by Sabrina York
“Where are you going?”
“Surely you don’t expect me to work with you looking over my shoulder?”
She laughed at his pout.
And, in the end, she did. Work with him looking over her shoulder. And whispering naughty suggestions in her ear.
It wasn’t long before they were otherwise engaged altogether.
* * * * *
Her appointment with Lord Hedon was scheduled at the publisher’s office. The author valued his privacy, Edward explained, and would prefer not to meet at his home. Kaitlin tried very hard not to shake as the carriage rolled through the city. She clutched her sketches to her chest.
Oh, please, she thought, let him like them.
The amount of money she could make would pay off Callum’s debt to the McCloud and free her from fear. It would also keep her quite nicely, should the work continue. She could afford some rooms in a decent part of town, food and clothes. Everything she needed.
She would miss living with Violet, but she would marry some day and Kaitlin could hardly tag along. And, of course, she would miss Edward. But surely he would tire of her soon.
It was much better to be able to take care of herself. The prospect of making a living by the dint of her own hand, and doing something she enjoyed, was exciting.
Of course, as Lord Hedon’s illustrator, she would be completely ruined, but she could see advantages to that as well.
Oh please let him like them.
She wished Edward could have come with her, but he’d had another appointment. He’d kissed her and wished her luck and made her promise to tell him all about it that evening at dinner.
The coach rolled to a stop. Kaitlin nearly bounded out, but forced herself to wait for John Coachman to descend from the box, open the door, let down the steps and hand her out. She sucked in a breath, steadying her nerves, and tipped back her head, sailing into the Crescent Moon publishing offices as though she owned the place.
Sometimes it paid to be fearless.
Or pretend to be.
A short, squat man with enormous protruding eyes and a pair of spectacles perched on a bulbous nose leapt up as she entered. He scuttled sideways around the desk like a crab, lapping at his thick lips as though they tasted good. They shimmered with a glistening sheen.
What this he? Lord Hedon? He didn’t look so very lordly.
“Hullo,” she said. “I am Kaitlin MacAllister.”
“Mr. Dithers. William Dithers. Publisher.” His eyes flicked to her and away and then everywhere but at her.
Ah. Not Lord Hedon. She didn’t know why relief trickled through her.
“Hullo, Mr. Dithers. I have an appointment with—”
“Lord Hedon. You have an appointment with Lord Hedon.” His hands fluttered at his side as though they could not be kept still. “He’s waiting in my office. But—”
“But?”
He drew in a wheezing breath. “Please, miss. Before I take you in, I must prepare you.”
My. That was ominous.
“Prepare me?”
He smoothed his hair. Rubbed his chin. “Lord Hedon is somewhat…eccentric. Brilliant writer. Brilliant. Sells lots of books. Loads of them really. But very eccentric.”
Kaitlin did not care how peculiar Lord Hedon was. She wanted this job. “I understand.”
“He values his privacy above all else.”
She nodded. Edward had told her as much.
“He must guard his true identity.”
“Naturally.”
“When you meet with him, he will be wearing a disguise.” This last bit, he whispered in a lurid fashion. “I did mention he was eccentric?”
“You did.”
“I do not want you to be alarmed.”
“I appreciate that.”
“He can be…ominous.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Dithers glanced around the room, blinking several times in succession.
She cleared her throat. “May I see him now?”
“What? Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course. This way.”
He led her down a narrow hall flanked on both sides with bookcases stacked high with various tomes to a door marked Mr. William Dithers, Publisher. He opened it and ushered her in. “Lord Hedon,” he said, “Miss MacAllister.” And then he promptly shut her in.
With him.
Lord Hedon. The man whose creations had created a storm in her soul. Whose words had brought her to completion at her own hand time and time and time again.
She shivered.
The room was wreathed in shadows. A man—a tall, dark, looming man—in a cloak and half-mask stood by the windows. He turned as she entered. And though he was wearing the mean clothes of a pauper who would know no better, he bowed.
Heavens, he was handsome. She could tell, even with a good portion of his face obscured by the mask, his chin was that defined. And he was large, well-muscled and imposing.
Ominous, indeed.
He was also, quite obviously, Edward Wyeth, the Duke of Moncrieff.
Why he presumed a cloak and a scrap of silk would befuddle her senses was beyond her.
She stared at him in silence as her mind spun. Was he truly Lord Hedon? If he was, she should be surprised. But she wasn’t. Edward had a way about him, a charm, a facility with words, certainly a creative sexual side, that would put him at ease writing such books.
Or was he merely pretending to be the author of those books? Was all this some clever ploy to make her think she was earning the money she required? Or better yet, one of his games?
Either way, she didn’t care. This opportunity to make pots of money, as he had promised, this opportunity to pay off her brother’s debt and free her from McCloud’s shadow—and maybe even create a life for herself—was intriguing.
And, truth be told, he was a bit intriguing as well.
So she decided to let this travesty play out.
“Lord Hedon.” She dipped her head.
