He was talking about the dog? Daisy shook her head, and she almost laughed with relief. He might still shred her work, but at least a blunt pronouncement that she had no talent wasn’t the first thing out of his mouth.
She worked to recover her poise. “Yes, of course I remember the dog. It’s just that…that wasn’t at all what I thought you’d say. I thought you were going to tell me I was a terrible writer and helping me would be a waste of time.”
“Nonsense. You’re a tolerable writer. You might even become a great writer one day, if you could curb your fondness for metaphors and stop the excessive melodrama.”
“Thank you.”
He grinned at the acerbic note in her voice and set the manuscript on the desk beside her inkstand, then he leaned back comfortably against his own desk and folded his arms across his chest. “Marlowe was right. You have talent. Your pacing’s off, but your story isn’t bad. On the other hand,” he went on before she could savor that speck of praise, “your prose is quite raw. It’s a draft, I know, but still, you need to work on a smoother flow. Also you tend to overwrite, using far too many adjectives and adverbs, and you go on too long about inconsequential details. Pare down your descriptions to just the essentials, and for heaven’s sake, stop the metaphors. You’re no good with them.”
When he paused, she drew a deep breath and dared to ask, “Is that all?”
“No. You have a more serious flaw, one which cannot be overcome merely by judicious editing.”
That did not bode well. Daisy braced herself. “What is this flaw?”
“Your writing is too sweet, and far too sentimental.”
“I see,” she murmured, though she really didn’t.
“Don’t worry, though,” he went on. “All’s not lost. You can dilute the sweetness and make your story much more powerful and authentic by doing one simple thing. Kill the dog.”
Her creative instincts were outraged by such a barbaric suggestion. “I can’t kill the dog!” she cried, dropping her quill and jumping to her feet. “No one ever kills the dog!”
He returned her appalled stare with one of patient gravity. “You have to. The way you have it now, when he saves the dog and brings it home to the little girl, it’s all so nauseating and treacly, it’ll give your readers a stomachache.”
“But the dog is what brings the lovers together!”
“What better way to bring the lovers together than through a shared tragedy? Listen to me,” he added as she made a sound of dissent. “It’s bad enough that Dalton saves the dog by miraculous and quite unbelievable means, but when he brings it home to Gemma and Ingrid, the story degenerates into a sticky, gooey mess. Unless you’re writing a book for children, of course, in which case you should leave saving the dog until the end—”
“Or perhaps you’re just so jaded and cynical,” she interrupted, “that it’s impossible for you to believe in warm, happy moments.”
He shrugged. “Fine. Don’t kill the dog. Turn your characters into one-dimensional paper dolls and the story into a silly farce. It’s your book.”
That sparked Daisy’s temper. “Just because I chose to save the dog, that does not make my characters one-dimensional or my story a silly farce!”
“Yes, it does, and it’s your fault. As the author, you set the stage for a moment of crisis, led the reader to that point rather skillfully, in fact. Killing the dog was the perfect thing to do.” He gave her a shrewd look across the desk. “But when the moment came, you couldn’t bear to do it, could you? You had made the dog a character in himself, one you cared about. You felt impelled to save it, so you twisted the story in an impossible way, and thereby lost a perfect chance to affect the reader’s emotions in a powerful, wrenching scene. You chose instead to turn your story into unbelievable, sentimental hogwash.”
Daisy pressed her lips together and looked away. He was right. When the moment had come to kill the dog, she hadn’t been able to do it. She had worked for days, struggling to find a plausible way to save the animal, but even she had known the result strained credibility. The dog had to die, she’d known it all along, but having it confirmed by someone else, someone whose work she respected, gave her a sickening lurch in the pit of her stomach.
She looked at him again. “Isn’t there some way…” Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed hard. “Isn’t there some way I could save it?”
It wasn’t possible, she knew, and when he shook his head, she capitulated. “Oh, very well,” she muttered, feeling wretched. “I’ll kill the dog. But if this book is ever published, some people will be very upset with me.”
His gray eyes were hard, his reply merciless. “You cannot allow the feelings of yourself or your audience to dictate what happens in your book. You must be true to the story. The story is the only thing that matters. The story trumps all.”
She nodded. That was what made him good, she realized. He put the story first, ahead of all personal feelings. That was something she needed to learn. She lifted her head and tried to rally her spirits. “All right, but when I’ve dispatched the dog, I intend to give myself a very nice reward! Chocolate, I think, for I fear I shall be quite depressed.”
The hardness in his face vanished, and he gave an unexpected chuckle. “No doubt. Killing a dog can ruin a writer’s whole day.” He tilted his head to one side, still smiling, arms still folded across his chest. “Do you often give yourself rewards?”
“Yes. Whenever I have to do something difficult, I find it encouraging to know there’s a treat waiting for me when I’ve accomplished it.” A thought struck her, and she added, “You might try that technique and see if it helps you.”
“Another way to make writing fun?”
“Yes.” She made a face. “Laugh at me if you like.”
His smile vanished. “I’m not laughing at you.”
She saw it again, that hint of something in his eyes. She’d been unable to define it last night, but at this moment when she looked at him, she realized what it was. Tenderness.
