With Seduction in Mind

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Sebastian’s uneasiness deepened into dread as he stared into her upturned face, a face that shone with sincerity. He realized this was not one of Harry’s jokes. He wanted to look away, but it was rather like watching a railway accident happen. One couldn’t look away. “Assist me with what, in heaven’s name?”

  “With your work.” She met his astonishment with a rueful look. “I am here to help you write your next book.”

  Chapter 5

  The road to ignorance is paved with good editors.

  George Bernard Shaw

  To say that Sebastian Grant looked displeased was something of an understatement. As those steel-gray eyes of his narrowed, resentment emanating from him like a blazing bonfire, even the ever-optimistic Daisy began to lose hope for the mission that had brought her here.

  Since leaving Lord Marlowe’s office yesterday afternoon, she had rehearsed this moment at least a dozen times. But the reality of telling one of England’s greatest writers his publisher had sent a novice to help him with his work was proving to be a far more daunting prospect than it had been in her imagination. He looked ready to slice her into pieces and feed her to a pack of hungry dogs.

  She couldn’t blame him. He had every right to resent her. She’d thrashed his play, and now, when he was in the midst of a writing drought, she was here to come to his aid. It had to be a galling situation for him.

  Still, she had accepted Lord Marlowe’s offer, and there was no going back. Wishing she possessed even a fraction of her sister’s tact and sang-froid, Daisy took a deep breath, gathered her nerve, and attempted to explain what the viscount had in mind without offending the man before her any further.

  “Lord Avermore, I know this situation is a bit unusual—”

  “You are to assist me with writing? You? The critic who loathes my work?” He laughed, a harsh sound that made her wince. “This has to be a joke. It’s too absurd to be anything else.”

  “If it were a joke, Lord Marlowe would never choose me to implement it,” she told him, trying to smile. “I’ve no talent for jokes. I always make a terrible muddle of them.”

  “Then it’s an insult. Who are you to think your opinion is worth a damn? When you’ve two decades of writing behind you, and some published works to your credit, I might set some store by your opinion. Until then, you can go hang, and Marlowe with you.”

  She pressed her lips together, eying him with a hint of compassion. “I am sure it seems somewhat insulting to you,” she agreed. “But the viscount is genuinely concerned about you. He believes I possess a certain insight that might assist you in overcoming your creative difficulties.”

  Daisy watched him stiffen as she spoke those last two words, and she feared that her carefully worded speech had been for naught. Those broad shoulders of his squared, harkening back to her first impression of him as an angry bull, and she spoke again before the bull could charge. “Despite what you may think, I do not loathe your work, my lord.”

  “You gave a damned fine imitation of it a week ago.”

  “I did not like your latest play, that is true, but—”

  “Nor do you seem to have much fondness for any of my recent literary efforts.”

  She refused to allow this conversation to degenerate into a pointless and petty argument over that review. “Nonetheless, I think you one of the finest writers of English literature ever born, and I would consider it an honor and a privilege to work with you. I’ve read everything you’ve ever written, seen all your plays—”

  “And just what,” he interrupted her again, seeming not at all flattered by her attempts to soothe his pride, “creative difficulties did Harry tell you I am having?”

  She decided perhaps it was best to follow his lead and cut to the heart of the matter. “Lord Marlowe said you are unable to write.”

  “Marlowe is mistaken.”

  Studying his hard countenance, her hopes for success fell another notch. How?—she wondered for perhaps the twentieth time since yesterday—how was a novice like her going to help a legendary writer like him compose a book, especially when it was plain as day he didn’t want any help? Surely, it was impossible.

  The moment that conclusion crossed her mind, Daisy shoved it out again. Marlow’s rejection had made it clear that being paid for her own writing was a more distant hope than she had thought at first, and he had offered her five hundred pounds to accomplish this one task. But Daisy knew there was more at stake for her than money, and that was the true reason she had agreed to take it on. This was about pride and accomplishment, about self-reliance and self-respect, and about learning to do something well.

