“Really? I can’t imagine why.”¥
She made a face at him. “Mock me if you like, but I don’t care. I choose to think writing is fun. You don’t, and that’s why you find it so hard.”
She had such a simplistic view. “Writing isn’t fun. It’s an obsession. It’s an addiction. It can be rewarding, I suppose, perhaps even cathartic. I know I’ve always felt an overwhelming sense of relief whenever I’ve finished a book, but only because the obsession that enslaves me has passed. Writing is many things, but it is not fun. How you can think it is baffles me.”
“I use my imagination to make it so. Every time I sit down to work, I imagine I’m embarking on a wondrous journey, and my story is a place filled with fascinating people, mysterious alleyways, and hidden treasures.”
It took everything he had, but Sebastian managed not to roll his eyes.
“And I try not to disparage my first attempts,” she went on. “That’s why I write a first draft as quickly as I can. It’s hard, but I try to save critical analysis for later, when I can be more objective.”
A sensible idea, he supposed. And one he’d never been able to master. But then, he didn’t write multiple drafts. He wrote one draft, and only one. He always had. “But what if the pages you’ve dashed off with such speed are drivel? You’ve wasted your time.”
“Better to waste time writing something,” she shot back in exasperation, “than to waste time writing nothing!”
The impact of those words was like a physical blow. He turned his head, looking out the window. “True enough,” he murmured and rested his forehead against the glass. “True enough.”
Silence fell between them. They both returned to their desks, where she resumed writing, and he once again picked up his manuscript. But her words continued to echo through his mind, and he found it impossible to resume reading.
Writing fun? He felt an odd glimmer of emotion. It was an old, old feeling, faint and musty and wholly unexpected.
Longing.
He tried to shove it away, scoffing at her absurd notions. Telling oneself something over and over did not make it true. And he didn’t want it to be true. Yet, the results she achieved spoke for themselves. Or did they?
With that question, he realized he knew nothing of her writing, and he felt a sudden, overwhelming curiosity to read what she’d been scribbling with such rapidity and ease, see for himself if such work was any good, if she had any real talent. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have the right to read her work. He was expected to do so. The situation Marlowe had arranged worked both ways.
It occurred to him that mentoring her could help his cause. He’d read her work, flatter her, reassure her that she was doing splendidly on her own and she didn’t need any help from a has-been like him.
He glanced up to find her once again bent over her desk, scribbling away. Her writing had to be god-awful, he thought. No one could compose decent prose at that pace. He grimaced. There was no activity more painful than reading bad prose, but if it succeeded in getting him out of this mess without having to write anything, it would be worth every dreadful word.
Chapter 11
The trade of authorship is a violent and indestructible obsession.
George Sand
He hated to write. Daisy found that difficult to comprehend. The moments she spent inventing stories were some of the happiest moments of her day. And he was Sebastian Grant, the most prolific and acclaimed writer of their generation. How could he be so accomplished at something he hated?
That afternoon, she sat at her desk, pretending to read over her last few chapters, as she studied him covertly and tried to understand. The hostility in his voice when he’d talked about writing was undeniable, and it explained why he hadn’t supplied Marlowe Publishing with a manuscript for three years, and why he was fighting her tooth and nail, but how could she help him overcome his animosity? If he hated his work, if he didn’t want to do it anymore, what could she say or do to change that? The little suggestions she’d provided earlier seemed woefully inadequate. What more could she do?
Probably nothing, she acknowledged with uncharacteristic pessimism. After all, one person couldn’t force another to like something.
But what had caused this aversion to his work? And how could it be overcome?
She took another peek at him, watching him read his manuscript. As he scribbled something along the side of one sheet, a lock of his black hair fell over his forehead. He brushed it back in an absent-minded gesture, then reached for her letter. His finger moved down the page as if he were searching for something, and when he stopped at a particular paragraph, she saw a frown knit his dark brows. He tapped it with his fingertip, his frown deepening.
Was he displeased by something she’d said? Angry? Perplexed?
Before she could decide, he set down the letter, inked his quill, and scribbled another note in the margin. “Turnabout is fair play, I assume?” he asked without looking up.
Daisy blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You chided me for staring at you,” he said, his gaze still focused on the pages spread out before him. “Yet you’ve been watching me all afternoon.”
“Nonsense.” She lowered her gaze. “You aren’t that fascinating.”
He chuckled. “Then to deserve such intense observation, I must have a spot of blackberry sauce from lunch on my chin and you are secretly laughing at me.”
She sighed, wishing she were a more accomplished liar. Setting down her quill, she plunked her elbows on the desk, then entwined her fingers and rested her chin on them. “All right, then,” she said as she watched him scribble another note in the margin of his manuscript, “Why do you hate writing?”
He did not pause. “If that question is what’s had you watching me all afternoon instead of working, why didn’t you just ask me?”
And she thought he’d been too absorbed in his own work to notice her observations. “Because it would be pointless. You’d just say it’s none of my business, and tell me to keep my impertinent questions to myself.”
