admitting to Corin’s part in helping to try and get her published and—after some gentle prodding on Aunt Cassandra’s part—admitting to her past history with Corin as well.
Mr. Merrit had gone strangely quiet after that.
Imelda worried, at first, that it was because he was looking at a way to get her married through the situation. But he hadn’t brought that up at all.
His eyes had gotten strangely glinty before he suddenly laughed, surprising the lot of them by putting his head in his hands after.
And then he’d admitted that his wife had said something about a young lord upon their return visit from Florence and how good of a feeling she had about him. He hadn’t had much to say after that, his grief clearly getting the best of him as he had excused himself to go to his room.
Imelda had wanted to cry all over again just hearing that.
A good feeling about him?
God help her, but somehow that made her choice even clearer.
She didn’t know how she had ever thought she might have one, to begin with. It had always been Corin. The thought of losing him was like the thought of losing one of her own appendages, or worse. Her own heart.
“God, please,” Imelda whispered, fervently praying once more as the sun began its steady climb.
And as the sight of a carriage pulled out of the gloom of the London streets and in front of her aunt and uncle’s home. It wasn’t light enough yet for her to discern the coloring on the side or anything else, her gaze narrowing as she peered through her window just in time to see a familiar head of curls bow its way out of the door.
Her breath left her all at once, her state of dress forgotten as she flew from the windowsill toward her door.
No one else in the house was awake yet, and she was a good deal away from the front door.
Not that it was the door that she ran to. The front door was too close to the servant’s quarters, and God knew one of them was like to hear the gargantuan thing if she opened it.
Selfishly, she wanted a moment. Just a small space of time.
It was what fueled her through the side door and around the corner before Corin could even put his foot on the first step of the front steps.
“Corin!” she cried out, flying at him and throwing herself into his arms despite what a mess she likely looked. Her hair got in her face as she tangled her arms about his neck, pressing her face into his jacket as his arms lifted to encircle her almost immediately.
“You aren’t dressed,” he reminded her gently, laughing into her hair as she swatted at him for pointing it out.
“I don’t care.” Tears welled in her eyes, her throat working double to keep from allowing herself to really fall to pieces. “I thought…Oh, Lord, Corin. I thought that you…” She couldn’t bear to even finish the sentence.
Corin laughed again, his arms tightening about her before he pulled back to look around them. “Your family?”
“All still asleep.” Imelda didn’t even bother to try to explain why she wasn’t. “I told you, I don’t care—”
“Yes, well, I do,” Corin cut her off with a small shake of his head. His eyes drifted down, his gaze jerking away to look around them before he pulled her dressing gown back to a close over her night shift. “Walk with me?”
Imelda looked over his shoulder to find the carriage driver, pretending not to watch them from his perch before her cheeks warmed.
“Of course,” she murmured, tucking her hand into his arm and pulling her dressing gown about her more fully. “I think the old stables are close enough?”
Corin snorted, directing them there without another word. At her sideways glance, he grinned, all the grim determination from the night before erased from his brow. “It’s fitting,” he explained, jerking his head toward the stables they were headed toward.
“The stables?”
