The thought of three children with warm beds and gardens of their own made Maryanne smile.
It terrified her to think of children destitute. Of innocents being forced into workhouses. Or worse. She’d been so close to that herself. And she knew what it was to be illegitimate—she and her sisters were the illegitimate daughters of the erotic artist Rodesson, though their mother had spent a lifetime hiding that truth.
Maryanne sighed. Unfortunately none of the books had sold enough copies to pay for the royalties she had advanced to her authors. She was certain they would. Someday. But that day appeared determined not to arrive. And now she was in debt. Very much in debt.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
At her sister’s words, she muttered, “Five shillings would be more the thing.” Or five hundred pounds. Or five thousand.
“What?” Venetia, her hand resting gracefully on her rounded enceinte tummy, strolled along the path. She paused to press one blossoming rose to her face.
Maryanne tucked the manuscript to her side. “Nothing,” she murmured even as she felt the familiar plummet in her stomach.
Five thousand pounds. It was an impossible sum, and she still couldn’t quite understand how she had spent that much. But there had been so many women in need, so many children without futures. And Georgiana had “borrowed” far more money from their publishing house than she’d imagined….
The breeze flirted with the leaves and with the ribbons on her bonnet. But it did not toy with Miss Plimpton’s manuscript. No—it picked up those pages deliberately, tossed them up on the stone path, and sent them tumbling end over end toward her sister.
Fortunately for her, Venetia could not move quickly, and she certainly could not bend.
“Oh, heavens!” Maryanne darted after the fluttering white sheets and stomped her slipper-shod feet on two of them. She dropped to her knees and scooped them up.
“Are you working on another book?”
“Now and again,” she gasped. It wasn’t a lie after all. She was working on the book.
The stones bit her knees as she reached for the sheets, as she crumpled the pages in her haste to group them together. Venetia had supported them by drawing erotic pictures, using the talent she’d inherited from their scandalous father, Rodesson. But Venetia would have a fit if she learned Maryanne was editing erotic novels and in partnership with a notorious courtesan. Novels of passion, Georgiana called them.
They sold very well. Gentlemen loved them.
In truth, she could see why. The books were like ripe cherries—eat one and you craved another.
She couldn’t upset Venetia. But she could not stop her work—not when she was in such trouble.
As she gathered up Tillie Plimpton’s magnum opus and struggled to her feet, she saw Venetia carefully settle on the ironwork bench. “May I take a peek?”
Maryanne ducked her head. “Oh, no. It’s not finished yet.”
Venetia nodded, as though she understood, but of course she had no idea. And Venetia would not understand the truth. Venetia had saved their family—she had married Marcus Wyndham, the Earl of Trent. As a result, Maryanne now possessed a dowry in a sum that sent shivers down her back and made her legs quake. And of course she could not touch any of that money, even though she needed it so desperately.
A large portion would stay in her name once she married. But that would require leg shackling herself to one of the eligibles she danced with at Almack’s. And men who danced at Almack’s were not the sort of men one could imagine making love with naughty, roguish abandon in the middle of the theater.
“You needn’t be afraid to let me see. After all, someday you will have to let a publisher take a look.”
Maryanne choked on a giggle. She was a publisher! At least, she was running Georgiana’s business because Georgiana had vanished once again. No doubt her partner was in pursuit of a new lover, who had probably left town for the hunt, but she couldn’t help but feel again that sensation of her tummy dropping away. Usually, within a day or two, Georgiana sent her a letter. Either a glowing report on the charm, wealth, and allure of her new gentleman or a letter filled with fury, disappointment, and jaded regret.
It had been a week, and there was no letter.
“Lord Bainley sent hothouse orchids this morning, I noticed.” Venetia brushed back the red-gold tendrils that waved around her face. Her hazel eyes glinted with the mischievous delight she always took in assessing her sisters’ romantic successes.
Maryanne stared down at her hem and nodded. Her Season should have been a “success.” Six gentlemen had shown interest. Cards and flowers had arrived with diligence, and the men had squired her for dances. She had ridden in curricles in Hyde Park. She had stumbled through so many awkward conversations on the weather she had begun to think she could make a career in predicting it.
“But obviously the orchids cannot compete with a manuscript?” Gentle amusement rippled through Venetia’s question.
Guilty, Maryanne looked up. “Lord Bainley is not the right one.”
“I see. Have you found one that is?”
She shook her head. “Do you want me to accept Lord Bainley’s suit?” She prayed the answer would be no. Many gentlemen were fascinated with Grace’s loveliness—why couldn’t one of them have proposed to Grace this Season and divert the attention? With her sister Grace in the country with Mother, Maryanne was on her own.
Venetia tapped her lip. “Have you not found anyone you admire?”
A start, a twitch, and three manuscript pages slid to the ground again. Blast.
“There is someone, isn’t there?”
Collecting her pages once more, Maryanne nodded. Now, this was a secret she could safely reveal. It would be humiliating, but it would certainly distract her sister. “Lord Swansborough.”
In answer, the roses shivered with the breeze, and a flurry of pink and yellow petals leaped into the air.
“Lord Swansborough! You can’t be serious.”
A hot fire raced over Maryanne’s cheeks. “Why not? He’s delicious.”
And she could see him in her thoughts—his wickedly tempting smile, his darkness—black hair and eyes and dressed in his signature black dress clothes from head to toe.
She noticed an equally pink blush touched her sister’s cheeks. Now she was intrigued. Of course Lord Swansborough was a rake. She had no doubt he had done many of those exotic acts her courtesan authors described with such lusty wit. And Venetia had drawn erotic art, for heaven’s sake. How could she be embarrassed? Why?
“Tell me, Venetia. What do you know about him?”
“Stories that aren’t appropriate for—”
“Venetia! I am also Rodesson’s daughter.” It was still so hard to say that aloud, after so many years of pretending, even to herself, that she was not. “You are not the only one of us to see his artwork. I need to know the truth about Swansborough.”
“You truly are serious about him?”
“What did he do? How scandalous can it possibly be?”
“It is rather difficult to describe—”
“I have seen your pictures, Venetia.” This was the first time she had admitted it.
Venetia’s grip tightened on her shawl. “I had no idea.”
“I am not as innocent as you think. Even Grace has had a peek.”
At the mention of their youngest sister, Venetia’s fingers played with the fringe of her shawl. “Fine. Reputedly he had a woman drip