Sebastian leaned one shoulder against the window frame. “I doubt it.”
She felt a sudden flash of anger. “Do you always have to be so damned cynical?”
He shrugged. “I prefer to think of myself as a realist. People don’t change, Daisy. If your mother had lived, your father would still have been the same man, with all the same weaknesses.”
Her anger died as quickly as it had come. “You sound like my sister. When we lost our home, Lucy and I went to live with a cousin, and my father went to Manchester to find work. He promised he’d send for us when he was settled. He promised he’d take care of us, that he’d stop gambling and stop drinking. Lucy didn’t believe him.”
Sebastian leveled a shrewd glance at her. “But you did.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I believed him. In fact, I never doubted him for a moment. I was absolutely sure he wouldn’t let us down.” A bitter wave rose up inside her. “I was such a fool.”
“No. You just expected more than your father could give.”
“It was my thirteenth birthday when I found out it was all a lie. He’d been promising to come home for months, but he kept postponing it. I had said I wanted a birthday party, because if I had a birthday party, he’d come home. Lucy arranged it and wrote to Papa, but she warned me not to get my hopes up, that he might not be able to come, but I was sure he would.”
“And he didn’t.”
“Oh, no,” she contradicted, “he came. Right in the midst of things, he arrived, but he was drunk. I could smell the brandy from five feet away. So could everyone else. Needless to say,” she added with a little laugh, “it was a short party. Everyone left, and he and Lucy had a flaming row. She told him to leave and never come back. He died a few weeks later, and we found out he had never stopped drinking and he’d never found employment in Manchester. He’d been living off of some woman.”
She straightened away from the window, turning to face Sebastian with sudden desperation, wanting to understand. “Why?” she asked. “Why would my father do that?”
He looked away. “God,” he muttered, “why ask me?”
“You’ve been a man of excesses, you told me. You’ve drunk and you’ve gambled.” She felt a sudden grip of fear. “Are you like he was?”
He stiffened, and her fear deepened, but she persisted. “Are you? Would you lie to your family, ruin your life?”
“For drink? No. For another hand of cards? No. Would I be kept by a woman? God, no.”
Relief washed over her in a powerful wave, and she closed her eyes.
“But,” he added softly, “we all have our weaknesses, petal.”
She opened her eyes and found him looking at her. She asked the question before she could stop herself. “What’s your weakness?”
He straightened away from the side of the house, and she felt as if a wall had come between them. “It’s probably close to teatime,” he said. “We’d better go back.”
She watched as he started across the veranda, and he was halfway down the steps before she spoke. “You aren’t going to tell me, are you?”
He stopped to look at her over his shoulder, and she caught her breath, for she could see that hint of tenderness in his expression. “No,” he said and continued on down the steps.
During the fortnight that followed, Sebastian continued to write like a man obsessed. He was usually in the library before Daisy came downstairs, and he often continued to work well into the evening, having his dinner brought to him on a tray. Mathilda expressed some concerns about how many hours he spent at his typewriter, but when she asked Daisy what had brought about this unaccountable change in him, Daisy could not very well enlighten her.
She couldn’t tell his great-aunt about the game that she and Sebastian had concocted, and the fact that it was a secret made the whole thing much more thrilling. And it seemed to be working for him. Daisy, however, continued to struggle with her own writing, but strangely enough, she couldn’t work up much regret about that. As she watched the stack of completed pages on his desk grow steadily taller, her sense of anticipation grew as well.
Questions constantly ran through her head. What would happen when he reached the one-hundredth page? How was this going to work? Would he want to talk about the revisions first? Or would he just hand her the pages, haul her into his arms, and kiss her? These questions and a dozen more richoeted wildly through her brain, ratcheting up her suspense with each passing day, until it was almost unbearable.
And then, one morning in mid-July, she knew some of her questions were about to be answered. When she came into the library to work, she found that for once Sebastian had not arrived before her. Instead, waiting for her on her desk was a tidy pile of manuscript pages tied with twine. With it was a note, tucked beneath the twine.
A pang of delicious excitement shot through her at the sight of that note. She snatched it up at once, broke the wax seal, and unfolded the single sheet.
It wasn’t a note, she realized at once, it was a map. A map of the maze, with the route to the center clearly marked in red ink. At the center, also marked in red, he’d written the words Four o’clock.
She glanced at the clock and gave a cry of aggravation. It was only a little past nine. How would she ever manage to wait until four?
She lowered the note in her hands, and her gaze caught on the pages he’d left for her to read, reminding her that kissing him was not what she had come to Devonshire to do. Daisy forced herself back to reality and sat down at her desk. She folded the map and put it in her pocket, then she untied the twine and picked up her quill. Forcing herself to focus her attention on the pages in front of her, she began to read.
It was a little before four when Daisy took the map Sebastian had given her and made her way through the maze. When she arrived at the center, she found him already there, waiting for her. Daisy paused in the opening of the hedge and spied him on the other side of the Muses’ fountain. In his hand was a small red book, but he didn’t seem to be reading it, for the moment she stepped into the enclosure, he noticed her and shut the book, marking his place with his finger.
