Chapter Nine
He had spent so many centuries alone that he’d almost forgotten where his heart was, but watching the princess explore the cave, so small, so determined to find her way out, reminded him of its location.
Something was stirring in his chest, something that had almost disappeared.
Qavox thrashed his tail restlessly against a heap of jewels.
Why could he not offer her a small amount of assistance?
He was a dragon, after all. He could do whatever he chose.
—The Dragon and the Blue Star by Analise Crewe
“No, no, again! You must start over,” Lady Glynis exclaimed. “Have you truly never curtsied? How is that possible, a young woman of your previous station as a gentleman’s daughter?” Disbelief animated her normally stern demeanor.
Ana shifted her shoulders, biting her tongue in frustration.
She had practiced this simple movement for the better part of an hour and seemed no closer to mastering it than ever.
She found that as soon as she sank into the correct attitude, she wanted to spring right back up, the better to observe the world around her.
She found the deferential posture incredibly boring.
Eyes that were cast down couldn’t take in the details that fed her soul, triggering the flights of fancy that made up her very being.
She supposed she’d curtsied plenty as a youth, but nobody had judged her with the steely concentration of Lady Glynis.
Her father had certainly never spoken up, if he’d found her grace or comportment lacking.
She’d never paid much attention to any of the etiquette lessons forced upon her by governesses and schoolmistresses.
Those were hours for daydreaming about the future, for making up versions of her life, paths she might go down.
She’d become a celebrated authoress. She’d marry a handsome lord and host London’s most celebrated literary salon.
The only lessons that truly held her interest were any related to writing and reading.
Her tutors had never emphasized the subjects overmuch, but their desultory approach had suited her perfectly.
She was given leave to play in her father’s library, steep herself in the classics, explore newer voices in poetry and prose.
Her particular favorite was Mary Darby Robinson, whose poems spoke so movingly to the ever-changing roles of women within society, weaving the romantic and the political with skill and poignancy.
She bowed her head and sank down once more—but missed her mark and kept on sinking, dwindling into a petite heap of skirts upon the floor. Lady Glynis gave an exasperated sigh. “You’re not even trying.”
Ana endured another lecture forbidding her to express her real opinions, directing her to cast her eyes down modestly, and, above all, to hide her crooked teeth and knobby elbows.
Four hours later, she collapsed into a chair in her new chamber. “The drill sergeant has left the building,” she said to Tessie, who giggled as she helped Ana unlace the tight gown and slip into a day dress that was far more comfortable.
“They should have sent Lady Glynis to face Napoleon. She would have lectured him on etiquette until he surrendered if only to stop her from droning on.”
“You’re a naughty pupil, milady.”
“I’m an unwilling pupil.”
“But why don’t you want to attend a ball and dance with handsome gents? I’ve never even dared dream of such things.”
Because what was the point? Every moment she wasn’t writing her book, she wasn’t coming any closer to achieving her dream.
“I know I should be grateful. I have this contrary streak in me, something that chafes against rules and orders. I can’t hold my tongue.
It got me into ever so much trouble at school.
I was always being sent to my room without supper or being held up as an example of what not to do for the other girls. ”
“I think you’re lovely, I do. Don’t change to please someone else. Even if he is your guardian.”
“I’m only pretending to change. It’s easier than arguing with my stoic guardian and his imperious aunt. Besides, it gives me more time to write.”
“I’m looking forward to reading your novel, so you’d better keep writing.”
“Thank you for the encouragement. I should like to write two chapters this afternoon.”
“I have faith in you. I’ll leave you to your work.”
When Tessie was gone, Ana finally settled in at her desk. She was occupying a room with only a partial view of the square. If she angled herself just so, she could still see Cygnette’s house, though she didn’t have nearly as expansive a vantage point.
None of the servants would tell her why she wasn’t allowed to occupy the forbidden room with the odd assortment of female garments, including one that had looked remarkably like a wedding gown, in the wardrobe.
