And he hadn’t only kissed her either, she remembered, blushing in the dark. He’d touched her, too.
Oh, heavens, what had she done?
Daisy turned onto her side, pressing her hot cheek against her pillow at the edge where the cotton was cool. The memory of how his palm had cupped her breast, how his touch had seemed to scorch her right through her clothes, was still so vivid in her mind, that even now, she could feel again the pulse and flex of her own body in response.
She flung back the covers and sat up in bed with a groan as her own words came echoing back once again.
How many of my kisses would inspire you to revise that manuscript?
An image of him came into her mind and she closed her eyes, leaning back with her weight on her arms, thinking of his lips pressed to the base of her throat. How long? she wondered, and anticipation unfurled within her, anticipation so keen, it banished any regrets or apprehensions. How long before he kissed her again?
This, she thought, was romance. And she wanted it-wanted it so badly, she could hardly stand it. It might be wicked and sinful and just plain wrong, but Daisy couldn’t find it in her heart to regret the bargain she’d made. Even if it was a bargain with a devil.
A man with sense would have said no. A man with sense would have ushered Daisy Merrick’s shapely bum and delicious offer right out the door yesterday and put her on the first train back to London. But if Sebastian had ever had any sense, he would never have become a writer.
Hands on his typewriter, he stared down at the sheet of paper in the roller and the two words he’d typed on it. The Crandall still worked, and he still remembered how to use it. He’d managed to tap out the words, “CHAPTER ONE,” without any trouble whatsoever, but immediately after that, he’d run into difficulties.
He pulled his hands back from the machine, staring at the Crandall with anguish and hostility, feeling cocaine’s lure like an insidious serpent. It whispered in his ear and slithered through his bloodstream, beckoning him, tempting him, trying to distract him at every turn.
He didn’t have to do this, he reminded himself. He could walk away. Sebastian exhaled a sigh and picked up Daisy’s revision letter. He’d already read it a dozen times, but he read it again, just so he would have something to do besides give up.
“The opening is too staid,” he murmured under his breath. “It reads like a description out of Baedeker.”
She was right, of course. The hero’s journey across the Channel, his train ride from Calais to Paris, a description of the Gare Saint Lazare, did read like a snippet from a Baedeker travel guide.
Sebastian straightened in his chair, set the letter aside, and once more put his fingers on the Crandall’s keys. He tried to think of a new opening line for the book, something with emotion and life. “Samuel Ridgeway,” he muttered as he typed, “was a young man with prospects.”
No, too passive. He X’d that line out and tried again. “When Samuel Ridgeway stepped off the train, the Gare Saint Lazare was teeming with activity.”
He stopped and rolled his eyes. Of course it teemed with activity. It was a train station, for God’s sake. Once more, he crossed words out, and as he watched X’s popping up over each letter he’d typed, Sebastian felt a twinge of despair. How the hell could he rewrite an entire manuscript when he couldn’t even compose a decent opening line?
There’s an easier way, his mind whispered. You know what it is.
Desperate, he shut out the serpent hissing in his ear by focusing his mind on an entirely different desire, a desire far more delightful than any drug.
He eased back in his chair and closed his eyes. At once, an image of her came into his mind, an image of creamy skin and toffee freckles, of frothy pink lace, white nainsook, and brown ribbon. He imagined the inviting swell of her breast against his hand, and lust flooded through him. He inhaled sharply in reaction and almost caught her delicate, floral scent. Imagining her in this way, he could almost taste the sweetness of her mouth, he could almost feel her arms tightening around his neck and pulling him closer. Almost.
He groaned aloud and opened his eyes. It was bad enough that, somehow, he had agreed to rewrite the damned book. But now he also had to play the delicious dance of seduction with a woman too innocent for the real thing. When she’d offered up her kisses as inspiration, he’d hardly been able to believe his luck, but now, staring at the rows of X’d out text in his typewriter, he wondered how lucky he’d been. He felt rather like a condemned man staring up at heaven from the depths of hell.
Sebastian tried to look on the bright side. At least this was revision; he didn’t have to write an entire book from scratch. And every hundred pages he received a delicious reward for his efforts.
He could also up the stakes, he realized, remembering that he could add three rules to this game she’s concocted.
What should his first rule be? He ran the tip of his finger idly along the edge of her revision letter as he contemplated that delightful question. It couldn’t be anything too shocking. The last thing he needed was to do all this work only to have it come to naught, so whatever rule he came up with had to be satisfying enough to reward him for his hard work, and yet romantic enough to satisfy her innocent expectations. That was going to be a bit tricky.
The sun came up over the horizon, and morning light poured into the library through the French windows. He blinked a few times against the sudden brightness, and stretched out one arm toward the lamp on his desk. As he turned the brass knob to extinguish the lamplight, a ray of sunshine hit the fabric shade, shooting brightness through the tasseled fringe. Sebastian turned his hand, idly fingering one of the tassels, and as he watched the morning light shimmer on the brightly colored strands of orange, gold, and brown, he suddenly knew what his first rule was going to be.