“Well?” he prompted before she had the chance to speak. “Did you read the pages?”
“Yes.” She saw him tense, watched a wary expression come into his face, an expression of vulnerability that she found terribly moving.
He took a deep breath. “And?”
“It’s wonderful,” she said and began to laugh as she saw the relief in his expression. “Truly wonderful.”
“Thank God,”” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ve been pacing here like a tiger in a cage for hours,” he confessed. “I was afraid you’d say they were rubbish.”
She smiled. “Isn’t that what all writers are afraid of?” she asked, remembering when he’d taken her pages to read.
“Yes. So you like the way the story opens now?”
“Oh, yes! When he steps off the train and he literally runs into her, and he knows his life will never be the same—that’s so much more exciting than before. And the part where he finds out she’s married—oh, I can’t quite pinpoint all the ways you changed it, but this time, when I read it, I was on tenterhooks, feeling the suspense. I wanted to keep reading and reading—” She broke off with a vexed sigh. “That’s when I ran out of pages.”
“I’ll write more,” he promised her. “But not now.” He paused, and a look came into his face that made her remember why they were here. “Right now,” he added, one corner of his mouth curving in that half smile of his, “I have something more important to do.”
Daisy felt the suspense that had been haunting her all week rise up again, and she tensed, waiting, expecting him to approach her. “You told me you’ve never read Byron,” he said without moving, “but I’m not certain I believe you. It appears that you and he have the same ideas when it comes to inspiration.”
He opened the book to the page he’d marked with his finger and began to read.
“If Apollo
should e’er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be dispos’d from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the Muse,
And try the effect of the first kiss of love.’”
Her breath caught in her throat at those words, and she struggled for a nonchalance she was far from feeling. “It seems to me,” she said after a moment, “that Byron was a very intelligent man.”
“I quite agree.” He closed the book, but he still did not move. His gaze locked with hers. “Take your hair down.”
She blinked at this abrupt transition, and her pretense of nonchalance dissolved in an instant. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your hair. Take it down.”
She reached up, pressing a hand to the firmly pinned twist at the back of her head, feeling suddenly, terribly self-conscious. “My hair? Why?”
“That’s my first rule. Your hair has to be down.”
Daisy lowered her hand and clasped both hands behind her back. She’d been in a lather of suspense for weeks, wondering how he intended to claim his reward, and what rules he would add to this game they’d concocted. She’d imagined all sorts of exciting things he might do, but taking down her hair, she thought with a jolt of panic, was not one of them.
He perceived her reluctance. “I’ve fulfilled my part of our bargain. Do you intend to renege on yours?”
She imagined her mop of orange corkscrew curls all hanging down in its usual hopeless tangle, and reneging was suddenly a very tempting idea. “I can’t think why you’d want to see my hair down,” she mumbled, looking away with a self-conscious laugh. Her mind strove for an excuse to refuse, but she could think of none. Meeting his eyes again, she told him the truth. “Boys teased me about my hair when I was a girl. ‘Carrot-head,’ they called me.”
“I won’t tease you.” He took a step toward her. “I want this, Daisy. I want to see your hair down, all loose and shining in the sun.”
Agonized, she reached up to comply, keeping her gaze locked with his. Her hands were shaking, and she pressed one over the twist at the back of her head as she used the other to pull out hairpins. It wasn’t until all the pins were gathered in her palm that she let her hair fall free.
She shook it back. “There,” she said, feeling almost defiant as she shoved the pins in her pocket.
He circled the fountain, coming toward her, and with each step, her heart beat harder in her chest, and by the time he halted in front of her, she was sure he could hear the rapid, thudding sound. Never in her life had she felt more exposed, more vulnerable, than she did at this moment.
He didn’t speak. The book fell from his hand to the grass, but he didn’t embrace her or attempt to kiss her. Instead, he grasped a fistful of her hair, lifted his hand high, and let the long strands slowly fall from his fingers. He smoothed it down with his palm, and then grasped another handful and began again.
He was playing with her hair.
Daisy stood motionless, staring up at him in astonishment. He’d said her hair was pretty, but until this moment, she hadn’t really believed him. Looking into his face, she believed him now. His gaze was riveted, as if he found her hair the most fascinating thing in the world. He looked…entranced. “Beautiful,” he breathed as if to himself.
A warm glow started deep in her midsection and began rippling outward, a blissful glow that eased away her panic and brought a pleasure so profound, she couldn’t help but smile.
That caught his attention, and he shifted his hand, tangling his fingers more deeply into her hair. Gently, he pulled her head back and leaned closer. “If you want to back out,” he said, his voice a harsh rasp close to her lips, “do it now, because the rules are only going to get harder.”
The warm glow in her body intensified at the light brush of his mouth, growing hotter and deeper. Tingles were running up and down her body. Heavens, he hadn’t even kissed her yet, and she was in a state of such excitement she could hardly breathe.
He waited, his lips poised a hair’s breadth from hers, and she knew he was waiting for her to decide whether to go forward or call a halt. “I don’t want to back out,” she whispered.