They pretended not to hear, or said something along the lines of “It’s locked up by the Duke’s orders, ma’am,” then pressed their lips together and refused to offer anything more on the subject.
Perhaps they were the garments of the woman he’d thought himself in love with.
But then, why were they still hanging there?
And she didn’t even know where to begin to find out anything more about that intriguing list of names she’d found on the duke’s bedstand.
Tessie had professed no knowledge of why she might be included, suggesting that it was a common enough name.
Ana had recited the names to McArdle with the hopes that he could shed light on it (maybe it was a hiring list of potential staff, if Tessie had been included, maybe before she was hired?) but he’d dismissed her inquiry with a look of such withering scorn that even she’d felt the need to retreat. Another dead end.
Warburton was still a mystery. A glowering presence she sensed more than saw.
When he was in the house, the servants walked more softly, held their breath, not wanting to disturb him.
Everything in the household revolved around his wants and needs.
The cook spent hours every morning creating a menu to tempt him to eat.
She refused to make him the center of her existence.
She tried not to think about him or remember their encounters and conversations in great detail.
Tried and failed. He was larger than life, his pronouncements made enigmatic and meaningful by their brevity.
He certainly wasn’t giving her more than a passing thought.
He’d fulfilled his duty, or at least he believed himself to be on the right track.
He’d given her shelter, a chaperone, and she’d even been to a modiste for fittings for an extravagant new wardrobe.
Thoughts of the duke were a distraction from the urgent task at hand.
She must write as if her life depended upon it.
She didn’t have the luxury of self-doubt or any time to revise.
This first draft must force Mr. Norwood to fall in love with her prose.
This was her one chance to prove she was worthy of publication.
If valiant princesses and talking dragons wouldn’t sell, she’d pour her heart into writing a comedy of manners worthy of Lady Claridge’s pen.
One hour later she sat, sharpened quill in hand, watching the well-dressed people of Mayfair bustling about their business like industrious ants on an anthill. She only had two paragraphs to show for the hour.
Not good enough. She must write faster. Or perhaps she should reorganize the contents of her linen drawer?
She’d already rearranged the books on her shelves by color, braided and re-braided her hair, and developed a sudden passion for the writing of the obscure English Renaissance author, poet, and playwright Lady Mary Wroth, whose work she encountered in a historical tome she’d found in the duke’s library.
In short, she was doing anything but writing.
The trouble was that she’d come to the point in the novel when Lady Claridge’s outline read the following: After a lively parlor game, the dissolute Sir Archer Falconer steals an illicit kiss from Adora as forfeit.
Adora swoons and is in grave peril until Lord Fortescue rescues her from the ruffian.
She’d written the part about Adora stabbing Sir Archer with a sharp pencil. But that happened after the kiss, and it was the kiss that was giving her problems.
She’d never been kissed. What did it feel like?
Lady Claridge always described kisses as producing fluttering sensations.
Her heroines sometimes swooned directly after the act, as though the meeting of lips upon lips was something so overwhelming and momentous it might render one unconscious.
Ana had always felt that her mentor’s descriptions of the feelings associated with love were somewhat hyperbolic.
She didn’t want to merely copy the superlatives Lady Claridge had used.
She wanted to describe the sensations afresh and therein lay the conundrum.
How could she describe something she’d never felt?
She closed her eyes, imagining that she was Adora and the Adonis-like Lord Fortescue was rescuing her from ruin. The image that coalesced in the darkness behind her eyelids was Warburton with fists raised, towering over those ruffians in the alleyway. I am the goddamned Duke of Warburton.
And then he was holding her up against the brick wall, holding both of her wrists in one of his giant hands behind her back.
Warburton leaning forward in the dark carriage, wrapping the soft blanket around her shoulders, his fingers brushing her cheek.
Nothing bad will ever happen to you again. Not on my watch.