Page 104 of A Ruse of Shadows

Lord Ingram sighed. “The moment he was shot, I felt as if a bullet struck me, too. But I can’t say I’ve missed him much in the days since, except to feel a certain sadness for the young man he had once been.”

She placed her hand over his, and they remained for some time without speaking.

“You know,” she murmured, “lately I have not been as busy and have started to dabble in erotic fiction again. Would you like to marvel at my latest output?”

He was hot and cold at once. He still grew consternated when he thought of those last three lines he’d added to the story, not only because they’d exposed a state of mind that he hadn’t been entirelyaware of at the time of their writing, but also because they formed a query, a demand for an answer.

When he was content enough with things as they are.

“Give me a moment to prepare myself for stupefaction,” he said lightly.

They both sat up. She waited for him to take a draught of wine directly from the almost empty bottle before she took out a sheet of paper from her handbag and gave it to him. “To review, this is the installment you last added to the story.”

Her clothes lay discarded at the foot of the bed. Firelight caressed her smooth, supple skin. She made no attempt to cover herself, though occasionally she adjusted the pillows underneath her head.

He stared at her. His hands were busy, but his feet had been nailed in place since she had removed her garments and lain down on the rumpled bed. Light refracted from the folds of black satin sheets. Her lips were red, her calves shapely.

He swallowed.

His alarm clock clanged. He swore under his breath and silenced it. The woman rose, dressed quickly, came forward, and took her payment from him.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Will the painting be finished soon?”

“Yes, soon,” he mumbled.

“Ah, I’m almost sorry,” she said as she walked out the door. “Your studio is the only one that’s remotely warm in winter.”

The man stared at the closing door.

The painting was finished some time ago and he suspected that she knew it.

Where did that leave him then?

He scarcely needed the review—every word remained seared in his mind, especially those last three lines. He recorked the bottle and set it aside. “I didn’t realize you’d be building upon my little contribution.”

“Of course. This then”—she handed him another sheet of paper, her tone matter-of-fact—“is the addition I made.”

The inside of his head roared. He took a deep breath.

The door opened again. The woman walked back in.

“Is—is it cold outside?” asked the man hesitantly.

“Very. But I’m not afraid of cold and I have plenty of coal at home.”

“Then, have you forgotten something?”

“No. Well, yes. I forgot to tell you that if you’d like, I will be happy to come by even without the excuse of the painting.”

The roar subsided somewhat. This wasn’t too bad. Not too bad at all. He could live with this.

But maybe he was also a bit disappointed. Maybe the roar in his head hadn’t been only fear screeching but also hope bellowing at the top of its lungs.

“Why is this next section all scratched out?” he heard himself ask, his voice normal enough.

“Because she started to tell him that she was in fact a very young dowager duchess who enjoyed a large dower and was free to take him as a lover, but I decided that was irrelevant to the story.”

He chortled. “Still, I must say that the story has progressed in both a logical and satisfactory direction.”