He gave her no chance to say more. His lips pressed fully to hers, and the rush of pleasure was so acute, the rush of joy so piercingly sweet, she cried out against his mouth.
His fingers were still tangled in her hair, and his free arm wrapped around her waist, lifting her onto her toes, pulling her fully against him. His lips parted hers the same way they had before, a lush feast for all her senses.
Her body felt vibrantly alive, as if every part of her—every cell and every nerve—existed only for this moment and this kiss. Nothing else mattered, nothing in the world.
Daisy breathed in the scent and taste of him. Her hands spread across his chest, feeling his hard muscles against her palms through the linen of his shirt, the rise and fall of his breathing, the beating of his heart.
Just as the first time he’d kissed her, Daisy felt as if she was no longer in control of her own actions. It was not conscious thought that caused her to press her body closer to his. Her mind did not tell her to wrap her arms around his neck or curl her leg around the back of his in a desperate attempt to bring him even closer. Her body did these things of their own accord. She was driven by something she’d never felt before. Carnality. She stirred, her hips against his, and all she wanted was to savor this odd, new sensation.
He didn’t let her. With a groan, he tore his mouth from hers and turned his face away, breaking the kiss. His arm around her relaxed, easing her body back down until her feet touched the ground. He grasped her arms and pushed her back a fraction, separating their bodies even as he buried his face against her hair. She could feel his breathing, deep and ragged, against her temple.
Her own breathing was just as uneven. Her knees felt weak and she held on to him as the only solid thing in a world that was spinning. She was shocked by her own carnal appetite, something she’d never dreamed existed within her. Just as shocking was the awful pang she felt at his withdrawal, as if a tantalizing meal had been placed before her and then snatched away after she’d taken only one bite. When his hands fell to his sides and he began easing himself away, her arms tightened instinctively around his neck. She didn’t want this moment to end.
“Don’t tempt me,” he groaned, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I have to let you go while I still can.”
When he stepped back, she felt bereft, and still disoriented. He bent down, retrieving the book from where it had fallen into the grass. “Here,” he said and held it out to her. “This is yours now.”
“Thank you.” She took it from his hand and when she opened it, she noticed something written on the flyleaf in his bold, black scrawl.
Every writer of romance needs her own copy of Byron. S. G., July 12, ’96.
Daisy’s happiness rose again, and she looked up, wanting to thank him, wanting to see those gray eyes watching her and that hard mouth softened by a smile, but he was already gone.
She didn’t follow him. Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her present to her chest, wanting to hold all these feelings in, to keep this blissful euphoria as long as possible, wishing she could hang on to it until he had completed another hundred pages.
“Write fast, Sebastian,” she whispered. “Write very, very fast.”
Chapter 15
I can resist anything but temptation.
Oscar Wilde
He wrote about her. He called her Amelie, and gave her a husband, and described her hair as raven black, but in his mind, it was Daisy he saw.
He dreamed about her. About the rich, flaming color of her hair and the deep blue green of her eyes, and the soft, sweet yielding of her mouth, and he’d wake up with his body on fire and the scent of Pears’ soap in his nostrils.
He thought about her. For perhaps the thousandth time in a week, he thought of her arms around his neck pulling him closer, her tongue tasting deeply of him, and th
e pressing of her body close to his. He recognized it for what it was—the awakening of her body to lust. And thinking about that only fanned the flames of his own desire.
He imagined her. He sat across from her day after day, half his mind on the work before him, the other half occupied with removing her clothes, tasting her mouth, seeing her smile. He typed words onto pages with hands he imagined were caressing her. And the more preoccupied he became with Daisy, the more pages he wrote about Amelie. Samuel Ridgeway’s passion became his passion, and the story poured out of him onto the pages with an ease he hadn’t felt since Italy.
He was playing a dangerous game with her. He knew it, but he could not stop. The waiting and the tension were almost unbearable, the pleasure of imagining himself with her again was too tempting to resist, and he found his mind returning to those moments alone with her again and again. In the weeks that followed that kiss in the maze, he worked, and he imagined. The novel he was revising took on a life of its own; it transformed into something completely different from the original. And it was good, damn good, some of the best writing he’d ever done in his life. Even he knew that—deep down, under all his damnable self-doubt, a part of him knew he was creating a story that was extraordinary.
He suspected Daisy was not finding it as easy as he to harness passion and form it into sentences, scenes, and chapters. Even he did not quite understand why he was able to do so—something was driving him, and though he did not understand it, he intended to take full advantage of it for as long as it lasted. Three weeks after the kiss in the maze, Sebastian hammered out one sentence on page two hundred, stopped typing, and whipped the sheet out of the typewriter.
Daisy looked up at the sound, and he heard her catch her breath. She knew. “Four o’clock in the maze?”
“No.” He stood up, gathered the pages of manuscript, and circled around to stand before her desk. “The Temple of Apollo. Might as well use the thing for its proper purpose.”
There was a smile at the corners of her mouth, but her eyes opened innocently wide. “Quiet contemplation?”
With Seduction in Mind Page 19