  She cleared her throat to break the silence that had fallen between them. “If Marlowe is mistaken,” she said gently, “then why has it been four years since you last published a book?”

  Those gray eyes flashed like glittering steel. “Assuming for the sake of argument that I am having trouble, what in Hades are you supposed to do about it?”

  “Lord Marlowe proposes that I become your writing partner.”

  “I knew it!” He slammed one fist against his opposite palm. “Damn that crazy editor of mine, and his harebrained ideas. Interfering jackanapes. No one writes my books for me. No one.” He paused, scowling at her. “Especially not you, for God’s sake!”

  In the face of such animosity, anyone might have forgiven her for abandoning the whole venture in despair at this point, but Daisy had promised Marlowe that she would try her best, and she was by no means ready to give up. “I am not here to write your book for you,” she told him. “I am here to help you write it.”

  He set his jaw and folded his arms across his wide chest. “And how do you intend to do that, hmm?”

  Daisy herself wasn’t quite sure yet, but she decided Marlowe’s explanation to her when he’d hired her would be sufficient to answer that question for now. “I am to be a—a sort of sounding board for you, perhaps provoke thought and discussion that will lead you to ideas for a story. And then—”

  “Well, Harry got that right, at least,” he interrupted. “You provoke me beyond belief, Miss Merrick. In fact, I have once or twice felt the desire to wring your pretty neck.”

  “And I sometimes want to slap your insufferable face,” she countered at once. “If that would help you write the damned book, I’d do it, too! Now, would you kindly stop interrupting me so that I might finish answering your question?”

  Arms still folded across his chest, he gave her a little bow. “My apologies.” He made a rolling gesture with one hand, then rested his elbow on his opposite arm, pressed his knuckle to his chin, and looked at her expectantly. “Pray continue. I’m waiting on pins and needles, I assure you.”

  “As you write, I am to critique your work.”

  “Oh, now that’s a joyful prospect.”

  “I’d have thought it would be.” She looked into his eyes, meeting his mockery head-on. “Since you are also to critique mine.”

  “Indeed?” A flicker of interest came into his eyes, the only hopeful sign she’d seen yet.

  “Yes. You are to sharpen your knives on my work to your heart’s content, and I…” She paused, forcing herself to smile. “I am to take it in the proper spirit and learn from the experience.”

  “Clever, petal,” he said in an appreciative voice. “Very clever. You’ve thrown out some bait I’m actually tempted to take.”

  “Lord Marlowe feels my writing would benefit from your opinions and advice, enabling me to improve.”

  “Ah.” He tapped his knuckle against his chin and gave her a knowing look. “Rejected your book, did he?”

  It galled her to admit the truth to this man, but she had no choice. “Lord Marlowe said my writing shows great promise,” she informed him with dignity.

  “Great promise?” he echoed, sounding amused. “Isn’t that a bit like the plain girl being told she has a pleasing personality?”

  “Oh! You really are the most insufferable—” Daisy bit back the insults she so
badly wanted to fire off, reminding herself that tact was her new watchword. Still, she knew she could not let such remarks go unchallenged or this man would walk all over her. “Is that your way of saying I am plain, my lord?” she demanded, deliberately misinterpreting his words.

  She watched him glance over her, the same assessing perusal that had made her blush so unaccountably in Marlowe’s office. She felt it happening again, and she cursed her fair complexion, but she refused to look away. “Is that what you think?”

  “What I think is that you’re a delicious little morsel with pretty hair, a shapely bum, and a deuced supply of impudence.”

  Daisy sucked in her breath, shocked by his most improper reference to her backside, and it took her a moment to realize he had also complimented her hair. The idea that he thought there was anything pretty about her was surprising enough, but her hair? The carrot-colored mop that had made her such a favorite target for teasing in her childhood?

