Marquess of Malice (Lords of Scandal 2)

“I…I can’t write with my hand like this. I was just in the middle of a story.”

His face shuttered. “That’s unfortunate.”

Something was off. Perhaps her mind was just muddled but despite waking up to his body draped over hers, he didn’t seem like himself. “Do you find it strange that I write?”

He stopped, staring down at her. “No, when I think about it, I’m not surprised at all. You are very observant and articulate.”

She nearly sighed with relief but held it in, giving him a smile instead. “Thank you.” But her smile quickly fell. “I wonder when I shall be able to write again.”

He reached down to brush something from the fabric of her coverlet. “How long have you been writing?”

“The last few years. Most of my stories are children’s tales.” She pointed at the book on the desk. That’s when she realized the book was closed. Hadn’t she left it open to the page she’d been working on? Her brain was still a bit fuzzy.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I have to confess that I read one or two.” He looked at the floor, his cheeks actually turning a bit red. “Please forgive me.”

“Is that why you’re acting so strange?” Then she gasped, “You didn’t like them.”

She’d never actually shared any of her stories with anyone before. Her sisters were featured too prominently and, she had to confess, sometimes they played the part of villain.

Plus, she’d never considered herself particularly good. “It’s all right. I understand. We need never speak of it again and once we’re married, I won’t leave the book about.” Then she started to sit up, struggling to right herself while holding her arm still.

“Cordelia,” he said as he bent down. “Let me.” He slid his arms under her and slowly lifted her into a seated position.

His touch eased her tension. But once he had her seated, he pulled his arms out and moved away. Her nose wrinkled. She’d like to hold his hand at least.

He cleared his throat. “You needn’t hide your work. I should have known you’d be a gifted writer.”

There is was again. He studied the floor as he spoke. Was he lying? “That’s kind of you to say. Thank you.”

“I’m not being kind.” He glanced at her again, and she could swear there was an accusation in the narrow-eyed gaze.

She cocked her head to one side, her tongue darting out to lick her parched lips. “I’m quite thirsty,” she said.

Immediately, he turned to pour her water. He gently brought the cup to Cordelia’s lips and gave her several sips. She grimaced as her head fell back on the pillow. Chad was here filling her every need and yet he seemed upset with her. Or her stories?

“Better?” he asked.

“Much.” She looked at him again. “Which stories did you read?”

“The one you’re currently writing,” he answered, putting the pitcher back as he straightened the contents on a table. “And the first two in the book.”

So he’d read Orphan Kate and The Boy with No Family. Her titles had gotten significantly better. She’d been meaning to change both of those. Her hands twisted in the blankets. Had he liked her stories?

Then he looked at her again, his face tense. “Are you angry with me for prying?”

She shook her head. “No. Though I’ve never let anyone read them before. But it’s all right for you not to like them.” She twisted her hands in the blankets. “I only ever wrote them for myself. They were a way for me to reimagine my problems with a happy ending. They give me hope, I suppose.”

He stilled then. “You write about your problems? The one about the boy. Surely, that isn’t about you.”

She nodded. “It is. I ran away to a cave once when we were spending the summer in Dover. It took them two days to realize I was gone. I was quiet. When they realized it, well, they weren’t too happy. My mother said I gave her a terrible fright and I got a good licking for my trouble. No one ever asked me what possessed me to do such a thing. I thought that being invisible meant that I was unloved. Now I understand that they care in their own way for me. But that I need a husband who really sees me. Do you see now why I insisted you not shunt me off to the country?”

This time he sat on the bed next to her. “I do.” Then he drew in a shuddering breath. “In your writing, you have a real gift for expressing and touching the pain within. I honestly thought you might have told that story about me.”

Now things were becoming clear. “Let’s order some tea and then you can tell me about your childhood. It’s time.”

Chapter Twelve

Emotions pinged about in Malice’s head, and he struggled to order them. He wanted to share, and yet he already felt vulnerable. Cordelia really saw him and she’d recognize his pain for the insecurity it was.