Richard

"Blake, hm?" I prompt, lounging in the parlor with a glass of whiskey.

Georgina, having just crept up from the servant's quarters, freezes dead, like a teenager caught sneaking out the window. She wears a modest, floral dress in blue. Her hair is down and flowing freely, and she looks utterly beguiling in the dark.

Caught, she surrenders and pads into the parlor, pouring herself a whiskey and topping mine off before sitting near — but not beside — me on the long white sofa. "It was just a date," she says softly.

"And how did it go?" I ask, recalling our conversation in the water that day, which was only a few weeks ago, but feels like years. "Did you have the chemistry needed?"

Georgina blushes deeply but doesn't avert her eyes. She's getting used to my goading, it would seem. "Honestly? Not really."

Why don't I believe her? I sip my drink, looking out the windows at the dark swell of the sea. Lightning illuminates a distant bank of thunderheads, drawing slowly, imperiously, nearer. A