by Diana Quincy
He stared at her, slowly shaking his head from side to side. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Really, it’s not that complicated, Mr. Edgerton.” She withdrew a short stack of letters from her reticule and offered it to him. “Here, this should clarify matters for you. It is your correspondence with D. L. Chambers.”
Cynicism etched the lines of his craggy face. “How did you get these?”
“You sent them to me.” Exasperated, she held up her package. “This is the finished manuscript for volume three, which is due next week. I completed the book early and thought to deliver it to you in person.”
His eyes went to the package, his interest apparent. “Mr. Chambers has completed the third volume?”
“There is no Mr. Chambers,” she finally snapped. Really, the man was beyond irritating. “There is me, Delilah Lydia Chambers, the author of Travels in Arabia.” She rose. “But since you do not believe me, I’m of a mind to go and see whether another publisher might be interested in purchasing volume three.”
Mr. Edgerton jumped to his feet. “Now, now, Lady Devon, there is no need to get hysterical.” He hurried around his desk. “You just gave me such a surprise is all. It is most unusual for a lady to engage in trade.”
“I am a writer, Mr. Edgerton. I write.” She’d never referred to herself in that way. As an author. It felt good, empowering. Leela retook her seat. “Now, if we could speak of important matters pertaining to the publication of my books.”
“Certainly, certainly. Please do calm down.” He settled back behind his desk. “I have eagerly awaited the delivery of volume three. There is great anticipation surrounding the release of volume two next month. And may I laud you on your punctuality? Most . . . erm . . . members of your sex are not necessarily known for their promptness.”
“Is that so?”
He rushed on. “Now if you could just give the fair copy over to me, we’ll have the compositor begin the work of typesetting posthaste.”
“Of course.” Leela made no move to hand over the manuscript. “But first, I’d like to complete the business surrounding volume one.”
“And what business might that be?”
“I should like to collect my fee.”
“Your fee?”
“Yes, as you know, I have yet to be compensated for volume one. Our agreement stipulates that once the first volume has made a profit in excess of three-hundred pounds, I am to receive seventy-five pounds.”
Mr. Edgerton winced.
“Is something amiss?” she asked.
“Not at all. It is just that”—a distasteful expression came over his face—“I have never discussed finances with a lady before. It is, as you know, a bit . . . unseemly. When we negotiated the conditions for the purchase of volumes one and two of Travels in Arabia, I naturally assumed you were a gentleman.”
The grip on her manuscript tightened. “Are you suggesting that now that you know I am a female, you don’t intend to abide by our agreement?” Leela’s heart stuttered when he paused. She added, “And that you are no longer interested in volume three?”
“Not at all.” He quickly found his tongue. “The book is a great success and I am not so foolish as to turn away an opportunity that will enrich my business concern. Bookselling is a chance business. Bestselling volumes are not easy to come by.”
“Very well then,” she said crisply, “shall we proceed?”
He paused. “Is there perchance a male who could act as your representative in these matters? A brother, perhaps?”
“No, Mr. Edgerton, there is not.” She could ask Alexander. He was currently away, seeing to what his butler said was an urgent business concern. Leela could certainly reach him if she needed to, but why should her brother handle her business affairs?
Alexander knew nothing about her books, and she had no idea whether his negotiating skills were superior to hers. “I write these books on my own, without any male assistance, and I can certainly steer their journey into the world. Do you have my fee or not?”
“Yes, of course. Please calm yourself. I have already written the check.” He reached into his desk drawer and looked through some checks before finding the one he sought. “Considering the success of Travels in Arabia, it is with great pleasure that I present this check to you.”
Leela gazed at the check, the first money she’d ever earned. Society might consider it unseemly for a woman to do any kind of paying work, but a heady sense of accomplishment rippled through Leela. “Thank you.” Folding the check, she placed it inside her reticule. “Now, about volume three.”
“Given the success of volume one, I am certain that you can expect to receive your seventy-five pounds for volume two in very short order.” He glanced at the package on Leela’s lap containing volume three. “I anticipate that volume three will also be much sought after. The lending libraries have already ordered all three volumes of Travels in Arabia in advance.”
“The lending libraries? Is that good?”
“Very good indeed. Books are costly. Only the very wealthy can afford to buy them. Lending libraries make up the majority of book sales. Now if you’d like to leave the manuscript for volume three with me—”
“I would be happy to. As soon as we negotiate the terms for volume three.”
His brows lifted. “You needn’t concern yourself with these matters. The terms will be the same as for the first two volumes.”
“No, I do not think so.”
“I understand if you are perchance confused,” he said kindly. “This is why ladies do not generally represent themselves in financial matters. Numeric calculations can be vexing.”
“You are very kind, but I believe it is you who is confused.”
“I?” He straightened in his chair. “In what way?”
“I fully intend to renegotiate the terms for volume three.”
He looked affronted. “That is not generally done, my lady.”
“Nevertheless, that is how I should like to proceed.” Seeing how much Mr. Edgerton wanted her manuscript boosted Leela’s confidence in her position. “Given the success of volume one, and the likely success of volume two when it is released in a few weeks, I should like to come to a different understanding for volume three.”
