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‘I should imagine that dear Oscar’s adventures from the pen of Countess Hainford might sell even better than this edition, don’t you think? Publishers are businessmen—they will not miss such an opportunity for publicity. We can only be grateful that you have not written a torrid novel,’ he added absently as he scanned the titles.
Ellie could feel herself turning pink, then pale. Thank heavens. ‘I had better have a word with them.’
‘Jonathan will have a word. More than one, if necessary.’
‘But I am still working on a book for them. I have an agreement.’
‘Jonathan can deal with that also.’
‘I do not like letting people down, Blake. Writing for them kept me afloat financially, and they have always dealt with me in a most straightforward manner.’
The look he gave her was considering, but he was not frowning, she was thankful to see. Starting their marriage with a flaming row about Oscar, of all things, was not a good omen.
‘If we have their guarantee of discretion, then, yes, very well. Why did you not tell me about your writing before now, Eleanor?’
Miss Paston had effaced herself—presumably going to her bedchamber. Ellie sat down at the table and thought about why she had kept her writing a secret from Blake. The real reason, she supposed, was her novel, with him portrayed as the dashing desert lord. Keeping that a secret had somehow encompassed the juvenile travel books—as though once he knew she wrote the words sensation novelist would be emblazoned across her forehead.
He hitched one hip on the edge of the table and slapped his gloves against his thigh while he waited. It was not impatient—more an unconscious gesture, she thought, her eyes fixed on the hard muscles under the close-fitting buckskin breeches. Polly had confided that Francis had got into a bath wearing his new buckskins in an effort to mould them to his form as tightly as his idol Hainford’s.
‘I got into the habit of being secretive,’ she said at last. ‘I kept it from Francis because of the money. And I hardly have a wide social circle. Besides, it is not as though I have written a roman à clef to set Society by the ears, guessing who each character is based upon. Oscar is modelled on our curate, who is a pompous soul.’
‘No, I suppose it cannot do any harm—even if it does come out—and I agree it does not do to break contracts. Is that why you so often have inky fingers? I had thought you merely a clumsy penwoman.’
‘I forget everything when I write,’ she confessed. ‘I suspect I wave my pen about when I am holding conversations in my head. I certainly chew the end—which is disastrous when I pick it up wrongly. It is very hard to get ink off the tongue, you know.’
Blake snorted with laughter. ‘I couldn’t taste any. Put out your tongue and let me see how black it is.’
When she did he leaned in closely, pretending to inspect it, then snatched a kiss. ‘When I gamble away all my money you can write that scandalous Society novel and save our fortunes.’
‘If you gamble to that extent I will leave you, my lord. I give you fair warning.’
The laughter ebbed from his eyes, leaving them bleak, even though he kept his tone light when he said, ‘No, do not leave me, Eleanor.’
‘I will not,’ she promised. ‘I keep my vows too.’
I could never leave you to that hurt. Somehow we will fight it together—whatever it is.
*
This is my wedding day.
Her head felt so light she thought it might bob off her shoulders and fly away like one of those exciting hot air balloons, hardly tethered by the weight of the diamond earrings.
Ellie opened her eyes and looked in
the mirror to find herself confronting a woman even more different from the one she had seen after last night’s ruthless haircut.
This Eleanor was still no beauty, of course. Rice powder could only do so much to subdue all those freckles, and nothing could shorten her nose or make her face anything but an undistinguished oval. But with her hair shorn into a myriad of tiny curls that actually looked as though they were meant to be a coiffure, rather than a nest for an unknown species of bird, she realised that she did have cheekbones. And her nose did not look even longer, as she had feared it would, and the tips of her earlobes showed, so that the lovely earrings were on display.
‘Now the gown.’ Verity and the modiste and her maid lifted it and lowered it over her head. ‘Stand still. No, do not look until it is laced up. There—now.’
It was the palest almond silk, with a hint of warm creamy brown in the layer of net in the overskirt, and it was rippled through with gold embroidery. White or pink would have taken all the colour from her face, but this warmed it…made her eyes sparkle deep hazel.
‘Oh,’ Ellie said as Verity smudged something from a little stick on her eyebrows, darkening them a trifle. ‘I have got a figure.’
It must be the corset and the seaming of the gown, but even so…
‘Told you so. Bite your lips—suck them. I don’t want to paint them,’ Verity ordered. ‘The necklace and the veil next.’