  Daisy frowned. Maybe he was color-blind. Or maybe he was just crazy.

  Before she could decide, he went on, “But I don’t know if you can write worth a damn.”

  She strove to recover her poise. “Lord Marlowe said I have natural talent and original ideas.”

  “That’s nice. So why did he reject your manuscript?”

  “He also said I have a few things to learn before I am ready to be published.”

  “And I’m supposed to teach you, eh? Is that his idea?”

  “Yes.”

  He unfolded his arms and took a step toward her, closing the distance between them. “There’s a great deal I could teach you, I think,” he murmured, leaning close to her, so close she had to tilt her head back to look at him. “But would you be a willing pupil?”

  A tingle ran up her spine, an awareness—not of danger, but of something else, something that made her flustered and nervous, but it wasn’t fear. He’d asked her a question, but she couldn’t seem to remember what it was. He was staring at her, his mouth curved in that slight, one-sided smile. He thought her hair was pretty. She had a shapely bum. She felt the color in her face deepening. She tried to speak. “I…umm…I…” But her voice trailed off as his lashes lowered and he fixed his gaze on her mouth.

  He bent his head a fraction, and Daisy realized wildly that he was going to kiss her. Her heart gave a little lurch. Oh, heavens. He was making advances upon her person. Reminding herself that she’d lost her previous employment because of this sort of thing, Daisy jerked back a step and tried to return to the matter at hand.

  “The most important thing,” she said, her voice sounding strangled to her own ears, “is that I am here to assist you with your writing. And I hope that you can also help me. In addition, I can provide you with clerical assistance. I am an excellent typist. I can act as your secretary, your stenographer, whatever you want to call it.”

  “I call it idiotic.”

  Those words wiped out any tingly warmth she might have been feeling a moment before. “I will do whatever I can,” she said through clenched teeth, “to see that you provide Marlowe Publishing with a book.”

  “And Marlowe is paying you for this pointless exercise?”

  “Well, I’m certainly not doing it because of your charming demeanor and pleasant temperament.”

  He gave a shout of laughter. “By God, you’ve a fair amount of nerve, I’ll give you that.”

  “My primary task,” Daisy said doggedly, “is to see that you recover from your creative drought and fulfill the terms of your contract. For that, I shall be paid a fee of five hundred pounds. In addition, it is my fervent wish that your influence and guidance will enable me to become a more accomplished writer. If you are any good at teaching,” she added, “Marlowe will publish not only your next book, but mine as well.”

  An odd expression crossed his face, an inexplicable hint of melancholy. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “I can’t teach you how to be a writer, petal.”

  “But you can teach me to improve, to be a better writer than I am now. And perhaps, I can assist you to break free of this dry spell you are in. That is Marlowe’s hope. And mine.” She paused, studying him. “Yours, too, I think, deep down.”

  With those words, any trace of softness in his expression vanished. “There is nothing you can do to help me. And as for helping you, it’s futile. As I said before, the only way one learns to write is by writing. There’s nothing I can teach you. God knows,” he added, sounding suddenly tired, “if I could teach anyone to write, I’d teach myself.” He bent and picked up her dispatch case, then reached for her hand and wrapped her fingers around the handle. “Good day, Miss Merrick.”

  “My lord, I know this idea seems unorthodox, but it could benefit us both.”

  “I doubt it.” He let go of her hand, gripped her elbow, and turned her toward the door.

  “Surely, it is worth the attempt,” Daisy argued as he began ushering her out of the drawing room. “And I truly would like to help you if I could.”

  He paused just beside the door. “Miss Merrick, there is one way you can help me tremendously.”

  “Oh?” Daisy’s spirits lifted a little. “How?”

  “By leaving.” His grip on her elbow tightened, and before she knew what was happening, he had propelled her out of the drawing room and into the corridor.

  Daisy dug in her heels at the top of the stairs and jerked her elbow free of his grasp. “Lord Marlowe wants us to try to work together.”

