of condescending amusement? No patronizing pat on the head for such a delightfully dreadful little feminine hobby?”
He arched his brows. “Should I be amused?”
“Amused, disdainful…or you could go into fits as Mother does whenever I bring up the subject. She seems to believe a young lady of quality has no business writing for the masses. More than that, she sees such an endeavor as disgraceful. All the more reason to see me settled down with a husband who will effectively put a stop to such absurdity.”
The anger and frustration behind her words was unmistakable. He sensed the girl had been holding it in for some time.
“Hence your desire to avoid matrimony.”
“Precisely,” she replied with a stern nod. “How many of your acquaintances would allow their wife to pursue such a goal? If I marry, my life would simply become an extension of my husband’s. The continuation of my writing will depend upon his good will and then only in stolen hours when I am not expected to tend to his great house and birth his fine children and host delicious parties for all of his wonderful friends.” As the tone of her voice grew more animated with the release of emotion, her stride grew longer and swifter, tossing her skirts around her legs with each step. “I am going to be a novelist,” she declared firmly, “and I cannot do that if I become a wife.”
The path they followed had narrowed as the forest around them thickened with pine trees and fresh undergrowth. Her steps had taken her out in front of him once again, and in the next moment, she turned abruptly back to face him, blocking his advance.
Becoming accustomed to her impetuous movements and wishing to avoid the unwelcome rush of awareness he had felt when he had nearly toppled her over, he had anticipated such a maneuver and came to a ready halt with a few paces to spare.
Judging by her tense expression, she was not finished with her confessions.
“No one knows this,” she stated with a note of impulsive excitement, “but I have already had my writing published. Multiple times. Short works of fiction with various periodicals.” Once she began, her words tumbled swiftly from her lips, as if she had been dying to declare herself and intended to take full advantage of the current opportunity. “But none of it has been under my own name and I am tired of hiding behind a pseudonym. I am proud of my work regardless of those who would ridicule its nature.”
In spite of himself, Rutherford was impressed by her obvious passion and conviction. But her last comment struck him oddly. He raised his eyebrows. “Ridicule?”
She paused, eyeing him intently for a moment before she clarified. “I write gothic romance. Novels of high adventure and dark suspense.”
He snorted in surprise. “That drivel?” It was rare he spoke without thinking, and he saw right away he had insulted her, though it had not been his intention. Her blunt way of offering up her thoughts on a platter must be contagious.
She stiffened immediately in response to his thoughtless comment. Her squared-off shoulders and stiff spine indicated pure defiance, but she kept strict control of her features, even to the point of offering him a tight little smile.
He was impressed.
“Have you ever read a gothic novel, Lord Rutherford?”
“Of course not.”
“How then did you come by your assessment of the genre?”
“Well, everyone knows—”
“Who is everyone?” she interrupted tartly. “Stodgy gentlemen who only read literature deemed to be of the highest cultural, political or moral significance? And what exactly would they know about novels filled with adventure, mystery and romance?”
He decided it best not to answer such a question. After he remained silent for a moment, she harrumphed softly and tipped her head in a thoughtful pose.
“I would think a gentleman of your significant years would know better than to judge something prior to even experiencing it.” She sighed and
He arched his brows. “Should I be amused?”
“Amused, disdainful…or you could go into fits as Mother does whenever I bring up the subject. She seems to believe a young lady of quality has no business writing for the masses. More than that, she sees such an endeavor as disgraceful. All the more reason to see me settled down with a husband who will effectively put a stop to such absurdity.”
The anger and frustration behind her words was unmistakable. He sensed the girl had been holding it in for some time.
“Hence your desire to avoid matrimony.”
“Precisely,” she replied with a stern nod. “How many of your acquaintances would allow their wife to pursue such a goal? If I marry, my life would simply become an extension of my husband’s. The continuation of my writing will depend upon his good will and then only in stolen hours when I am not expected to tend to his great house and birth his fine children and host delicious parties for all of his wonderful friends.” As the tone of her voice grew more animated with the release of emotion, her stride grew longer and swifter, tossing her skirts around her legs with each step. “I am going to be a novelist,” she declared firmly, “and I cannot do that if I become a wife.”
The path they followed had narrowed as the forest around them thickened with pine trees and fresh undergrowth. Her steps had taken her out in front of him once again, and in the next moment, she turned abruptly back to face him, blocking his advance.
Becoming accustomed to her impetuous movements and wishing to avoid the unwelcome rush of awareness he had felt when he had nearly toppled her over, he had anticipated such a maneuver and came to a ready halt with a few paces to spare.
Judging by her tense expression, she was not finished with her confessions.
“No one knows this,” she stated with a note of impulsive excitement, “but I have already had my writing published. Multiple times. Short works of fiction with various periodicals.” Once she began, her words tumbled swiftly from her lips, as if she had been dying to declare herself and intended to take full advantage of the current opportunity. “But none of it has been under my own name and I am tired of hiding behind a pseudonym. I am proud of my work regardless of those who would ridicule its nature.”
In spite of himself, Rutherford was impressed by her obvious passion and conviction. But her last comment struck him oddly. He raised his eyebrows. “Ridicule?”
She paused, eyeing him intently for a moment before she clarified. “I write gothic romance. Novels of high adventure and dark suspense.”
He snorted in surprise. “That drivel?” It was rare he spoke without thinking, and he saw right away he had insulted her, though it had not been his intention. Her blunt way of offering up her thoughts on a platter must be contagious.
She stiffened immediately in response to his thoughtless comment. Her squared-off shoulders and stiff spine indicated pure defiance, but she kept strict control of her features, even to the point of offering him a tight little smile.
He was impressed.
“Have you ever read a gothic novel, Lord Rutherford?”
“Of course not.”
“How then did you come by your assessment of the genre?”
“Well, everyone knows—”
“Who is everyone?” she interrupted tartly. “Stodgy gentlemen who only read literature deemed to be of the highest cultural, political or moral significance? And what exactly would they know about novels filled with adventure, mystery and romance?”
He decided it best not to answer such a question. After he remained silent for a moment, she harrumphed softly and tipped her head in a thoughtful pose.
“I would think a gentleman of your significant years would know better than to judge something prior to even experiencing it.” She sighed and
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