“I might,” he acknowledged, “but I wouldn’t have thought you’d be daunted by that.” He looked up, giving her a wry glance. “Not much seems to daunt you, Miss Merrick. Even writing doesn’t appear to hold any fears for you.”
“Why should it? What is there to be afraid of?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” he countered lightly. “There are so many bogeymen under that particular bed, how does one begin to list them all?”
“What do you mean?” She stared at him as realization dawned. “That’s the reason you don’t write anymore,” she murmured. “You hate it because you’re afraid.”
His lips tightened and he didn’t confirm her supposition, but he didn’t have to. The truth was in his face.
“But why?” she cried. “There’s nothing for you to fear. You’re a brilliant writer.”
He smiled a little. “When I’m not being a second-rate Oscar Wilde, you mean?”
“Oh, how I wish you wouldn’t bring up that review! If I had known—”
She stopped, but it was too late. His smile vanished and an implacable hardness came into his expression. Yet when he spoke, his voice was soft. “If you’d known, then what, petal?” he asked and set down his quill. “If you’d known that the sight of a blank sheet of paper fills me with panic, you wouldn’t have told the truth about my play?”
“I’m sorry.” Daisy stared at him, feeling awful. “But surely, criticism, even if it’s unfavorable, doesn’t make one afraid?”
“No. It’s much more complicated than that.”
“And criticism can be an elucidating thing. It can,” she added, insisting upon it even though she was less sure of that notion than she had been. “You don’t believe that, I know.”
“But you do. Because of that…” His voice trailed off, and he stood up. “I think it’s time this situation became more equitable.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Daisy felt a sudden pang of misgiving. “I don’t think that’s really necessary right now,” she heard herself saying. “You shouldn’t be worrying about me. Your attention should be on your novel. You only have one hundred twelve days.”
He waved aside that obligation with a shrug of his wide shoulders. “I doubt a few hours spent reading your work would have an impact on my deadline.”
Daisy stared at him with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, a feeling she didn’t understand at all. She had agreed to this plan with enthusiasm, thinking herself eager to hear the opinions of her fellow writer. Yet, now that she was expected to hand her work over to him, she felt a strange, inexplicable reluctance.
“It’s hardly worth your time,” she said, gathering the pages of her partial manuscript into a tidy stack. “I only have two hundred pages completed. I’m less than halfway.”
“An excellent start,” he said with affable approval. “I can give you my opinions before you’ve gone too far. Much easier to make changes if you haven’t yet reached the halfway mark. Trust me on that. I’ve written myself into enough corners to know.”
It suddenly seemed imperative to procrastinate. “It might perhaps be better to wait.”
He made a sound of amusement. “Wait for what? Hell to freeze over?”
Waiting that long seemed quite reasonable at the moment, but she refrained from saying so.
“Are those the pages?” he asked, gesturing to the pile in front of her. He stood up, and came around his desk as if to take them, and Daisy felt a wave of pure panic.
She moved as well, grabbing the pages before he could. “But it’s a draft. I haven’t revised it.”
“But that’s perfect, then. You’ll be able to do your revisions later with my opinions in mind.”
Very sound logic, but Daisy still couldn’t quite bear to give in. “I think I should polish it a bit first.”
“I don’t think so.” He circled her desk to stand beside her. He started to take the pages from her, but she turned away, hugging the pages of her precious manuscript to her chest.
He put his hands on her shoulders. “What’s wrong, Daisy?” he asked softly, close to her ear.
She stiffened, sensing she’d just been trapped. “You’ve made your point,” she said with chagrin and turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. “It’s much easier to criticize than to be criticized. Tomorrow, no doubt, you’ll tear me to bits in the name of literary criticism and tell me I must take it in the proper spirit.”
He didn’t deny it. His hands tightened on her shoulders and he turned her around. She forced herself to look up at him, but to her surprise, there was no glimmer of satisfaction in his expression. Nor did he seem inclined to mock her or laugh at her. His expression was grave, with a hint of understanding, and something else, something she couldn’t quite define. “There’s no need for you to be afraid,” he said, and began pulling the pages from her grasp.
With reluctance, Daisy capitulated and let him have the manuscript. “Just don’t expect too much,” she said in an agonized whisper. “It’s rubbish, really.”
He chuckled as he walked away with her precious pages. “All writers say that.”
The clock was striking midnight and everyone else had gone to bed by the time Sebastian finished reading Daisy’s partially completed draft. He set aside the last page, and leaned back in his chair, staring at the stack of handwritten sheets with chagrin. This wasn’t going to be easy at all.
In wresting these pages from her, he’d thought to use them as a tool to soften her up and extricate him from this business. But after reading her work, he realized his plan had a fatal flaw: his conscience. He couldn’t utter flattering lies about someone else’s writing. It violated his sense of ethics, a sense he hadn’t really known he still possessed until now.
