“Oh,” Mia said, startled by the fervor in his eyes. Readers did tend to confide that sort of thing in their letters, but insofar as she’d always had to conceal her real identity, she’d never before met one.
“My refuge,” Chuffy was saying, “and my joy. Where, my dear lady, is An Angel’s Form and a Devil’s Heart? I’ve already ordered it in the matching binding. I’ve been waiting for months!”
Mia withdrew her hand. “I’m afraid the book is yet unfinished,” she told Chuffy, turning to Vander. “You must see how impossible it is that I continue as Duchess of Pindar.”
“As long as you don’t take to publishing odes to members of my household, I can’t see that it matters.”
“‘Matters?’” Mia echoed. “Certainly it matters! I don’t write solemn epic poems or—or historical dramas or great literature. Do you know what Grapple’s Ladies’ Magazine said of my last novel?”
“It doesn’t matter what they said,” Chuffy said instantly. “Your work is genius, my dear, pure genius.”
“They said that it was a mystery that any human being could try to read the book without committing suicide, that’s what they said. They called it a ‘compound of vulgar depravity and unnatural horrors.’”
“Now that’s just unkind,” Chuffy said. “I’m quite certain that the reviewer had a depraved home life herself. That’s why she couldn’t recognize the true goodness of a Lucibella heroine!”
“My books are depraved,” Mia told her husband, who still did not seem to be registering the import of what she was saying.
“I haven’t read many novels,” Vander said, pouring some brandy into her empty glass and handing it to her, “but I might start. They sound quite informative. Even inspiring.”
“You’ve never read a single novel,” Chuffy corrected.
“That’s unfair,” his nephew replied, unperturbed. “One could make an argument that The Sporting Magazine is akin to a novel: luridly untrue, and fond of recounting unnatural horrors.”
“I shall sully the Pindar name,” Mia insisted. The brandy was quite good, though she had the vague sense that it was supposed to be drunk only after a meal. Her father had never allowed her to drink spirits, on the grounds she was a lady. She took a hearty swallow, in his honor.
“Vander couldn’t divorce you, even if he wanted to,” Chuffy said. “It’s impossible to get rid of a wife. There’s many a British peer who has tried, believe me.”
“I’ll have to read your so-called depravity to judge for myself,” Vander said. “Perhaps I can help you act out scenes for future books.”
She glared at him.
“Just so that you can better visualize them,” he added.
“There’s no escaping marriage, my dear,” Chuffy said, ignoring Vander’s nonsense. “Your bed is made, so lie in it!”
Vander’s eyes had taken on that wicked glint again, and a shock of heat went through Mia. He was just so—beautiful: raw and masculine and proud, even though she’d supposedly defeated him with her blackmailing letter.
No one could defeat Vander.
He cocked an eyebrow, as if he could read her mind.
“Never mind this foolish talk of divorce,” Chuffy said, topping up his glass. “I want to know what’s happened to your new book.”
“I haven’t written it yet,” Mia confessed. “That is, I’ve written bits and scraps of dialogue, but I have a few plot points to resolve.”
“Tell me everything!” Chuffy cried. “I’ll be your muse, your guardian, your mentor, Jonson to your Shakespeare!”