“Miss MacAllister.” He pitched his voice low, invested it with some indefinable accent.
She tried very hard not to smile.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“Thank you for coming. You have some sketches?”
“Yes.” She set her book on the desk and he sat, gesturing that she do the same. Then he flicked through the pages.
“These are quite nice,” he said as he came to the last sketch. “A touch naive, perhaps.”
She tried not to bristle. “Perhaps you can…instruct me.”
She fancied he flinched at her words. His features definitely tightened. Oh. This would be fun.
“Indeed. How long did they take you to do?”
“An afternoon.”
His brow rose. “Mabry took much longer.”
“Perhaps Mabry had other pursuits.”
“And you have no other…pursuits?”
Other than fucking a duke?
“My lord?”
“No husband?”
“No.”
“Children?”
“No.”
“Lovers?”
My, he was laying it on thick. She didn’t respond.
He surveyed her for a long moment. “This is rather scandalous work for an unmarried woman.”
She folded her hands in her lap. “I need the money.”
“Do you?” He knew she did.
“Do you like the sketches?”
“Very much. I am just trying to get a sense of whether or not we can work together.”
She glared at him. She didn’t mean to, but this was becoming annoying. “Are you really Lord Hedon?”
He blinked. “Of course I am.”
“You really wrote all those books?”
“Every word.” He paused. “Have you read them?”
“Every word.”
A smile curled his lips. “When can you start?”
A smile curled hers as well. “My lord, I already have.”
* * * * *
At his urgi
ng, she told Edward all about her interview with Lord Hedon that night at dinner, a private little tête-à-tête in his suite. Of course, she embellished.
“He was really quite mysterious,” she gushed. “Tall and dark. He wore a mask and a cloak.” She took a bit of syllabub and faked a shudder. “Quite something.”
“Was he?” For some reason he looked put out.
“Mmm. Very handsome.”
“I thought he was wearing a mask.”
“And tall.” She glanced at him. “Much taller than you.”
He frowned.
“And heavens. His accent.”
“He has an accent?”
“Very Continental. Quite exciting.”
He leaned forward, brows beetled. “You found his accent exciting?”
“Quite. I think I shall enjoy working with him. We are to work at his private club. He gave me the address.”
“Did he?”
If she didn’t know better, she would imagine he was jealous. One couldn’t be jealous of oneself, could one?
“Imagine…he wrote all of those books. All those stories came from his mind. What a brilliant man he must be.”
Edward shifted in his seat. Rearranged the napkin in his lap. Frowned.
“We begin working tomorrow. What kind of story do you suppose it will be? Pirates? Vikings? Slave traders in the Far East?”
“You have a salacious imagination.”
“His books are all very naughty. Impropriety was particularly wicked. Do you suppose he will have me draw pictures of spankings?”
He shifted again. “May we talk about something else?”
“Of course, Edward. What would you like to talk about?”
“I’d like to talk about you coming over here and sitting on my lap.”
“Really? I am far too excited for that. Tomorrow we begin on his new book.” She sighed and propped her chin in her hands. “What do you suppose it will be about?”
“A girl, no doubt.”
“He does write about girls.”
“A girl who does not obey.”
Oh my. She did like that look on his face. It was…intriguing. And ominous. She loved when he was ominous.
“A naughty girl.” She took another bite of syllabub. “So you do think there will be spankings?”
“Kaitlin.”
“Yes?” She blinked innocently.
“Come over here and sit on my lap.”
“I shouldn’t. I have to work tomorrow, Edward. I really should go to bed.”
“That was my plan.”
“Alone, silly. I must have my rest. Heaven only knows what he shall command of me.” She pretended to shudder again.
The look on his face was beyond price. A mix of fury and arousal and…confusion. “Kaitlin—”
“I have to go to his offices wearing a mask. How lurid is that?”
“He is probably just trying to protect your reputation.”
“What kind of club do you suppose it is?”
“Kaitlin!” He leaped to his feet.
She blinked. There was no need to bellow. “Yes, Edward?”
“Stop talking about Lord Hedon.”
“But you said you wanted to hear every detail.”
“You’ve gone over every detail.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Now come over here and sit on my lap.”
She tipped her head to the side, letting a wicked smile tease at her lips. “You’re no longer sitting.”
He sat. Patted his thigh. “Don’t make me punish you.”
This time, her shudder was real. Lust curled through her. He was so hard and strong and commanding. Perhaps she didn’t need very much sleep after all.
Chapter Eleven
Edward fumed as he waited for Kaitlin to arrive at his rooms at Madame Chantilly’s. Damn. Damn and blast. He’d never expected this. That she would meet Lord Hedon and become so enamored with him. How on earth was he going to keep up the charade? Pretending to be her employer, when all he really wanted to do was fuck her?
It would be hard enough remembering to keep up that ridiculous accent—the one she loved—much less keeping his hands off her.
And had he really arranged to meet with her here?
Madame Chantilly’s was the seat of all his decadence.