  “Quite a mad fellow, that Marlowe.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her off the ground, ignoring her yelp of protest. “They say insanity runs in his family,” he added, starting down the stairs with her body pressed to his side and her feet dangling in the air. “Personally, I think his lunacy stems from years of exposure to writers. That would drive anyone mad.”

  Daisy knew she couldn’t put up a struggle and risk tumbling them both down the stairs. But once they had reached the bottom and he set her on her feet, she dropped her dispatch case and made a grab for the newel post. “But I need your help, too,” she said, gripping the carved teakwood pineapple finial and holding on for dear life. “Don’t you want to help me?”

  “No. I’m such a cad.” He began prying her fingers from the finial, and though she tightened her grip, she was no match for his superior strength. It was only a moment or two before he was pulling her away from the newel post.

  “Marlowe told me you want to begin a new novel,” she said, as he once again lifted her off her feet, retrieved her dispatch case, and started across the foyer toward the front door, marching her past the dour-faced butler who stood by without raising an eyebrow. “He told me your problem is that you can’t seem to get started.”

  “No, the problem is that I don’t want to write at all. But even if I did, it would have nothing whatsoever to do with you.” He plunked her down beside the front door. “Please tell Marlowe I am touched by his concern on my behalf,” he added as he opened the door, “but I do not require a partner or an assistant.”

  “I can type your manuscripts.”

  “There is no manuscript, and if there were, I would type it myself, thank you.”

  She was unable to stop him from shoving her across the threshold, but the moment she was on the front stoop, she turned around to face him. “I can edit your pages—”

  “I already have an editor, something Marlowe knows perfectly well, since that editor is he. Good day, Miss Merrick.” He bowed and started to shut the door.

  “I could help you,” she said in desperation. “Really I could, if you’d just—”

  The door slammed in her face.

  “Give me the chance,” she finished, but she was now talking to the bright red panels of the closed door.

  She’d bungled it. Daisy’s shoulders slumped in discouragement. It was always like this, she thought dismally. Somehow, she always managed to make a mess of these things. Lucy, no doubt, would have handled the entire situation much better.

&nbs
p; Thoughts of her sister caught her up sharp, and she put aside any inclinations to feel sorry for herself.

  This time, she vowed, was not going to make a mess of things. She wanted the five hundred pounds Marlowe had offered her. It was more than she could earn as a typist in half a dozen years, and surely in that amount of time, her writing would improve enough to make her worthy of publication. Besides, she didn’t want to go in search of yet another post. Most important of all, she wanted to prove to Lucy and to herself that she could succeed at something. The man on the other side of this door was the key to accomplishing all of those goals.

  Somehow, she had to induce him to write his novel. There had to be a way. Daisy looked through the window and saw him still standing in the foyer, watching her. Their gazes met, and Daisy pressed the electric bell beside the door, but she was not surprised when he folded his arms across his chest and remained right where he was.

  Contrary, stubborn fool, she thought in irritation, but with that thought came the memory of Marlowe’s words about Avermore.

  It’s good for him to be knocked back on his heels once in a while. He’s too arrogant by half. The worst things anyone can do are pander to him or pamper him.

  Daisy considered that for a moment, and as she did, a plan began to form in her mind. It was a bold plan, and it would take nerve to pull it off, but as Avermore himself had pointed out, nerve was something she had plenty of.

  Daisy smiled sweetly at the man on the other side of the glass, and she took great pleasure in watching his black brows draw together in a suspicious frown. Still smiling, she waved at him, then turned away and descended the front steps.

  Sebastian Grant might not know it yet, but he was going to write that book. She intended to leave him no other choice. Filled with renewed determination, Daisy started down the sidewalk in search of a telegraph office.

  Chapter 6

  An enemy can partly ruin a man, but it takes a good-natured, injudicious friend to complete the thing and make it perfect.