She turned with a sigh. “Peregrine. What now?”
“In here.” He opened the door to the library and waited for her to follow.
With a sigh, she entered, and he closed the door behind her.
“I thought we agreed you would leave me alone until I delivered the manuscript. It isn’t ready yet, and I still have three months to finish it.” She crossed her arms and tapped a foot on the floor.
“That isn’t the issue,” Peregrine paced nervously. “How far are you with the current manuscript?”
Viola weighed whether to tell him the truth or a fib, then went for the truth. “I just started.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Because you need to start over again.”
She started. “What? But you haven’t even seen what I’ve written. Why are you asking me to revise it blindly?”
“Because the publisher now wants us to go in a different direction.”
“What do you mean?”
“With the success of Mary Shelley’sFrankensteinthis summer, a simple tale of terror will pale in comparison. Even if it is written by the ever-popular Selina Sable.” He gave her a nod of acknowledgement.
Viola could see the argument. She threw up her hands. “Well, what am I to do, then? Pack my bags and leave the field to Shelley?”
“No, no, that isn’t what I’m saying.” He took another turn around the floor.
“Then pray, Peregrine, say what you mean and don’t hedge around.”
“Your books are as beloved as ever. But at the moment, it might not be a good move to launch one that is in the same genreas Shelley’s, not when her novel is such an immense success. The publisher thinks you should veer ever so slightly.”
Viola blinked at him with irritation. “I have no idea what you mean. Veer how?”
“It’s simple, really.” He waved a manicured hand about. “You write sensationalist romance with verve and success. Except this time, you veer a little more into the, you know,” he made a helpless movement, “into the, ahem, more explicit direction.”
“Explicit direction.”
“Well, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Be a little more, you know. Honest? Revealing? Descriptive? Regarding certain amorous scenes, that is.”
Viola planted her hands on her hips and stared at the ceiling. “In other words, you want me to write smut.”
“Well, not precisely in that manner, not exactly, to be true, but dash it, yes, that’s exactly what they want. Think about it.” He leaned forward eagerly. “Your stories have always had this sumptuous, sensuous, seductive undertone; it is what makes a good Selina Sable story. Your stories are titillating and addictive. Your next book will be just a tad, no, let us say, explicitly more…explicit.”
“You want me to write filth.”
“Goodness no! I am not talking about anything quite as salacious. Just a teeny tiny bit more…explicit.” He pinched thumb and forefinger in front of her to indicate a minuscule amount. “Use your imagination as freely as you will. I guarantee if you do, it will sell like wildfire.”
“I don’t know, Peregrine—” Viola began.
“I know you can do it, my girl. I know you can! Think of the success we will have.Youwill have,” he quickly corrected himself. “The success will be all yours, and yours alone. Think about it, will you? I expect to read the first chapter in a month, my dear.”
“Peregrine!”
But he’d already moved to the door, tapped two fingers to his temple as a way of saying farewell, and departed, leaving her standing in the library flummoxed, angry, and annoyed.
By the time Viola had composed herself and returned to the salon, where the remaining guests were assembled, she found it had turned into a battlefield. Except that here they were fighting with words, and not with swords.
“It is sound economic reasoning.” A voice cut through the room, cold and scathing. “You’ve personally examined the customs ledgers, have you? No? Then you are parroting a number you read in a penny pamphlet written by a man who has never set foot west of Bristol. I have lived in Dublin. I have read the account. Your figure is a fiction, and a lazy one at that.”
The entire room was waiting with bated breath. The two duellists were in the middle of the room, squared off against each other.
