Cocky bastard. He didn’t even have the grace to take this seriously, when it was perhaps the most serious moment she’d ever encountered. “This may be a joke to you, Your Grace, butit is very real to me. I’m going to show you that your contraption is nothing but a parlor amusement.”
“It does not fit inside a parlor.”
“Well, then, it is additionally stupid.”
A muscle ticked along his jaw. “We have a showroom by the river. My man will send you the details,” he said. “I’ll have a desk brought in for you.”
She nodded. “The day after tomorrow, then, two o’clock.” That would give her the morning to work. She would have to call out in the afternoon.
“I look forward to it.” He smiled, and her stomach turned.
God, what had she gotten herself into?
Chapter Eleven
The sun was rising when Eleanor finally turned her key in the lock and pushed her front door open. Baskerville bounded across the room to rub against her legs.
“Just a minute,” she said, sweeping her viridian skirts out of clawing distance. She reached behind her back to untie the ribbon at her waist and then shimmied until the dress was loose enough to step out of. She hung it up where Baskerville couldn’t get to it and then removed her bustle, tossing it in the corner.
Her righteous anger—which had fueled her for the rest of the night, which had renewed every time her eyes traveled to the duke—had dissipated the moment she climbed into the hackney. It had fizzled out like a sherbet that had been sucked for too long. All that was left was… She didn’t even know what to name it. Disappointment? Disenchantment? Regret?
She should try to nap. Her dance with the duke had made Lady Wharton the most sought-after woman in attendance, and there had been no leaving until her employer was ready. The sun was already up, and she had to be at her actual job in just a couple of hours.
But instead of unlacing her corset and flopping onto the bed, she curled into the corner of the chaise longue with a pillow and reached for the paper and pen she’d left on the coffee table.
Dear Captain, she wrote, contorting her arms as Baskerville jumped on her lap and laid a possessive paw across her.
Here’s a copy ofThe Portrait of a Ladyfor you to read to the Tattler.
Eleanor had finished it the night before and had not yet shelved it. It was the only book in reaching distance.I have no idea if she’ll enjoy it or not. It was the first novel I encountered when I came home.
She hesitated. She could say something pithy about the frustrating main character, or she could scrunch the letter into a ball and throw it in the fireplace, or she could risk fundamentally shifting the easy camaraderie they’d built and say something vulnerable.
I’ve had a truly rotten day. Someone I thought was a friend, or at least a friendly acquaintance, turned out to be not so friendly after all. In fact, they were rather two-faced.
The duke was not worth crying over, but still, disappointment sat like lead in her stomach. She had quite liked the man from the zoo with his deep, soulful eyes. She had liked the way her body had responded to his. She’d been looking forward to meeting him again. And now she wasn’t.
I don’t know why you were the first person I wanted to speak with. Maybe it’s because you can’t disappoint me.I don’t even know your name. You’re both a friend and not real at the same time.
—Booklover
Her letter had arrived that morning, well before it usually did. Peter wondered if she’d had as sleepless a night as he’d had. Damn that compositor. Infernal woman.
Over ham on toast and a hot coffee, he sought distraction in her words. A warmth suffused him, knowing she’d turned to him for comfort.
He pulled out the pocket folder he’d taken to carrying around.
Dear Booklover,
I promise I have corporeal form, although the idea of existing and not existing simultaneously is interesting. Hamlet insists it’s a choice, but perhaps it isn’t. Someone much smarter than I should look into that.
Unfortunately, I know all too well what it’s like to question the authenticity of your relationships. You could say that it’s the greatest challenge of my life. I was lucky tonight that someone was so honest about their opinion of me so readily, even if that opinion cut deeper than it should have.
My only advice is to not trust anyone for as long as possible. Years, if you can. If, over the course of a decade, they show no signs of deceit, then it is safe to share yourself with them.
Although, strangely, I’ve shared more of myself with you than I have with some of my closest friends. Perhaps I need to adjust my thinking. Trust no one for a decade or unless you’ve never met them.
—Captain O.T.N.
