The Baronet's Bride (Midnight Quill #1.5)(21)

Edward studied her, trying to see a resemblance to Toby and finding none. Miss Chapple’s hair was an indifferent mid-brown, her nose unremarkable and quite unlike Toby’s jutting beak. An ordinary face, although he thought she might have dimples when she smiled. The only feature of note was her mouth, which was too large for beauty. But a lush mouth could never be a fault in a woman.

Miss Chapple’s figure was as generous as her mouth; she had none of Toby’s leanness. The gray gown was overlarge, as if attempting to hide her abundant curves; it only succeeded in making her look heavier than she was. Edward found himself glancing at her breasts again, and looked abruptly away, fastening his gaze on Mrs. Dunn. Her lips moved infinitesimally as her fingers tapped lightly against her knee. What was she counting?

He watched Mrs. Dunn’s fingers and listened to Miss Chapple. “. . . has been thought the most common—”

Mrs. Dunn’s forefinger tapped once on her knee.

“. . . the rankest—”

Another tap.

“. . . and the most noxious—”

Another tap.

“. . . weed that grows in the heart of a female—”

Another tap.

Edward suppressed a grin. She was counting the thes. He settled back more comfortably in the armchair, ignoring the creak it made, and turned his attention to Miss Chapple again. How much longer could the wretched sermon be? Miss Chapple’s voice was as soporific as a lullaby . . .

The jerk of his head dropping forward woke him. The clock told him he’d lost another five minutes. Edward glanced around. No one had noticed. He swallowed a yawn and managed not to rub his eyes.

“. . . that leads the world,” Miss Chapple said, a note of finality in her voice. She closed the book and glanced at Mrs. Dunn. Her eyebrows quirked a silent question, her lips twitched fractionally, a dimple showed briefly in her right cheek, and then all expression smoothed from her face and she was dull and drab and nondescript again.

“Excellent,” Strickland said, in his dry, cracked voice. “Excellent. Don’t you agree, Mr. Kane?”

“Yes,” Edward said, his tone heartfelt. It was indeed excellent that the sermon was over.



Mattie wrote by the light of one sputtering tallow candle, huddled in her blanket. He removed my garters and my stockings swiftly, and then his hands skimmed higher.

And then what?

She laid down the quill and flicked through the pages of the countess’s diary, searching for a description of a similar moment. Ah, here was one that would work. Heat flushed beneath my skin and a wild eagerness began to rise in me.

Mattie dipped the quill in ink and copied the sentence. The hour was approaching midnight, everyone long asleep, but the house was far from silent. Hail battered against the windowpanes, the shutters rattled and banged, and wind whistled down the chimney, stirring the ashes in the grate and making the candle flame flicker.

She closed the diary and continued with her story: His hands roamed across my body, and there was such strength in his touch, such gentleness, that I couldn’t help trusting him. That I, a courtesan, should trust a man, seemed incredible, and that it should be this man, with his fierce pockmarked face and his brutal reputation, seemed even more incredible. But trust him I did, and I yielded eagerly to his passion.

Mattie wrote for another hour, until the candle was in danger of guttering, before finally laying down her quill. She looked at the pile of pages with satisfaction. One final chapter and Chérie’s Memoir would be finished. A whole book—the history of Chérie’s time as a courtesan—for which her publisher would pay a lot more than he did for each confession.

And when she was paid, she could leave Creed Hall.

Mattie hugged the blanket tightly around herself, shivering, building the dream again: a boarding house beside the sea. There would be no dark paneling, no fires that were too small for their grates. The boarding house would be bright and cheerful and warm.

She yawned and stretched, catching the blanket as it slithered from her shoulders. “Freedom,” she said aloud, to the rattling, banging, whistling accompaniment of the storm.



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The Earl’s Dilemma





Kate Honeycourt was sitting on the floor of the priest’s hole when he arrived. The library door opened and she heard his voice, and her brother’s. She started, spattering ink over the page of her diary. James was here!

Her gaze jerked down to the diary in her lap. I shall, of course, treat James as if my feelings go no deeper than friendship. That goes without saying. But why does it grow no easier? One would think, after all these years, that— The sentence ended in a splotch of ink.

The voices became louder. Her secret hiding place had become a trap.

Kate dropped the quill and hastily snuffed the candle. The hot wick stung her fingertips. She blinked and for a moment could see nothing. Then her eyes adjusted to the gloom. The darkness wasn’t absolute. A tiny streak of light came from the peephole.

“—can’t offer you any entertainment,” her brother said.

Kate rose to her knees in the near-darkness. The diary slid off her lap with a quiet, rustling thump that made her catch her breath.

“I don’t expect to be entertained!” James sounded affronted. “Honestly, Harry, what do you take me for? You didn’t invite me. I invited myself!”