“Really? Why was it rejected, do you suppose?”
“Who can say?” He closed the book and turned to put it in its proper place on the shelf. “There’s no point in speculating why one is rejected. It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter?” Daisy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “As an author, how can you say that? When you have been rejected, haven’t you wanted to know why?”
“Not particularly.”
“But wouldn’t knowing the reason for the rejection be beneficial?”
He turned toward her. “In what respect?”
“So that one could do better the next time, of course. So that one could improve.”
“Ah, we’re back to that again.”
His voice, indulgent and a bit amused, frustrated her. “I like to believe we are all capable of improvement,” she said with a pointed glance at him.
“What if one doesn’t want to improve? What if one is quite contented with oneself as one is?”
She sniffed, unimpressed. “A person should never be content. One should always strive to be better.”
His gaze roamed over her face with an openness she found unnerving. “God,” he murmured, smiling a little, “how young you are.”
“Young? I’m twenty-eight!”
“Oh, well, in that case, you’re only a decade or so behind me. Clearly in your dotage. My mistake.” His smile widened, marking laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. “It was those freckles of yours which led me astray.”
She gave an aggravated sigh. “Don’t tease me about my freckles! I hate them. I wish there was some sort of cosmetic that would make them disappear. Or at least hide them.”
“What?” He stared at her as if appalled. “Why, in heaven’s name would you want to hide them? That’s like wanting to hide an adorable nose or pretty feet!”
She frowned, bewildered, for he was looking at her as if she’d lost her mind, when it was obvious he was the crazy one. “But no one likes freckles. They aren’t pretty.”
“Nonsense. It’s clear you haven’t a clue about feminine beauty. I suppose you wish you had baby-blue eyes, too,” he added with a sound of derision, “and golden hair, and a mouth like a rosebud.”
She thought wistfully of her sister. “Yes,” she admitted. “I do, rather.”
“Then you don’t know what you’re saying. Which doesn’t surprise me,” he added, returning his attention to the books. “You usually don’t. One day, you’ll talk sense about something, and I shall keel over from the shock.”
Daisy studied his profile, uncertain whether she should be flattered or insulted. “You really are the most exasperating person!” she cried. “One minute you compliment me, and the next, you insult me.”
“Women hiding their freckles.” He shook his head, still staring at the bookshelf before them. “Lord deliver us. What’s next? Marxist government?”
“Goodness, Sebastian,” said a voice from the doorway. “Discussing Marxism? You know one never talks politics before dinner.”
They both turned as Lady Mathilda came bustling into the library, her black silk taffeta rustling. She stopped halfway into the room, eying her nephew in dismay. “And haven’t you poured Miss Merrick a sherry yet? Really, where are your manners?”
She turned to Daisy as Avermore bowed and started back to the drawing room in search of sherry. “My nephew isn’t usually so uncivil, my dear. You must forgive him.”
Daisy touched her fingertips to her cheek, still a bit stunned by the idea that he thought her freckles were pretty. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she murmured. “Nothing at all.”
Chapter 9
If one cannot confound one’s critics, one must seduce them.
Sebastian Grant
Sebastian had never been a man who believed all that nonsense about women being less intelligent than men. However, there were times when the fair sex seemed to defy all sense of logic.
Why would any woman wish to hide one of her most charming assets? He pondered that question over dinner, studying Miss Merrick’s face covertly from his place at the head of the table, but by the time they had adjourned to the drawing room afterward to read, he was forced to confess himself baffled. Why, when a woman was lovely in her own unique way, would she prefer to look like one of the wax-faced dolls that lined the shelves of Harrod’s toy department?
Of course, women often did sacrifice their most appealing features for the sake of fashion. They distorted their luscious bodies with hopelessly uncomfortable corsets and shadowed their faces with enormous hats, so Miss Merrick’s wish to hide her unfashionable freckles wasn’t out of the common way, he supposed. But as a man, he found it incomprehensible. Contrary to what she believed, the freckles across her nose and cheeks were not unattractive. Quite the opposite, in fact, for they gave her face a touch of whimsical magic, as if some pixy had taken a fancy to her and blessed her with a sprinkling of gold dust.
Sebastian reached for the glass of cognac at his elbow, giving her another covert glance over the top of his book. Seated beside his aunt on the settee opposite him, her head was bent over her own book, and the soft lamplight shone on her hair, making it seem like burnished fire. As he had the first time he’d ever seen her, he pictured all that hair tumbled down around her, only this time, he pictured it in candlelight, and as he did, arousal began spreading through his body. He imagined standing behind her, pulling her hair back so that he could kiss all the freckles on her bare shoulders.
This wasn’t the first time he’d thought of kissing her. He’d almost done it that afternoon at his flat in London, but then she’d started talking about critiquing his work, or being his assistant, or some other bit of nonsense, and ruined what to Sebastian’s mind could have been a most delightful afternoon.
He took another sip of cognac, still watching her as he thought about that afternoon in London. He’d commented, most inappropriately, on the luscious shape of her bum. She should have slapped his face for that, but she hadn’t. She’d looked shocked, of course, but also disbelieving—a similar expression to the one on her face earlier this evening when he’d assured her that freckles were pretty. She’d pursed her lips, staring at him with a puzzled little crinkle between her brows, as if his sanity was in question.
