who is in it."
"And yet many do."
It was impossible not to understand his meaning. She'd seen those ladies whilst she'd been out at night with Mrs. Barton, researching. Ladies who wandered down dark alleys or hopped into hansom cabs to earn their bread. As it happened, she was considering making an unfortunate the heroine of one of her novels. It would cause a scandal, of course. But such things should be brought to light, not swept into the darkness as if it didn't happen nightly.
She took his strong hand, the hand which had stroked her body just the night before and climbed in.
He eyed her slowly then nodded. "You've heeded my advice."
"It was all very mysterious."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"You said you wanted to know the places I go,” he said factually.
"I do. I appreciate the opportunity."
He smiled. "There's a price, of course."
"You don't frighten me."
"I didn't intend to."
There was such a sad tone running though Lord Charles that she suddenly was certain that if he did wish to frighten her, he could. Easily. Far too easily. And she didn't frighten easily. But it wouldn’t be a fear of violence by him, but rather of that deep emotion within him.
She sat beside Lord Charles, but apart. It was too soon after their fiery meeting to be taking chances with soft, accidental touches. And that sadness about him made her long to brush his dark hair back from his face and cradle his head in sympathy. A behavior which had never been prevalent in her before.
If anything, Uncle Reginald had always accused her of being rather unfeeling. Cold. Something she didn’t think entirely fair though it was, to a certain degree, accurate.
On the surface, she appeared calm, collected, unfeeling but underneath there was a raging storm. A storm only made tame by the stories she put to page.
And her next was going to be the most dramatic of them all, she felt sure.
Fighting the urge to reach out to him, she cleared her throat. This was business. Even if he might think otherwise.
“Thank you for taking me wherever it is you are taking me,” she said with forced cheer.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
“Why?” She folded her gloved hands. “Will it be so very terrible?”
“It will be different than what you are used to.”
The words how do you know what I am used to danced on the tip of her tongue. But such a comment wouldn’t be productive. Not if she did wish him to open doors which had been heretofore closed to her.
At present, Lord Charles didn’t need to know everything about her or P. Auden. In many ways, it was convenient to allow him to make assumptions.
She’d never even told Mrs. Barton about her sojourns into the East End. . . With a paid guard in disguise. . . And she’d been in disguise as well.
Her ability to walk miles at a time over her country estate had aided her greatly as she wandered some of the more forbidden streets of the greatest city of the greatest country in the world.
What she’d seen had been harrowing and inspiring, all at once.
Perhaps, what Lord Charles would show her would be something veiled to her, but she wasn’t blind like so many ladies of her class.
That was why her next heroine was most certainly going to be a young lady lured away from the safety of her home and brought into the dark underbelly of London by her dashing seducer in slow degrees. There would be the gilded balls and gaming salons Mrs. Barton showed her.
Then, no doubt, the wild, raucous taverns Lord Charles was taking her to this night, and at last there would be the streets.
William Hogarth wasn’t the only one who could show A Harlot’s Progress and, this time, she was proud to say, a woman would be telling the sympathetic tale.
“Lady Patience?”
“Hmmm?”
“I’ve said your name three times,” he said with a hint of a smile.
“Have you? I apologize. It’s a habit of mine.”
“You looked most serious. Who were you lampooning in your dreams? Me perhaps.”
“How very vain,” she replied.
"And yet many do."
It was impossible not to understand his meaning. She'd seen those ladies whilst she'd been out at night with Mrs. Barton, researching. Ladies who wandered down dark alleys or hopped into hansom cabs to earn their bread. As it happened, she was considering making an unfortunate the heroine of one of her novels. It would cause a scandal, of course. But such things should be brought to light, not swept into the darkness as if it didn't happen nightly.
She took his strong hand, the hand which had stroked her body just the night before and climbed in.
He eyed her slowly then nodded. "You've heeded my advice."
"It was all very mysterious."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"You said you wanted to know the places I go,” he said factually.
"I do. I appreciate the opportunity."
He smiled. "There's a price, of course."
"You don't frighten me."
"I didn't intend to."
There was such a sad tone running though Lord Charles that she suddenly was certain that if he did wish to frighten her, he could. Easily. Far too easily. And she didn't frighten easily. But it wouldn’t be a fear of violence by him, but rather of that deep emotion within him.
She sat beside Lord Charles, but apart. It was too soon after their fiery meeting to be taking chances with soft, accidental touches. And that sadness about him made her long to brush his dark hair back from his face and cradle his head in sympathy. A behavior which had never been prevalent in her before.
If anything, Uncle Reginald had always accused her of being rather unfeeling. Cold. Something she didn’t think entirely fair though it was, to a certain degree, accurate.
On the surface, she appeared calm, collected, unfeeling but underneath there was a raging storm. A storm only made tame by the stories she put to page.
And her next was going to be the most dramatic of them all, she felt sure.
Fighting the urge to reach out to him, she cleared her throat. This was business. Even if he might think otherwise.
“Thank you for taking me wherever it is you are taking me,” she said with forced cheer.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
“Why?” She folded her gloved hands. “Will it be so very terrible?”
“It will be different than what you are used to.”
The words how do you know what I am used to danced on the tip of her tongue. But such a comment wouldn’t be productive. Not if she did wish him to open doors which had been heretofore closed to her.
At present, Lord Charles didn’t need to know everything about her or P. Auden. In many ways, it was convenient to allow him to make assumptions.
She’d never even told Mrs. Barton about her sojourns into the East End. . . With a paid guard in disguise. . . And she’d been in disguise as well.
Her ability to walk miles at a time over her country estate had aided her greatly as she wandered some of the more forbidden streets of the greatest city of the greatest country in the world.
What she’d seen had been harrowing and inspiring, all at once.
Perhaps, what Lord Charles would show her would be something veiled to her, but she wasn’t blind like so many ladies of her class.
That was why her next heroine was most certainly going to be a young lady lured away from the safety of her home and brought into the dark underbelly of London by her dashing seducer in slow degrees. There would be the gilded balls and gaming salons Mrs. Barton showed her.
Then, no doubt, the wild, raucous taverns Lord Charles was taking her to this night, and at last there would be the streets.
William Hogarth wasn’t the only one who could show A Harlot’s Progress and, this time, she was proud to say, a woman would be telling the sympathetic tale.
“Lady Patience?”
“Hmmm?”
“I’ve said your name three times,” he said with a hint of a smile.
“Have you? I apologize. It’s a habit of mine.”
“You looked most serious. Who were you lampooning in your dreams? Me perhaps.”
“How very vain,” she replied.