Smiling, he lowered his hand and returned his attention to the sheet of paper in the typewriting machine before him. An idea flitted through his mind, vague and shadowy but unmistakable. His smile vanished, and he straightened in his chair, suddenly alert.
Without any real awareness of what he was doing, he put his hands on the keys and with quick, hammering strikes, he typed out a sentence. He contemplated it for a moment, and then, with deliberation and intent, he typed another sentence. And then another. Slowly, from deep down inside him, came a faint glimmer of hope.
When Daisy came down to the library, she found that Sebastian had arrived before her and was already hard at work. He was tapping out words on his typewriting machine at a rapid pace, and she hesitated by the door, not sure she should go in, for she didn’t wish to distract him.
From this angle, she could see most of his face. Though his brows were furrowed in concentration, he was smiling a little as he typed, and she felt a profound sense of satisfaction. For the first time since she’d met him, he looked content. As a writer, she appreciated the meaning of that. The work was going well. She moved to depart, but at the sound of his voice, she stopped again.
“And where do you think you’re scurrying off to?” he asked without pausing in his task.
“I didn’t wish to interrupt your spurt of creativity.”
“Hmm, that sounds like an excuse to me.”
He stopped typing and gave her a look of mock sternness, tapping one forefinger on the top of his typewriter. “If I have to work, you have to work.”
“Is that to be your first rule?”
“No, petal.” His pretense of sternness dissolved away. His gaze traveled down her body and back again to her face, so slowly that it was almost a caress. “I shall reserve my rules for the important things.”
A tingle ran up her spine, a delicious tingle of anticipation. To hide it, she pretended to be affronted. “You don’t think ensuring I write my book is important?” she asked as she entered the library and crossed to her desk.
“I didn’t say that,” he replied as she sat down opposite him. He leaned closer, his chest brushing the top of his typewriter. “But in this game, there ar
e other things I value more than your book.”
“What things?” she blurted out, and then wanted to bite her tongue off.
He laughed. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
During the two weeks that followed, Daisy did plenty of waiting, and plenty of wondering, too, but she was gratified to note that her outrageous game seemed to have the desired effect on him.
Sebastian had made it clear to the servants and to his aunt that they were not to be disturbed in their work. With doors shut and interruptions eliminated, they spent every morning and most afternoons hard at work.
At least, Sebastian did. It was Daisy, strangely enough, who now found writing a difficult endeavor. She managed to kill off the dog, and just as he’d assured her it would, that change made the story much more powerful. But it also prompted a series of other corrections and presented a whole slew of new and unforeseen obstacles, obstacles she found herself wholly unprepared to deal with, especially since she couldn’t seem to concentrate for more than five minutes at a time.
She found her mind wandering to their bargain dozens of times a day, and each time renewed her anticipation. She would often observe him during their hours together in the library, and though it was gratifying to see him working so hard, she found it far more gratifying that he was doing that work to gain kisses from her. It was the most romantic thing she could imagine.
As she studied him covertly during their hours together, she began to see him in a way she never had before. When he paused to read what he had typed, with his elbow on the desk and his chin in his hand, she noticed the line and sinew of muscle in his strong forearm below the rolled cuffs of his sleeve. When she watched him drum his fingers on the desk, she remembered how those fingertips had touched her face. When he stared thoughtfully out the window, the sensuous line of his mouth would evoke the memory of that stirring kiss and make her long for it again.
But none of that was helping her with her work. Daisy tried to force herself back to it, but when she read the last sentence she had written, she realized it made no sense. She crossed it out, and saw that she had a full page of crossed-out sentences. When she turned the page over, she discovered the other side was the same—not a single usable line on the entire sheet.
With a discouraged sigh, she wadded up the used notepaper and tossed it into the wastepaper basket beside her chair. She inked her quill and began again. She wrote two sentences, then stopped, dissatisfied, and crossed everything out. She wrote a little more, and stopped again, realizing in horror that Dalton had just swept Ingrid up into his strong, manly arms and kissed her.
That was not something she could put in her book! Dalton and Ingrid were not even married. And even if she were so bold as to describe such an erotic moment, she certainly couldn’t use such explicit terms. Why, she’d actually written the words passionate kiss. Heavens, what would the ladies of Little Russell Street say if they read that?
Making a sound of exasperation, Daisy ran a line through the entire paragraph and began to fear she’d made a serious mistake. While the kiss she and Sebastian had shared seemed to be helping his creative instincts, it was not helping hers at all. She wanted to write better, more authentic romantic moments, but she did not want to write pornography!
The sight of yet another crossed-out paragraph was so discouraging, she looked up, and found that Sebastian was watching her.
“Having a problem?” he asked innocently, but she could see an unmistakable glint of humor in his eyes.
Daisy felt a damnable blush rising in her cheeks. Reminding herself that there was no way he could know the content of what she had just written, she shoved a loose tendril of hair behind her ear and donned a dignified air. “No problem,” she denied. “No problem at all.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
He resumed work, and she tried to do the same, but within an hour, she was wadding up yet another sheet of used paper.
