Page 32 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

“Yes.” She tried not to fidget. Here it came. The moment she revealed a part of herself to him that only Emma, her dearest friend, had known about. Dare she trust Andrew? It wasn’t too late. She could tell him—

“Writing letters? Or in your journal?”

Either of those would be the perfect excuse, the easiest way to cover the truth. Andrew waited with a patient expression, a near-smile, and eyes full of amusement.

Once he knew the truth, he would have power over her. Power and the ability to tease and torment her about something she held dear to her heart.

What on earth was she thinking? Why hadn’t she dismissed him at once? Dared him to tell Simon? Shoved him down the stairs?

The thought of doing violence to any creature made her shudder. No. She had come this far. She might as well be honest. What was the worst thing that could happen?

She swallowed. “No. Neither of those things.” She wrapped her arms around her midsection and closed her eyes. It would be easier if she did not see his expression right away. She’d rather not tell him at all. But he’d promised to keep her secret, so long as she wasn’t hurting anyone. Authoring a book wasn’t doing any harm.

He would keep her secret. Then, perhaps, he would leave her alone.

“I wrote a novel.” She kept her eyes closed for the space of three breaths, and the surrounding air hung stiffly despite the open window. The silence stretched, longer and longer. Finally, she could stand it no longer. Still not looking at him, she spoke. Her words came out in a weak whisper. “Have you nothing to say?”

He must wish to torment her. Perhaps he could not think on where to begin.

“What sort of novel?” he asked, voice calm, tone curious and nothing more.

Josephine cracked one eye open to peer at him, disbelieving the simplicity of his question. To her everlasting surprise, he fixed his gaze upon her with stoicism rather than amusement or disbelief.

“Nothing ridiculous,” she said, her words suddenly tripping one after another from her mouth. The need to justify herself, coupled with the relief of telling someone at long last, made for a strong combination. “It isn’t a gothic novel, or anything to do with me, really. I wrote about a gentleman’s poor daughter removing to a new community after her father’s death, and how she must live with a spinster aunt. She has to find happiness despite her circumstances. The vicar helps her see others around her, and their plights, so she might learn compassion. Then she falls in love with the vicar, of course, and—” She cut herself off when she noticed how high Andrew’s eyebrows had risen.

Josephine bit her tongue. Why had she mentioned the romance?

Andrew considered her quietly, his expression frozen. Then, somewhat cautiously, he said, “Does anyone else know?”

Squirming wasn’t an option for a duke’s daughter, but Josephine nearly performed the action anyway. She absolutely could not tell him the manuscript had already faced the worst sort of rejection—from a publisher. “Emma knew. Well. She knew I was writing something, but she doesn’t know I’ve completed it. Or what it’s about. Though she promised to read it.”

Tilted his head back to rest it against the stone behind him, Andrew narrowed his eyes at Josephine. He could not know what she left out of her explanation. As intelligent as he was—a thing she admitted reluctantly—he couldn’t guess at her defeat.

“I am not surprised she supported your efforts. My cousin is the most dedicated reader I know.” He looked at the stack of books and the writing desk. “It’s in the box, isn’t it? That is what you were trying to sneak up here. That night I caught you in the corridor.”

Her hands twitched with the need to snatch everything up, to tuck it away from his sight. But she laced them together instead. Keeping them in her lap. Prim. Proper. Ladylike. “Yes.”

“Ah.” His lips twitched, and a gleam she knew all too well came into his eye. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Josephine gave him what she hoped he’d see as a fierce and determined glare.

“You absolutely cannot tease me about this, Andrew. This is important to me. I have taken you into my trust, without much choice I might add, and if you attempt to use this against me for your own amusement, I promise on all that I love that I will never forgive you.” She kept her gaze steady, not looking from his eyes, not drawing breath until she knew the truth of her words had sunk into his soul.

The gleam dimmed. His eyebrows raised slowly. “Very well. You have my word, as a gentleman, I will not tease you about this. Since it means so much to you.”

“Good.” She stood and brushed imaginary dust from her gown. “Now, if you will please be on your way. I have work to do, and you are decidedly underfoot.”

He rose, though she thought she sensed some reluctance on his part. “Very well. If you find me so distracting to your purpose, I suppose I can be off.”

“I do not find you a distraction.”

“It sounds as though you do, since my being here hampers you so.”

She pursed her lips and pointed to the stairs. “Out.”

He chuckled and bowed with an extravagant wave of his hand. “Very well, my lady.”

She huffed and put her hands on her hips. “Why do you do that? You know I detest such genuflecting.” She already had to put up with dramatic gestures from acquaintances who thought one in her position would revel in such spectacles, meant to flatter a duke’s daughter.

His grin turned impudent. “I suppose I owe you a secret, since I have one of yours.” He stepped closer, confidence in his posture. Her throat closed, just as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “It is precisely because you dislike it, my lady, that I tease you so.” His low chuckle caused a flutter in her stomach. He was gone again before she could guess at why his nearness had caused that odd sensation.