“What sort of deal are we talking about? I assume you’d like a higher fee?”
“Precisely.”
He waggled his finger at her. “You are a very canny young lady. Very well, I shall give you a fee of one hundred pounds once I earn three hundred pounds in profit, which you understand, means once I cover all of my expenses.”
“I want two hundred pounds.”
He gaped at her, his already flushed face turning a more mottled red. “That’s outrageous.”
“I disagree.” She spoke calmly, although her heart beat erratically against her ribs. “We both know you stand to earn hundreds, and possibly well over a thousand pounds on all three volumes of Travels in Arabia. I am simply asking to be fairly compensated. In all, I shall only be receiving three-hundred and fifty pounds for all three volumes. Surely that is not too much to ask.”
“It certainly is. The answer is no. Absolutely not.”
“Is that your final word on the matter?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I must stand firm on this.”
“Very well.” She came to her feet, tucking her manuscript under her arm. “Good day then.”
He shot up. “Where do you think you’re going with my manuscript?”
“It is my manuscript and I am going to take it to another publisher who will pay me what it’s worth.”
“If you leave with that manuscript, do not expect to receive your fee for volume two.”
She rounded on him. “We already have an agreement regarding volume two,” she said hotly. “My fee is seventy-five pounds.”
“Not exactly. You are to receive seventy-five pounds once I have made a profit in excess of three-hundred pounds. My expenses are quite high. There is no telling if I w
ill make such profit.”
“You intend to cheat me out of my fee,” she fumed, knowing there would be no way for her to prove his deception. It was not as though she had access to his accounts.
“You are the one who is cheating me, young lady. We had a gentleman’s agreement on all three books. But you’ve turned out not to be a gentleman. This is what happens when ladies act unnaturally. Writing books and business negotiations are the purviews of men.”
“We had no such agreement on volume three. We never discussed a payment fee.”
“Now, please settle down and take a seat. Surely, you can attempt to be less emotional.”
“No, I don’t think that I can.” Leela was past tired of being told what to do. She certainly wasn’t going to let a man she barely knew order her about. “Our business is concluded, sir. You have openly admitted your intention to cheat me and I do not associate with cheaters.”
“You should take care about who you offend, Lady Devon.” The words took on an ominous tone. “I understand you are a countess in name only. Your husband is dead. You are of dubious blood, the product of an eccentric father, to put in kindly, and a mother of . . . low associations. I guess it should not surprise me that a woman of your origins would take to traipsing around the world and turning to trade.”
She kept her head high. “Given that my associations offend you, Mr. Edgerton, I will assume you have no interest in volume three.”
“I could expose you. If you do not give me that manuscript, I might just tell all of London that the author of Travels in Arabia is none other than the Mad Marquess’s daughter.”
“You could, but I doubt you will.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you have just as much to lose. With the second volume coming soon, you won’t chance losing sales by exposing my true identity.” She spoke with far more confidence than she felt.
He studied her. “Are you willing to risk your reputation on that?”
“I am. Because it is most obvious that your love of money exceeds your devotion to societal rules of decorum.” She nestled the manuscript more firmly under her arm. “I think I shall hold on to this. Good day, Mr. Edgerton.”
Leela had little time to think about Mr. Edgerton or her publishing frustrations in the days that followed.
The week leading up to Tori’s betrothal ball was a whirlwind of shopping, fittings and small dinner parties. Leela and Hunt managed not to be alone together and rarely exchanged more than a few polite words. The duke was attentive to his future bride and Tori seemed more comfortable than ever in Hunt’s company.
Not only had the girl completely stopped stammering in his presence, she’d actually blossomed. Tori had never looked lovelier. She had a certain glow, the spark of a young woman in the throes of a burgeoning romance. Leela often caught Tori and Hunt engaged in animated chatter punctuated by quiet laughter. Leela tried to ignore the stabbing sensation in her chest when she glimpsed the obvious warmth between them. Tori’s happiness was all that mattered.
Their impending betrothal was London’s worst-kept secret. The official announcement at the upcoming ball hosted by Edgar was a formality. Word spread quickly that society’s most exacting duke had settled on the bookish daughter of an earl who had drawn few other suitors.
Leela’s own emotions were confused, her happiness for Tori tempered by her own profound sense of loss. She resolved to hasten plans for her voyage to Morocco. The sooner she removed herself from the situation, the better for all involved. Until then, Leela managed to keep her distance by staying at Peckham House, the family townhome in London that now belonged to her brother, the Marquess of Brandon.
Alexander was still away, attending to business matters. He rarely came to London anyway, preferring Highfield, his country estate. Few in London would recognize the Marquess of Brandon if he strolled past them on the street.
