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“It is a plea,” she said. “The monster is asking Dr. Frankenstein to make him a companion.”

She could tell by the furrowing of his brow that her answer had not sufficed. He didn’t need the passage explained; he wanted to know why she had chosen it.

She found herself wanting to tell him, though she did so in the form of a question. “Do you ever think that love and rage are the same?”

“What do you mean?”

“A few lines later, the monster says to the doctor, ‘I will revenge my injuries; if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear.’” That line had seemed rather too savage to commit to paper, but she had committed it to memory.

“How could love and rage be the same?”

“If not the same, precisely, then underlain by the same animating force. See how easily the creature changes tack?”

Lord Marsden looked startled. Fair. It was a bold assertion. But then his face underwent a change, startlement giving way to something more like wonder. “I think … I think you may be right, and I think I shall have to reevaluate some … assumptions I have made in my own affairs.”

Well, how often did that happen to a lady? How often did a gentlemen tell her she was right? Even more, that her ideas had challenged his way of thinking?

She decided to reward him with a little more truth. “Like the monster, I have rage in my heart.” She eyed him. His expression remained implacable. “I have not shocked you.”

“No. I have wondered if there are … storms beneath the surface of you.”

Diantha wasn’t certain if she was taken aback or thrilled by that observation. She tried to be glib: “I have betrayed my true nature!”

“No, no. Perhaps it is only that I have been watching you too closely.”

Goodness. She was getting the lightheaded sensation again, the swoony feeling. She pushed it away.

“Regardless,” he went on, “I do not think your true nature is rage.”

She ought to be affronted. What did he know? Who was he to opine on her true nature?

She was not affronted.

“I think I ought to have a look at this book the two of you are so enamored of,” Lady Harcourt said, startling Diantha. She had, for several minutes, forgotten about Lady Harcourt. She was chagrined.

She wondered if Lord Marsden was experiencing the same sentiment, for his eyes widened as he slid the book to the lady. “It is all yours.” He glanced at Diantha as if belatedly seeking permission to lend her volume. She nodded vigorously, as if the loan could somehow supersede the neglect that had preceded it.

“It sounds terribly exciting,” Lady Harcourt said, “but I am not one for reading of late.”

“Perhaps I could read it to you,” Lord Marsden said.

“Oh, would you?”

“I will read it to you, my lady,” Diantha said, and to Lord Marsden she explained, “I used to read to her quite often, but we have fallen out of the habit.”

“I prefer the young man to read to me.”

“I should like nothing more, my lady.”

“Remind me your name?”

“Simon. I am your son Archie’s friend.” He glanced at Diantha. “And Miss Brown’s friend.”

For some reason, Diantha’s mind landed on the image of his forearms. It wasn’t a very … friendly image.

“Shall we begin?” Lord Marsden asked, opening the book. Yet again, he glanced over at Diantha. “Miss Brown, we shall be occupied here for a good while, so you may as well leave us.”

What was he saying? “I beg your pardon?”