This little scene  between Miss Harlow and Mr. Knightly didn’t make it into the final version of A Groom Of One’s Own, but I’m quite fond of it, so here is a little exclusive bonus material for y’all. Oh and PS: there aren’t any spoilers here. Enjoy!

One week after our heroine has been jilted at the altar

The Offices of The London Weekly

17 Fleet Street, London

“I’m here to apply for the position of secretary to the publisher. I was told to speak to you,” Sophie said to a man she presumed to be Mr. Derek Knightly, the infamous publisher of London’s most popular newspaper.

He was younger and more handsome than she expected, with his lean frame, sharp cheekbones, and dark hair. His manners, however, were questionable for he stared at her with vivid blue eyes for an infernally long moment before he finally indicated that she should take a seat in one of the sturdy oversized chairs before his desk. Sophie felt especially small sitting upon one, and wondered if a woman had ever been in this room before.

Probably, she thought, but certainly not a Lady.

It was, admittedly, most unusual for her to be here. When Sophie saw the notice in the paper this morning, she thought to apply for the position of secretary to the publisher because she hated living on Julianna’s limited funds provided by her late husband’s estate. Though it was an outrageous act, and unlikely prospect, Sophie decided to take the risk to apply for a man’s job.

Even now, she couldn’t quite believe she was here. Like all girls of a certain social standing, Sophie had been raised to marry advantageously. To work…well, it was unthinkable! But so was starving.

This position seemed far preferable to her other options of seamstress, servant, governess or mistress. Sophie thought she might have to re-examine her distaste of sewing if this man didn’t say something soon.

She might even re-examine her recent relocation to London. It was a combination of heartache, madness and humiliation that had driven her to this grand city where she knew no one, and no one knew her. Everything moved with such frightening speed, the streets were thick with people, the air was stifling, and it was never quiet.

She wondered if she would ever become accustomed to it, and she marveled at how quickly and completely her life had changed.

Why, this time last week she had been dressing for her wedding, blissfully unaware of what fate had planned. She had cried plenty in the last week, and probably had more tears to shed. The shock and wonder of London managed to distract her from her heartache.

Sophie was not, however, distracted from the purpose of her errand. Impatiently, she pushed an errant curl away from her face.

“I am speaking to Mr. Knightly, am I not?”

“You are,” Mr. Knightly said, leaning forward and placing his forearms on his desk, covered with rival newspapers. His mouth curved into a grin. “How do you feel about weddings?”

“Honestly—“ She was about to finish that sentence with the mere thought makes me want to cast up my accounts, but Mr. Knightly never gave her a chance to speak.

“Readers continually request more coverage of weddings,” he said briskly. “What the bride wore, who attended, how many blasted hothouse flowers were bought for the occasion; that sort of frippery. I can’t find a man willing to do it.”

“How surprising,” she murmured.

“But a woman writing about weddings would really be something,” Mr. Knightly continued excitedly. He seemed to be thinking aloud. “It would be scandalous. People will talk, which translates to sales, which obviously translates to higher profits.”

“Indeed,” she agreed, thinking he must be mad, absolutely stark raving mad. She thought she might take notes or manage his schedule–discreet tasks similar to household management. Writing a column was just so public, so novel, so very unladylike.

“I’ll pay you four guineas per week to write about society weddings for The Weekly.”

That was certainly enough to support a single woman. It was much more than she expected. In fact, it would allow her to purchase the darling reticule she saw on Bond Street the other day.

But could she do it?

She glanced out one of the large windows overlooking Fleet Street, the hub of newspaper publishing. How did she find herself here? She had been raised to be a wife, not to write. Mr. Knightly was correct—it would be scandalous. Yet, in London she didn’t have a reputation to lose.

“What do you say, Miss—“ He looked at her expectantly.

“Miss Sophie Harlow,” she managed, her head spinning with thoughts. He couldn’t possibly be hiring a woman to write for his paper! It was just not done. She couldn’t possibly stand to write about weddings. She couldn’t…

“You must be mad!” she said, and then she remembered herself and added. “Sir.”

To her surprise, Mr. Knightly burst out laughing, a rich, low happy sound.

“Madness, genius—it’s a fine line and I’m leaning in favor of genius,” he said. “So, Miss Harlow, how do you feel about weddings?”

Seamstress or servant; governess or mistress….