Page 3 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

And worst of all, ignorant.

All words in that rejection letter. All directed at her and her manuscript. A story she had conceived and believed in the moment the idea had crossed her mind to become an author. She, a woman better educated than almost any other, had failed to write a work of fiction well enough for a publisher to even entertain the idea of printing it.

Josie went down the long corridor of the family’s rooms without paying much attention to her surroundings. She knew every corner and crevice of her father’s London home. Half her life she’d roamed the halls, played in the attic, and hidden behind curtains in this house. It was nearly as beloved to her as Castle Clairvoir.

Where she would much rather be, away from all her duties, lest someone notice her morose turn of mind.

The rejection humiliated her. And there was no one with whom she could share her distress. Her one and only confidant, Emma, had married and was in the midst of her honeymoon. She would not return to the embassy, where she would live with her ambassador husband during his service to his country, for another week.

At least no one knew.

If Josie could only distract herself, she might even forget for a time that her dream of writing had died an unfortunate death with less than one-hundred words from a publisher. It was a small grace that the man had been blessedly brief in his rejection. Josie knew ladies who had taken many times that number of words to decline their suitors.

Josie drifted through the music room, then the open doorway leading to the parlor that overlooked the street. On the opposite wing of the house, her father’s study had a similar view. She watched as a couple with one umbrella between them walked slowly through the rain. She couldn’t see their faces, but the man had tucked the woman close to his side to keep her warm and dry.

Carriages rolled by, the horses dripping with water, the coachmen appearing cross beneath their hats and oil-slicked coats.

The parlor door opened. “Here you are, Josephine.” Cecilia, the Duchess of Montfort, had found her.

Josie turned, hiding her thoughts behind a smile. “Mama. Were you looking for me?”

When Josie looked at her mother, she often make-believed she was looking at herself in the future. Mother and daughter held many similarities in face and form. The duchess’s figure had filled out with her years of bearing children, yet she maintained a lightness of step that made it appear as though she floated across the ground. She wore her dark hair styled to look like the ancient women of Greece.

“I was about to send for you.” Her mother came into the room, pulling her shawl closer about her shoulders. She moved with a grace that Josie had tried to emulate all her life. “Have you sent our regrets yet?”

“All but one,” Josie answered. “The Rollins’ garden party is this evening. I will be certain our note gets to them soon.”

“Thank you. No one will expect us, I am certain.” The duchess lowered herself regally into a chair near the fire. “This has been a rather disappointing week for you, I am afraid.”

“It’s quite all right.” Josie took the chair facing her mother across the cream-colored carpet. “I thought we might go to the theater this evening since that is one place we might not get wet.”

Her mother considered for a moment. “I am not certain how comfortable your father will be with that idea. We would need to take two or three men with us, and where would they be the whole of the play? They can hardly stand in our box with us, but otherwise they would crowd the hall.”

Josie winced. Her father’s new precautions for the family’s safety had momentarily slipped her mind. “We cannot go anywhere?” she asked softly. “What of the museums? We could go see the Egyptian exhibit, or the Marbles.”

“Perhaps.” The duchess regarded Josie with a thoughtful tilt of her head. “Have you had any word from Emma?”

“Of course not.” Josie tried and failed to hide her amusement. “Emma is two weeks married. If she wrote me a letter while on her honeymoon, it would astound me. She is far too in love to pay any heed to anyone or anything other than her count.”

“I am glad you are happy for her.”

“How could I be anything other than happy?” Josie directed her gaze away from her mother, looking down at her fingers as she fiddled with a ring on her index finger. “She fell in love, even though she once told me she did not think it would ever happen to her.”

“I suppose you are the more romantically inclined,” her mother murmured. When Josie looked up, she saw her mother’s wistful smile. “You are nearly twenty years old, Josie.”

“In three weeks.” Josie wrinkled her nose. “Should I ask for a pony for my birthday?”

The duchess laughed, as though genuinely surprised by her daughter. “No, you naughty girl. Your father might not understand the joke and procure you another mean-spirited little thing.”

“Buttercup wasn’t all that terrible, was he?” she asked, referring to the pony she’d received on her eighth birthday. “Though I do remember him throwing me off his back on occasion.”

“And he tried to bite anyone who came within six feet of him,” her mother added, shaking her head merrily. “He had the very worst disposition. No more ponies for you, my dear.”

“What ought a twenty-year-old lady ask for, then? Hm?” Josie wiggled her toes. “New slippers?”

“Perhaps if you were not a duke’s daughter.”

“Oh, you wish me to think more extravagantly. An entirely new gown, then? Embroidered with pearls.”