The day before the betrothal ball, Leela holed up in her mother’s old sitting room at Peckham House and attempted to distract herself from the upcoming nuptials by focusing on the details of her upcoming trip. Most of the house was closed up since her brother rarely visited, but he retained a skeletal staff, old servants of their parents, to look after the place. Hashem and his daughter Hasna were temporarily part of the small staff, with Hasna serving as Leela’s lady’s maid. When Leela traveled to Morocco, they would both accompany her.
Leela was poring over maps and other guides when the butler appeared to tell her she had a visitor. “Who is it?”
Stokes appeared suitably impressed. “The Duke of Huntington, my lady.”
“He’s here?” Her heartbeat went faster. “Now?”
“Indeed, my lady.”
“Is Lady Victoria with him?”
“No, my lady. His Grace says he is here on a most urgent matter.”
“Very well.” Anticipation welled up in her. Even though it shouldn’t. “Please show him in.”
Hunt appeared moments later. Leela went to him. “Is something amiss? Is Victoria well?”
“Victoria is fine.”
She exhaled, her nerves settling. “Thank goodness.” She allowed herself to soak in the sight of him for the last time before he became another woman’s husband. When they were in public, Leela normally averted her gaze because it hurt too much to look at him. Yet she couldn’t deny herself now. Hunt’s masculine appeal remained as potent as ever. His deep green tailcoat settled perfectly over broad shoulders. His midnight blue eyes stared directly into hers. It suddenly seemed very warm. “What is it then? What brings you here?”
“Victoria is well but something is very definitely amiss.”
“What?”
He sank into the nearest chair. “I don’t think I can go through with it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Victoria. We should end this farce now, before the ball.”
She shook her head in jerky, frantic motions. He couldn’t cry off. “It has already gone too far.” She knelt beside his chair and tried to ignore the way the notes of leather and soap—his masculine scent—thrilled her senses. “All of society knows your betrothal will be announced tomorrow. It was already too late when we first met at the inn. We just didn’t know it.”
“But now we do.” He spoke with urgency, looking at her with a plea in his eyes. “Do you not see that the world is a completely different place to me now?”
“But this is not all about you,” Leela hissed, alarm bells ringing from every cell in her body. “It is of no account if you view the world in a different light. The fact remains that the world hasn’t changed, no matter if we have. I’m still the closest thing Victoria has to a mother or a sister. I will not betray her. There is nothing, nothing in this world that is more important to me than her happiness. And she truly seems happy.”
“You want her to be happy at our expense.” Anguish ravaged his handsome face. “Doesn’t she deserve a husband who loves her?”
“You will love her.”
“Stop saying that,” he said, heat radiating off his body. “Repeating it over and over will not make it true. I have only ever truly cared for one woman in my life, and that woman is you.”
She wanted to touch him, to take his hand and reassure him, but she did not dare. Instead, she straightened and moved away, putting a safe distance between them. If such a thing were possible. “You are not thinking clearly.”
He rose and followed her. “I have never been more clearheaded than I am at this moment.” Restless energy poured out of him. “I was thinking clearly when you took me into your body. When I put my tongue to the most intimate part of you. When I tasted you until I brought you off. I wasn’t confused when you sat on my lap and rode me like—”
She covered her ears. “Stop it!” she cried, turning away. “You must leave.”
“It’s too late for that. There’s nowhere for me to go.” He gripped her arm, turning her to him. “Don’t you see? All I want is to be by your side.”
His finge
rs felt like fire on her arm. “That’s just your nerves talking. It happens before one marries. I had the same nerves when I wed Douglas.”
“I don’t want to live without you,” he said hoarsely. “And I know you feel the same.”
“You are wrong.”
He released her arm. “What a liar you are. You are too afraid to live your life honestly.” Contempt saturated each word. “What happened to the fearless woman who doesn’t allow idle talk to keep her from traveling the world and doing as she pleases?”
“I haven’t a care about what people say about my adventures. The only person I have to please is myself.”
“And being with me would please you. Don’t bother to deny it, because I know it’s true. Are you not tired of playing the role of the self-sacrificing damsel? First, you sacrificed your needs to marry the man your father chose. And now you sacrifice your happiness for Victoria. When will you finally take what you want for yourself?”
“And what, exactly, do you think I want? Marriage to you?” She shook her head. “I want nothing more than to escape the ton’s judgmental gaze. I am tired of constantly being found lacking by a society that can never look past my foreign blood and merchant connections. I will never fit the ton’s expectations of what a duchess should be. Nor do I care to.”
“All that matters is that we be together. In whatever form that takes.”
“I could never do anything to steal Victoria’s happiness from her,” Leela said vehemently. “I hate myself whenever I think of what we did. We can never be together. You will never find a bride more decent, lovely and loyal than Victoria.”
His shoulders slumped. “This is really it then.”
“Yes.” Relief and despair mingled in the breath she released. “It is.”
“It never seemed completely real until today.” And then more quietly he added, “But if the only way you will stop hating yourself is for me to wed Victoria, then I will do as you ask. I would do anything for you.”
He stepped toward her but Leela backed away. She could not bear to have him too close without being able to touch him. “Go then. And promise me that you will never again speak to me of love. This is the last intimate conversation we shall ever have.”
