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“Ah.” Moray leaned back in his chair. “She paid for all of it.”

Gavin shrugged one shoulder. “Her. Her father. It feels like I’m . . .”

“A kept man?” Moray suggested.

He scowled. “Did you know Avery actually congratulated me on landing an heiress?”

“For a poet, the man is remarkably mercenary,” said Moray.

“I shouldn’t care what Avery or anyone else thinks. Ina and I both know I didn’t marry her for her money,” he said.

“And yet it’s bothering you.”

“Yes,” he said.

“So do something about it,” said Moray.

“Like what? I can’t seem to find a home for my second book. I’ve started and stopped so many times with writing a third that I can hardly claim to be working on it, and without selling something new I have no hope of bringing in more income.”

Moray snorted. “It’s almost as though you refuse to recall that you have a friend who owns not one but two newspapers.”

“You want to hire me?”

“Why not? If it turns out you can’t write or edit articles—which would surprise me greatly—I’ll just sack you and you can get back to drinking my whiskey at odd hours,” said Moray. “Have you seen the new exhibition of Dutch masters at the National Gallery?”

“Just last week.” It had been his one chance to escape from the endless conversations with Mrs. Coleman about picking the curtains for his bedroom and why he didn’t currently employ a valet.

“Good.” His friend dropped some blank paper in front of him and pushed a spare pen and inkwell toward him. ”Then you can give me four hundred words on it.”

“What happened to Cardwell?” he asked of the paper’s culture critic.

“The Edinburgh Record poached him,” said Moray. “Bloody hacks over there. Now I’ve got nothing on this exhibit and column inches to fill. Are you up to it?”

For the first time that evening, Gavin didn’t feel helplessly out of control. He could do this. What was an article when he’d written an entire book?

“How long do I have?” he asked.

Moray glanced at the huge clock hanging on his office wall. “Forty-five minutes. I need it for the morning edition.”

“Then I’d better start writing,” said Gavin, picking up the pen.

Chapter Eight

FOR THE FIRST time in her life, Ina took breakfast in bed, as was the privilege of most married women. Even when her father had refused to leave his study, her governess—and later Mrs. Coleman—had required her to appear dressed and at the breakfast table each morning without fail, a punishment for clinging to her plan to remain unmarried.

The morning after her wedding, however, the luxury wasn’t quite as sweet as she’d hoped. She’d gone to bed irritated, uncertain, and regretful, and when she’d awoken she’d discovered that her anger had floated to the top like cream. She might not be the woman Gavin had once loved, but she deserved more than his turned back and curt answers about where he was retreating to long after the rest of the city had gone to bed. She was his wife and, more important, she was his friend.

She could see now that he hadn’t been himself the entire wedding day, but that evening in his bedroom had been the culmination. If he hadn’t wanted her, he could’ve said no. It would’ve been a blow to her pride to be sent away, but it would’ve been better than watching him walk out the door after he’d consummated the marriage. He’d done his part of their deal—quite effectively, considering how much attention he’d showered on her body—but then he’d wanted nothing more to do with it.

She shook her head. It was one night. She wasn’t going to let it rule her life, no matter that she’d awoken that morning aching to feel his mouth on her again. That would all pass, and things would go back to normal with time.

Work. That was what she needed to distract her mind.

Ina sent Ruth away and dressed herself in the simple blue skirt and white shirtwaist she wore whenever she sculpted. She stepped into a pair of comfortable, worn slippers that had seen one too many nights of dancing, and piled her hair on her head, haphazardly jabbing pins in it to keep it out of her way.

On the way down to her studio, Ina was greeted by Norris.

“Norris, is Mr. Barrett at home?” she asked.