Worlds of Ink and Shadow by Lena Coakley Page A

came Zamorna’s voice. “You must believe me. She took that upon herself. But now that she is here . . . I must dance with her, Castlereagh. By God, one dance is all I ask.”
    Charlotte opened her eyes. The Duke of Zamorna stood by the fire with his friend, the Viscount Castlereagh, a handsome,fair-haired gentleman of twenty-one. Both held glasses of sherry in their hands. In past stories the young viscount had idolized the duke, but now he looked at his mentor with shock and disappointment in his eyes.
    â€œZamorna, you are mad. You have married the most beautiful woman in Verdopolis—a paragon of virtue and loveliness. Why throw away your happiness for a dance with another man’s wife?”
    â€œ
Zamorna hurled his glass into the fire
,” Charlotte said, “
making the flames dance
.”
    Zamorna hurled his glass into the fire. “Damn it, Castlereagh! I tell you, I must! She and I have a history—one that I cannot forget.”
    â€œI would think a face like Mary Henrietta’s could make you forget all else.”
    â€œA man such as I can never be content with one woman.” Zamorna looked into the distance, his face twisted with strange passions. “It is my curse.” He grabbed his friend by the hand. “I beg you, find some pretext for keeping my wife away from the ballroom, for if she sees me dancing with . . .
her
. . . she will know all.”
    Castlereagh shook his head. “I can refuse you nothing, my friend.” He drank the remains of his sherry in one swallow to brace himself for what he was about to do. Then he gripped Zamorna’s shoulder in parting, smiled grimly, and left the room.

EMILY
    E MILY STOOD WITH HER HAND ON THE door. Her mouth was dry and blood throbbed in her ears. It was Rogue. Her Rogue. How real he was—exactly like her portrait of him, only more vivid, more vigorous.
I wanted to meet him dressed in red
, she thought,
not with these ridiculous bows in my hair.
    â€œWhat an unusual gown,” he said. “It changes color with the light.” He took a step forward and seemed to fill the room.
    Emily looked down. Her dress was the one that Charlotte had given her, but now it was a deep scarlet, and the roses trimming the bottom were real and in full bloom. She touched her head, hoping her hair had changed as well. It hadn’t, though a glance to the mirror told her the bows had also turned red.
    â€œI’m afraid I am lost,” he said. “Is there a party somewherein this rabbit warren?” When no one spoke he gave a small bow. “Alexander Percy, Earl of Northangerland. Also known as Alexander Rogue.”
    â€œWe know who you are,” Anne said, backing away. He raised an eyebrow at this.
    Emily curtsied, though her body didn’t feel her own. She was sure her face was as scarlet as her dress. “I am Lady Emily, and this is Lady Anne,” she said. “We are cousins of the Duke of Zamorna.”
    â€œAnd these are private rooms,” said Anne. “Please begone.”
    Emily turned and glared. Her sister had retreated behind an armchair and was gripping its back with tense fingers. Emily turned back to Rogue and smiled what she hoped was a sweet smile, but it felt insipid on her lips.
    â€œForgive my sister’s rudeness. Do sit down, Rogue . . . your lordship.”
    â€œWe must not detain you,” Anne said.
    Rogue glanced at Anne, then back at Emily. “I do have business at the party.” His hand went briefly to his waist, where Emily knew his pistol was hidden.
    He mustn’t go yet
, she thought. She caught a hint of his scent—like horses and tobacco—and had the strongest urge to lean into his chest.
Emily Brontë. Take hold of yourself.
    â€œBefore you go, do have a look at . . .” She wracked her brains for something that would keep him. “This.”
    She leapt to the drawer where Anne had found