She shot a sudden glance at him. She still kicked herself for it. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. She rose to the fire to stoke it. Nor, he would wager, had the heroic Monsieur Valade, who had rescued her from that life and brought her to England, taught her in that short time all that Gerald was certain she knew of men. The command was sullenly obeyed, for the fellow did not appear to relish the rating. To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel. The rumor mills churned with the news that he harbored for her no ill will, but was simply too busy in his life to have a girlfriend that wasn’t “serious”. “You must come and see me some afternoon,” she said to him.
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