Her throat went dry, and she could only stare at him, powerless to look away. The big grandfather clock, its ponderous chimes booming from the drawing room, which finally broke the spell.
She gave a little cough. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“Yes. You haven’t a clue how to write romance.”
“What?” Daisy made a sound of indignation, and any warm feeling she’d been harboring toward him began to evaporate. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s clear you want to write stories of romantic adventure,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You do all right with the adventurous aspects, though you do sometimes stretch credibility. Dalton saving the dog from the quicksand on Morcambe Bay at just the right moment, for example. But when it comes to writing about love affairs, petal, I think you might be a bit out of your depth.”
That stung, but it was no less than the truth. Sheltered and protected by her sister and the respectable maiden ladies of Little Russell Street since she was sixteen, she knew little about romance. A quick, furtive kiss from the village fishmonger’s son behind the church. The desperate groping of an old man in a supply closet. These and one or two similar, equally disappointing incidents were the extent of Daisy’s romantic experience.
Not that her circumstances were a complete explanation. Daisy was painfully aware that her tall, thin frame, her carroty hair, and her freckles were attributes that had never inspired much romantic attention from the opposite sex.
Sebastian Grant, she suspected, wouldn’t know how that felt. With his stunning good looks, impressive physique, aristocratic lineage, and widespread fame, women probably flung themselves at him everywhere he went. If his reputation was anything to go by, he’d had dozens of love affairs. She’d had none.
Daisy ducked her head, staring down at the sheets of paper spread across her desk. Now she understood why she always had so much trouble with the romantic moments in her books. She didn’t have the knowledge. “You’re
right, of course,” she mumbled. “I can’t write what I don’t know, can I?”
“I could help you with that.”
“Yes,” she agreed with a painful little laugh, “I’m sure you could. You’ve probably helped dozens of other aspiring female writers. Made love to most of them, too, I daresay.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve never had a protégé before.” He stirred, straightening away from his desk, and picked up the sheaf of papers she’d given him to read. He came around the secretaire to stand beside her. Laying the manuscript on her desk, he began flipping through the pages. “Here,” he said, pausing to tap his finger against a particular paragraph where he’d scrawled some notes along the margin. “This is an example of what I’m talking about. This scene where Dalton declares his love to Ingrid. It doesn’t work.”
Daisy leaned forward, frowning at the page he indicated. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Dalton. He’s so noble and so kind, I just can’t swallow it. He’s ready to give up everything, and why? For Ingrid’s love.”
The disdain with which he uttered the last few words was too much to bear. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she cried, turning toward him, “I’m not the only one who has characters sacrifice for love. I read that sort of thing in books all the time. Other writers do it.”
“In Chapter Two?”
That rather took the wind out of her sails. “Perhaps not,” she was forced to admit. “Is that what you meant when you said my pacing was off?”
“Yes. If you had started your story with him already in love with her, pining away, it might be different, but they meet in Chapter One, and after one conversation, he’s ready to sacrifice everything? I don’t believe it. Besides,” he added before she could debate the point, “I don’t give a damn what other writers do. And neither should you. You’re a better writer than most.”
She blinked, startled by the compliment, but after a moment, pleasure began seeping through as if she’d just been wrapped in a warm blanket. “I am? Truly?”
“Well, you could be.” He saw her smile, and added, “But for God’s sake, stop making your hero so damned self-sacrificing. When they meet, he knows she’s in love with someone else, and that she doesn’t want him, but he’s going to risk everything simply for her happiness?” He made a sound of derision. “Men are not nearly as noble as you seem to think, unless they are stupid.”
“Or heroic.”
“You say heroic, I say stupid. Either way,” he added before she could argue further, “Dalton’s behavior is unbelievable. Men do not behave this way.”
“There are men willing to sacrifice everything because of unrequited love for a woman! There are,” she insisted as he made a skeptical sound through his teeth.
“I’ve never met any.”
She folded her arms, glaring at him. “Again, this opinion could stem from your jaded perspective. Perhaps you are just more selfish than other men.”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I am a fairly typical example of the masculine mind.”
“Somehow, I find that a disquieting thought.”
He grinned. “Sorry to spoil your idealistic notions about my sex, but there it is. Men are selfish. When Dalton first meets Ingrid, self-sacrifice is not going to be what’s going through his mind.”
“It isn’t?”
“No.” Sebastian lifted his hands to cup her face, and Daisy sucked in a surprised breath as his warm palms cupped her cheeks.
“What—” She paused, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue. “What is going through his mind?” she whispered.
His eyes gleamed like molten silver as his thumbs pressed upward beneath her jaw to tilt her head back. “This,” he said, and kissed her.
Chapter 12
Writers write for fame, wealth, power and the love of women.
Sigmund Freud
The moment he touched his mouth to hers, Sebastian knew he’d been wrong, terribly wrong, to think stealing a few kisses from Daisy Merrick would be harmless, that a bit of seduction would be enough. Her lips were just as soft as he’d imagined, their taste just as sweet, but what he hadn’t imagined was the affect her kiss would have on him.
