Losing Vander wouldn’t hurt so much if she hadn’t believed—truly believed—that he was falling in love with her.
Though she might as well be honest, at least with herself.
It wouldn’t hurt so much if she hadn’t cast and recast Vander in the role of hero. In Lucibella Delicosa’s books, Vander always rode to his lady’s rescue, and Vander always married a seamstress of low birth after love triumphed over every accident of fate—and that would have included being short and round, had she created such a heroine.
A low, bitter laugh wrenched itself from her chest as she dropped into a chair.
The real Vander hadn’t even tried to convince her to stay.
She was a fool, who had to stop nurturing a dream of romantic love that didn’t exist in real life. Vander was right: her father and his mother had engaged in a tawdry, sordid affaire that had tarnished everyone in their vicinity.
There was nothing honorable or beautiful about it. At best, it was pitiful, and at worst, it was contemptible. The years she had spent, putting her love for Vander into poetry or fiction? Equally pitiful.
And contemptible.
The most ironic point was that An Angel’s Form still needed to be written, no matter how hollow and withered her heart felt. She had to support herself and Charlie when they were jaunting around Bavaria.
She was washing her face when a footman delivered her valise and manuscript, along with a note from Edward apologizing because he would be unable to join Mia for supper.
Presumably he was planning some sort of offensive against Sir Richard. Mia couldn’t bring herself to feel even a shred of concern for Charlie’s uncle. Sir Richard deserved everything he got.
She ordered supper in her chamber and began reading through her manuscript as she ate, scratching out a line here or there. It was appalling to realize just how much her silly girlhood dreams formed the bedrock of the novel, never clearer than when Frederic—on his knees—vowed that he loved Flora because of her inner beauty.
For a few minutes Mia toyed with the idea of throwing the pages—all her notes and chapters and fragments of dialogue—into the fire.
But no.
She may have lost faith in love, but readers needed her novels, especially when they were sick at heart, desperate, nearing death, or watching a loved one fade.
They needed to believe in the fairy tale that she no longer believed in herself.
After finishing her meal, she slapped the pages down on the desk in the corner of her bedchamber, trimmed the wick on the lamp, and got to work.
Frederic had to change. He was too mealy-mouthed, too passive. A few hours later the lamp guttered, and she rang for more oil. By then she had turned Frederic into a man who was big and strong and prone to telling Flora what to do—although he loved her to the bottom of her dainty toes.
Rather than roaming English byways in search of Flora, growing thin and wan from hunger, Frederic went galloping after her, his greatcoat whipping behind him as he crouched over his magnificent midnight black steed. Or should it be a stallion?
She wasn’t certain what the distinction was. Something young ladies were not supposed to know, she thought. She began compiling a list of vulgar words that she wanted defined. Stallion. Cock-pit. Lolpoop. Quim. She had a pretty good idea of what the last word meant, but she wanted to be certain. Love custard.
Wasn’t there a dictionary of the vulgar tongue put together by someone named Grose? Obviously, she needed a copy so that she could create realistic characters.
She was searching her memory for more words banned to young ladies, when a leg suddenly appeared over her windowsill. Before she could make a sound, the leg was followed by the rest of Vander.