It wasn’t that she was talentless. Quite the contrary. The envious side of his nature had rather hoped her writing methods resulted in horrible prose, but that petty hope had been set aside by the time he’d read the third page. She had the ability to tell a story, and her style had charm and a certain measure of wit. On the other hand, Sebastian understood why Harry had rejected her work. Her prose was raw, painfully so. It was also fraught with melodrama, and her most important characters were often too selfless and heroic to seem real. Still, despite all that, he’d read two hundred pages without being bored. That said a great deal about her ability. All she needed was practice. And perhaps a bit of guidance.
He picked up a quill, reached for a fresh sheet of notepaper, and started making a list of points she needed to consider regarding her story. That romantic scene in chapter seven between Ingrid and Dalton, for instance, was too treacly for words. It was clear Miss Merrick had little experience with love affairs, for no man with a beautiful woman in his arms would ever think in such self-sacrificing terms. The scene would have to be redone without all the high-blown sentiment. And saving the dog in chapter twelve was out of the question…
He scribbled until he reached the bottom of the page, but when he started to continue on a second sheet of notepaper, he suddenly realized what he was doing. He stopped and tossed down the quill with an oath, appreciating for the first time why Harry had put Daisy Merrick in his path and devised this little scheme. Harry had been able to see what he had not—that he and the girl had something in common. They each possessed an artist’s conscience, the sort of conscience that demanded the truth about their work. Harry hoped, of course, that this common ground would have the happy result of two talented authors producing novels for Marlowe Publishing. Sebastian leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He wished it could be that simple.
Staring at his notes, he knew he should just send her back to Harry right now. Giving her a true and thoughtful critique would only encourage her, make her determined to reciprocate by helping him. It would drag the whole business out that much longer. And yet, he couldn’t tell her pretty lies either. He might be a tortured writer with no qualms about using a bit of seduction or playing on her sympathy, but he couldn’t butter her up with undeserved praise about her work. The worst part was that he found himself wanting to help her. An irony, that—since he had never believed anyone else’s opinion could help a writer improve. Still, he reflected, staring at the notes he’d written, it didn’t hurt to tell her what he thought. Hell, perhaps he would find solace in mentoring her, since he could do nothing for himself. And if Harry published her book as a result, that might be some consolation to her for being unable to help him.
Sebastian picked up his quill to finish summarizing his comments. As he dipped the quill in the inkwell, he glanced through the library doorway to the drawing room and saw her. She was seated beside Auntie, her back to him, reading.
He smiled to himself. He liked the notion of playing mentor to a pretty protégé. It was a cliché, and he usually deplored clichés, but in this case, he didn’t mind. Mentoring Daisy gave him plenty of opportunities to employ a bit of seduction, and as far as Sebastian was concerned, there was nothing wrong with that.
Daisy didn’t sleep well. Throughout the night, she stared at the ceiling, thinking of all the flaws in her story, all the things with which Sebastian was sure to thrash her. She went down to breakfast the following morning filled with apprehension, convinced that he was going to be as merciless with her as she had been with him.
Though prepared for the worst, she couldn’t completely dispel her innate optimism. He could take this opportunity for revenge, but despite his resentment for this entire venture, he didn’t seem a spiteful sort of man. And it was possible—unlikely, but possible—that he’d like the manuscript. In the past, she’d often read her work to the ladies of Little Russell Street, and they had always seemed to enjoy it.
Sebastian Grant, however, was a far different prop
osition from the girl-bachelors of Little Russell Street. Most of the time, he was impatient, cynical, and terribly pessimistic. And if he didn’t like her writing, he’d have no compunction about saying so, for he wasn’t any more tactful that she was, and he had far less consideration for the feelings of others. Yet, last night, she’d caught a glimpse beneath his blunt, irascible exterior.
Daisy’s hands paused in the act of spreading jam on her toast as she recalled how he’d looked when he’d taken her manuscript out of her hands. There had been a hint of understanding in his expression, along with something else, something she couldn’t quite define.
He didn’t come down to breakfast, which only added to her suspense. She went into the library and tried to work, but it was a futile effort. She couldn’t seem to concentrate.
It was half past eleven before he finally came in with her manuscript in his hand, but she could read no indications of his opinion of it in his expression. As he crossed the library, she felt impelled to pretend she was hard at work. She inked her quill and wrote several nonsensical notes in the margin of her draft, hoping she seemed wholly unconcerned by what he might have to say. Nonetheless, when he paused before her desk, she couldn’t keep up the act. She froze, her fingers clenching tight around her quill, and raised her gaze a notch. From this vantage point, all she could see were his strong fingers curled around the pages into which she’d poured her hopes and dreams. Would he condemn it, she wondered, or praise it?
In the end, he did neither. What he did say was the last thing in the world she would have expected.
“You have to kill the dog.”
Daisy looked up, astonished. “I beg your pardon?”
“The dog, the one that belongs to little Gemma.” He made a gesture of impatience with his free hand as she continued to stare at him. “The one that goes missing in chapter twelve. Dalton goes looking for it, saves its life. Remember?”
With Seduction in Mind Page 14
