Page 38 of Unmasking the Diamond
He folded the newssheets and laid them aside, considering her with a sober expression. “I am not opposed, per se. But Society is not generous in its praise. They call such women bluestockings and their reputations suffer for it.”
His answer was precisely what she had expected—Society’s tired refrain. Yet she suspected many of those same critics eagerly read every word women published, only in secret.
“Dare I ask,” Alistair said slowly, “if you mean to write a book yourself?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I see you scribbling often enough,” he replied. “Either you are very devoted to journaling… or you are writing something more.”
Charlotte met his gaze. “And would you be opposed?”
He exhaled, leaning back with the weight of responsibility. “You are the diamond of the Season, Charlotte. But not untouchable. If you wrote a book—if it were published—your reputation would take a blow. You might end up a spinster.”
The words stung more than she cared to admit, and so her reply came sharper than intended. “I am not afraid of being alone, Alistair.”
His expression softened. “Who said anything about being alone? You will always have a place in our home.”
Her throat tightened, though she masked it with another sip of chocolate. If only her brother knew just how much she had already written—and published—under a name that was not her own.
Shoving back his chair, Alistair rose with that brisk decisiveness of his. “I should go. I have work that I must see to.” He gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “No matter what you do, we are in this together.”
Her gaze lifted to his face, searching. “Do you truly mean that?” she asked, her heart tightening in her chest.
He smiled, that familiar teasing curve of his mouth that always managed to lighten her burdens. “I am rather fond of you, dear sister. If you chose to write a book, I would approach publishers for you.”
Her lips parted. “You would do that for me?”
“Of course. You are my favorite sister.”
A laugh broke from her, tension easing from her shoulders. “I am your only sister.”
“That you are,” he conceded with a twinkle in his eye. “But it doesn’t mean I love you any less.” His hand slipped away from her shoulder. “Just be purposeful in what you do and consider the risks.”
“I will,” she promised.
His smile grew. “May I suggest you use a pseudonym when you write your book? ‘A Lady’ is taken, so perhaps you could write as ‘A Miss.’”
“I shall take that into consideration.”
“Good. Dare I ask what your book is about?”
Charlotte forced a shrug, willing her voice to remain even. “Social commentary and whatnot.” She despised the half-truth, but she could not—dared not—confess the whole of it.
Alistair bobbed his head, unconcerned. “Women stuff.”
“Men are interested in social commentary as well,” she attempted.
“Only dandies,” he retorted. “Enjoy your carriage ride with Lord Luca. I will be in my study.”
She watched him leave, the echo of his words lingering like a comfort—and a warning. Only when the door closed behind him did she return her attention to her breakfast. She had barely lifted her fork when a soft step drew her gaze upward.
Mary, the dark-haired maid with freckles sprinkled across her cheeks, hovered in the doorway. “Do you have a moment, Miss?”
Charlotte’s instincts prickled. “I do.” Her gaze shifted towards the footman standing by the door. “Leave us, please.”
The footman tipped his head and exited.
Charlotte gestured to the nearby chair. “Would you care to sit?”