The contact of her mouth against his brought waves of pleasure so acute it was almost like pain. His heart wrenched in his chest, and arousal instantly began coursing through his body. He felt as if he were a green youth of sixteen, kissing a girl for the first time. The taste of her eclipsed any sensation he’d felt before, making one word hammer through his brain and pulse through his blood.
More.
He parted her lips with his, and his tongue entered her mouth. The aggressive move shocked her, he could tell, for she made a faint, smothered sound, and her hands opened, flattening against his chest as if to push him away. In some dim part of his mind, he perceived her shock and knew it stemmed from inexperience, but his need was powerful and desperate, and he was powerless to stop. When he touched his tongue to hers, she made a tiny movement as if she might break away, and he couldn’t bear it. He slid his hands to the back of her head to keep her there, and kissed her even more deeply than before.
The effect on his body was immediate and dizzying. Euphoria flooded him in an instant, intoxicating rush, and instead of being satisfied, he was filled with an even deeper craving for more.
He pulled back only long enough to suck in a breath of air, then he tilted his head the other way and kissed her again. As he tasted her, as his tongue explored her mouth, awareness beyond the kiss itself began seeping into his consciousness. The hairs at her nape tickled the backs of his fingers. The prim, high collar of her shirtwaist felt crisp against his palms. The skin of her cheeks was like warm satin beneath his thumbs. Her neck was slender, delicate, as fragile in his hands as the stem of a flower. He cradled it with care, striving to contain his moves.
Once again he pulled back, thinking to stem the violent tide of his own desire before it drowned them both. But unexpectedly, she opposed him. Her arms came up around his neck, and she pulled him close again, her mouth seeking his with an awkwardness that spoke of her inexperience but with a hunger that matched his own.
Her parted lips grazed his, and the lust within him surged up higher than before—more fuel heaped on an already blazing fire—and he realized—too late—that instead of being liberated by her kiss, he was captured by it. He wanted even more.
Greedy with need, Sebastian slanted his mouth over hers in a kiss that was open and lush. Still cupping her delicate neck against one of his palms, he used his other hand to tug at an end of the grosgrain ribbon that adorned her throat, untying the bow. He unfastened the top three buttons of her shirtwaist and spread the edges apart with his fingers. He tore his lips from hers because he wanted to see what he had exposed, and one peek at the toffee-gold freckles that dotted her skin above the lacy pink edge of her underclothes threatened to drive him mad. His hand clenched around the placket, shaking with the effort of holding back, fighting the barbaric urge to rip the shirtwaist all the way apart and see more.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his head, nuzzling the V of her open collar, inhaling the fresh garden scent and feminine warmth that emanated from her skin. When he pressed his lips to the base of her throat, the hammering thrum of her pulse against his mouth made him dizzy. “My God,” he breathed. “How lovely you are.”
Wanting still more, he shifted his hand, embracing the small, round shape of her breast through the layers of clothing, and he knew in an instant he had gone too far.
Her body jerked in reaction, and she pushed at his chest to shove him away. “Good Lord,” she gasped, her breath coming in little pants between her kiss-plumped lips. “What are we doing?”
“Making writing fun?” he suggested and bent his head, hoping to recapture her mouth.
“Stop.” The heel of her hand lifted to cup his chin, her fingers pressed against his face, blocking his move. He lowered his gaze as she pushed his head back, and between her fingers,
he could see her eyes narrow.
“If you think for one minute that I intend to let you get by with this,” she breathed, “you are sadly mistaken!”
With renewed force, she pushed at him, expecting him to step back and release her, but Sebastian couldn’t quite accept such an abrupt withdrawal. Desire for her was still humming through him, and he was too caught up in it to let her go.
She didn’t seem inclined to wait for him to regain his equilibrium. She flung out her arms, pushing his aside to break free, and took a step back. “You really are a devil,” she accused. “A clever, manipulating devil.”
Without her in his arms, he felt oddly bereft, but when he reached for her again, she jumped back, her palm flattening against his chest to stop his advance. “Don’t insult me any further.”
“Insult you? What are you talking about?”
“Did you really think making love to me would persuade me to let you out of your obligation?”
“That isn’t why I kissed you,” he muttered, trying to think. “I just…you’re so lovely, I couldn’t help myself.”
The moment he said it, his artistic instincts were outraged. No writer with an ounce of talent, he thought in self-disgust, would compose a hackneyed line like that. Never before had he seduced a woman with anything that lame. But at this moment, his head was still spinning, his body was still on fire, and he just couldn’t explain things any better.
Daisy, understandably, did not believe him. “You must think me such a silly little fool.”
“No, I don’t. You’re a bit naïve, perhaps, but—” He stopped, for it occurred to him saying things like that was probably not a good idea. “I have never thought you a fool. In fact—”
“I can just imagine how you envisioned it,” she cut in. “You’re so lovely, Daisy,’ and, ‘I just can’t help myself, Daisy.’” She paused, rolling her eyes and making a sound of derision. “I assume I was supposed to fall right into your arms like a swooning featherbrain? At which point, you’d move in for the kill with, ‘Oh, by the way, darling, I don’t really need to do those revisions, do I?’”
With Seduction in Mind Page 15