It was clear Daisy Merrick had a modest and wholly inaccurate opinion of her own attractiveness. There were many ways he could show her he had a different opinion on the matter, and as he imagined some of them, the desire within him deepened and spread.
He tried to suppress it, and with an effort, he returned his gaze to his book. As pleasurable as these erotic fantasies were, they were not helping him achieve his objective, unless he intended to seduce her to get his way.
That, now, was an idea worth considering. Sebastian’s hand tightened around his glass as he contemplated seduction as a way out of this mess. Not only was it a delicious notion, it might actually work.
There were drawbacks, of course. Daisy Merrick was a desirable woman, true, but she was also respectable, and probably innocent as well. He was a gentleman, and taking her innocence would be a most dishonorable thing to do. He’d lived a wild life and the reputation he’d acquired in Italy was well earned, but even he had never seduced a virgin.
On the other hand, he was desperate, and her intractability was leaving him with few options.
Sebastian stared down at the lines of Housman’s poetry with unseeing eyes as his mind struggled for an honorable solution, but there was none. This would all be so simple, he thought with a hint of cynicism, if they were lovers. A woman could always be counted upon to justify a man’s weaknesses if he was her lover.
On the other hand, was it necessary to take things that far? If he jollied her along for a bit, pretended to cooperate with the plan she and Harry had cooked up, she’d soon see for herself what writing was like for him. If he threw in a bit of seduction, stole a kiss or two, she’d start to soften, begin to see his side. From there, it should be easy to c
onvince her to publish his manuscript as it was and pay him.
Sebastian lifted his gaze from his book to glance at her, and once again an image of her with her hair loose around her bare shoulders came into his mind. Seducing her without actually bedding her might be the only option he had, but he had the uneasy feeling it was also going to be agony.
He was staring at her again. Daisy looked up from her book as she turned a page to find him watching her across the small gilt table that separated them. He was lounging back on the crimson velvet sofa opposite, his head tilted to one side, that half smile curving one corner of his mouth, a glass of cognac in his hand. Open in his other hand was a book, the same book of poetry he’d been perusing earlier, but he didn’t seem at all interested in reading it, for it seemed as if every time she looked up, she found him watching her. She found it quite unnerving. This thoughtful, assessing study was strangely intimate, almost like a touch.
With that thought, Daisy felt her face coloring up, and she hastily lowered her gaze, but she was too flustered to give the book on her lap her full attention. She could still feel Avermore’s gaze on her, and she found her eyes skimming the same sentences over and over without reading them.
The house was quiet, for the servants had gone to bed, and the only sound was the pendulum of the clock, ticking as it swung back and forth, counting off the seconds. A soft thud had Daisy glancing sideways, and she observed that Lady Mathilda’s book had slid off her lap and her head had lolled sideways, indicating she had fallen asleep.
Daisy returned her attention to her own book. Realizing she had already read this page, she turned to the next, but as she did so, she again caught Avermore watching her, and she couldn’t stand it anymore. He was up to something, and she wanted to know what. When Mathilda began to snore softly beside her, she closed her book and stood up.
Avermore followed suit at once, also rising to his feet. “Miss Merrick? You’re not depriving us of your company yet this evening, I hope?”
“Oh, no,” she answered, “It’s just that…” She paused, searching for an excuse that would enable her to speak with him alone. “I’m finding this book a bit dull, that’s all. I thought I would search your library for a more interesting one.” She glanced at the snoring Lady Mathilda, then returned her attention to Avermore. “Are there any books you could recommend, my lord?”
“Of course.” He set aside his book and walked with her into the library. “Several arrived from London in yesterday’s post, including some recent fictional works. Shall I show you?”
She allowed him to put his hand on her elbow and guide her toward one side of the room, where recessed bookshelves flanked the fireplace. He brought her to a halt on the left of the fireplace and began scanning the leather- and cloth-bound volumes directly in front of them. “This one, for instance,” he said as he pulled out a particular book.
She took it from him. “The Damnation of Theron Ware,” she read the title.
“It has some brilliant characters, including an especially fascinating one named Svengali. But if that’s not to your liking, there’s also this one.” He pulled out another volume and handed it to her as well. “The Heart of Princess Osra. It’s by the same fellow who wrote The Prisoner of Zenda. It’s set in Ruritania as well, but earlier. It’s a sort of prequel to Zenda.”
Another time, Daisy might have been interested, for The Prisoner of Zenda was among her favorite novels, but at this moment, she had other things on her mind. “Why do you keep staring at me?” she whispered.
He turned his head to look at her. “Was I staring?” he whispered back.
“Yes. I wish you’d stop. It isn’t polite.”
“Forgive me. But you have presented me with a puzzle, Miss Merrick, and I am attempting to resolve it.”
“What about me do you find puzzling?”
“I am trying to comprehend why a woman would think something as pretty as her freckles ought to be hidden.”