Sebastian seemed to take this as a plea for assistance. “All right,” he said and stopped typing. “It’s clear you’re having trouble. Let me see if I can help.”
He started to rise, as if thinking to come around and read what she’d written, and she hastily forestalled that, holding up one hand to stop him, her other hand clenching protectively around the wadded-up paper. “No, no, it’s quite all right, really.”
To her relief, he sat back down, but he did not let the matter drop. “Daisy, you’ve used up at least a dozen sheets already this morning. And when you’re not crossing out your sentences or wadding up paper, you’re sighing, tapping your fingers, shifting around in your chair, and staring at your manuscript with a frown on your face. It’s clear you’re having difficulties. Let me help you.”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” she assured him and shoved the chapter she’d been working on in her dispatch case. “I’m not accustomed to writing for such long periods, day in and day out. I believe I just need a respite.”
He glanced at the clock, then back at her, looking doubtful. “But it’s not even time for lunch,” he pointed out as she stood up. “You are stopping for the day? You? The slave driver?”
She made a face at him. “I do wish you’d stop using that expression. I am not a slave driver.” She glanced at the window. “It’s a lovely day. I think I’ll go for a walk.”
“If you’re not a slave driver, you can prove it by allowing me to accompany you.”
“Very well. But only if you show me the prettiest spots.”
After securing a picnic hamper from the kitchens, Sebastian led her out through the kitchen garden, past a walled fruit garden, and across a wide expanse of green turf. They stepped over a stile and followed a footpath that meandered into a dense grove of beech and oak. It was a beautiful summer morning, and it felt good to leave work behind on such a day as this.
“It’s nice to be in the country,” she remarked as they walked. “London air is so foul.”
“Yes, and it seems to become more so with each passing year. I was a bit shocked when I came home from Italy, for it seemed as if there was twice as much coal dust in London as when I departed.”
“Italy has no coal dust?”
He shook his head. “It’s much warmer there, you see. Not so much need for coal. And of course, they don’t have that cursed English dampness to keep the soot hanging overhead like a black cloud.”
“I should love to see Italy. My friend Emma—she’s Lord Marlowe’s wife—she and Marlowe went to Italy on their honeymoon and she brought back some lovely photographs and drawings. Did they visit you there?”
“No. I did not see them.” He paused, then added, “I’d gone to Switzerland by then. I didn’t know the viscountess was your friend.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve known Emma since I was sixteen.” She found herself telling him all about the lodging house in Little Russell Street, and all of her friends there.
“I didn’t realize we had friends in common,” he commented. “Three of your friends have married men of my acquaintance. Marlowe, the Marquess of Kayne, and the Duke of St. Cyres are all friends of mine.”
She laughed. “Mrs. Morris says Little Russell Street is a magnet for potential husbands. Miranda, who is my dearest friend, wishes that were so. She wants more than anything to be married and have a big brood of children. She’s seen so many of our friends marry, but she is still unwed, and that has caused her no end of consternation.”
He laughed. “And you? Why do you not use your connections to secure a husband? Any other woman would, in your place.”
“My friends have offered to introduce me into society, of course. But—” She paused, thinking of a way to explain. “But we’re a proud, independent lot, we Merricks. My sister,” she added, “has become quite a woman of business. She owns an employment agency, securing domestics for wealthy matrons, typists for solicitors’ offices, things like that. She does very well.”
He seemed to perceive her inner feelings. “You envy her, don’t you?”
&n
bsp; Her steps faltered, and she stopped walking. “Yes,” she admitted before she could stop herself. “Does that make me sound horrible?”
“No, petal,” he said gently, stopping beside her. “It makes you human.”
Daisy looked up into his face. “My sister is the accomplished one,” she found herself saying. “She’s the one who always says the right thing, does the right thing. She’s successful at everything she tries. She’s beautiful, too. I’m too tall and too thin and I’ve got all these freckles and hair the color of carrots. Lucy doesn’t look a bit like me. She has the golden hair you mentioned, and the baby blue eyes, and the mouth like a rosebud. She’s beautiful. She’s also tactful and ladylike. She manages a successful business, but she’s also had three marriage proposals. Three!”
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but she went on, “I haven’t her head for business, more’s the pity. And I’m twenty eight, without a single marriage proposal to my name. I’ve never even had a suitor.”
No woman with sense would confess such a thing, particularly to a man, and yet, Daisy couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of her like a flood. “You were correct when you said I can’t write about romantic things because I don’t know how. And it’s not as if I’m accomplished. I can’t sew, and I can’t play the piano. I can’t dance or draw or sing, and I’m too blunt and too outspoken for clever conversation.”
As she unburdened herself, Daisy began to feel a sense of relief she’d never felt in her life before. No wonder it was said that confession was good for the soul. “I’ve had dozens of posts,” she went on. “I’ve been a governess, a typist, a telephone operator, a dressmaker’s assistant—but I’ve been sacked from every post I’ve ever had because I can’t learn to hold my tongue. That’s why I’m here, doing all this. Marlowe hired me to help you, and I refuse to let him down. I refuse to fail at yet another job.”
With Seduction in Mind Page 17