Daisy frowned, giving him a dubious look. “Do you feel all right this evening?”
“I’m perfectly well. Why do you ask?”
“You’re being nice.”
He chuckled. “You make it sound like an accusation. I can be nice on occasion, you know. I only regret that you have not seen that aspect of my character before now.”
Daisy made a sound of skepticism. His manner was not at all in keeping with what she’d come to expect from him, and she found all this amiability highly suspicious. “It isn’t a bit like you, especially in regard to me. The only explanation I can find is that you’re not feeling well.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “Or perhaps,” she added, “your consideration and your compliments have an ulterior motive?”
“Maybe I’m simply tired of fighting with you, and I’m attempting to call a truce.”
“Truce, my eye,” she muttered. “I think you’re being nice and giving me compliments because you don’t want to do those revisions, and you’re hoping to sweet talk your way out of it.”
“What a splendid idea.” He gave her a wide smile. “Is it working?”
Daisy caught her breath at the dazzling sight of his smile. She’d never seen him smile like that, and perhaps because it was so rare and unexpected, its impact was devastating. It softened the strong planes of his face and made him seem not only handsome, but also boyishly charming. More than ever, Daisy felt as if she were navigating uncharted waters. “All this flattery won’t change a thing. If you wish to be paid, you will still have to revise your manuscript.”
“Oh, very well,” he said with a sigh. “If you’re going to be stubborn about it, I suppose I’ve no choice. But I wasn’t lying.”
“Lying?”
“About the freckles.” Any trace of humor in his face vanished. His lashes lowered. “I meant every word.”
When he lifted his hand and cupped her cheek, Daisy suddenly couldn’t breathe. When he touched his thumb to her lips, her stomach quivered, and a wave of warmth came over her, spreading through her entire body. Oh heavens, she thought, I’m in the suds now.
She’d come to Devonshire prepared for him to be his usual irascible self. She’d expected him to fight her tooth and nail at every turn. She hadn’t expected him to be charming. Even more surprising to Daisy was the effect this change in his demeanor was having on her. The light caress of his thumb against her mouth seemed to be robbing her of the ability to think straight, her knees seemed strangely weak and wobbly, and her heart was racing.
What if he did kiss her? What would it be like to have his lips touch hers, to have him put his arms around her and press his body against her own? When he moved, bending his head as if to answer those questions, sliding his hand to the back of her neck and pressing his thumb beneath her chin to lift her face, the pleasurable warmth inside her grew to a burning anticipation that was unlike anything she’d ever felt before.
Lady Mathilda was in the very next room, Daisy reminded herself, struggling to come to her senses. The woman could awaken at any moment, and all she had to do was look over her shoulder to see them through the doorway. Daisy would not dream of disgracing herself by being caught in such a compromising situation. And she had an obligation to fulfill. She was here to assist Avermore with his work, and romantic attentions from him were the last thing she needed. She’d worked for wages long enough to see plenty of that sort of nonsense, and it never turned out well. Besides, she was no fool. She knew perfectly well why he was making advances, and she wasn’t going to let him.
When he bent his head closer, she flattened her palm against his chest. “That won’t work either.”
He straightened, looking at her with a schoolboy sort of innocence that didn’t deceive her for a moment. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course you don’t. Kissing me is just your way of calling a truce, I suppose?”
To her chagrin, he laughed. “It’s one way.”
The sound of his laughter had Daisy casting an uneasy glance to the open doorway, bu
t to her relief, Lady Mathilda was still fast asleep, her head tilted back as she snored at the ceiling. Daisy returned her attention to the man before her and realized he was still touching her. She lifted her hand from the hard wall of his chest, grasped his wrist, and shoved away his hand, but the moment she did so, she felt an immediate need to erect some sort of barrier between them. She lifted the books he’d given her, hugging them to her chest. “So, if this is your way of calling a truce, then you do intend to revise the manuscript?”
“Well, I don’t want to write an entirely new novel. That’s far too much work, and I’m terribly lazy. You’ve left me few options, you know.”
The ambiguity of that answer didn’t escape her, but he gave her no chance to clarify it.
“Since you’ve placed your writing things in here,” he said, glancing around, “I assume you’ve decided we shall work in this room?”
“We?” she echoed in surprise. “You intend to write here, too? But Lady Mathilda informed me you have a private study.”
“So I have, but I’m afraid that room won’t do.”
“Why not?”
He leaned closer to her in a confidential sort of way. “It’s beside my bedroom,” he explained, smiling as she colored up. “I never know when inspiration might strike, so I’ve always found it convenient to have where I write close to where I sleep.”
An image flashed through her mind of him awakening in the night, inspired by a sudden idea, and rising naked from his bed, the skin of his bare chest gleaming like marble in the moonlight.
Daisy drew a deep breath, trying to force aside these somewhat salacious contemplations. “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“We’re supposed to work together,” he reminded her. “Help each other. Remember?”
“Oh. Yes, quite.” Her words sounded strangled to her own ears, images of him without his clothes still in her mind. Desperate, she strove to regain her self-possession. “I don’t see why our situation requires us to work in the same room.”
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