He and Mabry had spent countless hours posing the girls for one plate or another, discussing plot twists and devices. Hell, he’d spent countless hours here partaking in other activities as well.
That he was bringing Kaitlin here, with all the simmering lust this place engendered, made him slightly uneasy.
He’d thought to have Bess or Nellie pose as she sketched, increasing the play with each assignment. Initiating her slowly into the divine delights of dominant play. She surely had an affinity for it.
He, however, doubted he possessed the resolve. How long could he resist tossing her on the bed and planting himself in her quivering body?
Oh, he’d had her this morning. Made damn sure of it. But his cock was heavy and ready again. He couldn’t get enough of her.
A scratch at the door shattered his gloomy reverie. He stormed to the door and wrenched it open and—
It was her.
Kaitlin. In a long dark cloak and mask. Clutching a large sketchbook. Her hair, unrestrained, tumbled over her shoulders.
Damn. She wore her hair down for him?
Annoyance snarled in his gut.
“Come in,” he barked. When she complied, he slammed the door.
She spun around, her eyes wide. “My lord, am I too early?”
“What?”
“Am I disturbing you?”
“Not in the slightest.” She disturbed him a great deal, just not the way she meant.
“I… Well, fine.” She set her book on the table and took off her mask, glancing around the opulent chamber, taking in the desk against the wall, the wardrobe by its side and the two comfortable chairs—one with arms, the other without. Her gaze stalled on the bed. “You have a bed in your offices?”
“These are also my quarters.”
“Are they?” Her lips quirked. She busied herself taking out her charcoals. “Shall we begin?”
“Certainly.”
“I thought perhaps you could tell me a bit about the story as I sketch.”
“Fine.”
She took a seat—in the chair with the arms. His fingers curled. Why was it little lambs always chose the chair with the arms? Didn’t they know how tempting that was? Why, in a trice, he could have her trussed up and helpless. Squirming.
How much would she adore Lord Hedon then?
She laid out a fresh sheet, smoothed it flat. “Will you always work with your mask on?”
He started. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, I don’t mind in the slightest, though I imagine it’s uncomfortable for you.” She shot him a look. A naive, trusting, innocent look. It only tormented him more.
Images, memories, visions of trysts past crowded in. Every single one of them involved a woman tied to the bed, bound to the chair, splayed over the table. In most, their arses glowed red. In every one, they came.
She quirked a brow. “Aren’t you going to sit?”
God, he’d better. His cock could knock over the table if he turned too quickly. “Fine.”
“All right then.” She picked up a piece of charcoal. “Why don’t we begin? What is this story about?”
He put his teeth together. “A girl.” Probably no need to snarl.
She nodded. “Yes. Yes. A girl who refuses to obey. How…original.” He frowned at her. She ignored him. “I was talking about the plot. What is the story about?”
“A highwayman.”
“Really, Lord Hedon. You are going to have to be much more forthcoming if I am to do my work.”
The prim look on her face lit some kind of nasty fuse within him. It horrified him that she was intrigued by Lord Hedon—who wrote truly salacious novels. That she had willingly come to his rooms, in a whoreho
use, for Christ’s sake, and was now needling him to tell her the plot of his latest iniquity…well, it was far too much for a man to take.
He really needed to teach her a lesson.
“All right. The name of the book is Brigand.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Really?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
She shrugged. “It’s all right, I suppose. But not very gripping.”
“It is so.”
“Really, it’s not.”
He banged a fist on the table. “It is plenty gripping.” He’d agonized over it for hours.
Oh, she really needed a lesson.
“Fine,” she huffed and began sketching a highwayman. As she worked, he thought he heard her mumble, under her breath, “But it’s really not very gripping.”
Her sketch was, though. And while it took her moments, mere lines here and there, she captured the scene he’d had in his mind for the opening of the book—and she hadn’t even read it.
“How’s that?” She held it up.
He nodded. “Perfect.” It was. “On to the next.” At this rate, they would be done before lunch. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
“So—we have our highwayman.”
“Yes. The caption for that one is…” He nibbled his cheek.
“Yes?”
“The caption for that one is Brigand.” This he said in a small voice. Because he knew what was coming. And yes, she rolled her eyes.
“Next?”
“Our heroine. In a coach. On the road. At night. Alone.”
“Not very wise.”
“Don’t interrupt.”
She chewed on her lip as she sketched. He yearned to do the same. They were lovely lips.
“He comes upon her. Halts the coach—”
“I gathered as much.”
“Please don’t interru—”
She held up the page. God. Yes. That was it exactly. Only… “Can’t you make her expression more…dewy?”
“She’s being robbed. On the road. In the middle of the night. She will hardly be dewy.”
“Fine.” He crossed his arms over his chest. He’d never suspected she would be so difficult. Mabry had never disagreed with him. Not once.
“And the caption?”
“Robbed!”
She rolled her eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing. Please continue.”
“Once he sees her he knows at once, he must have her. So he knocks out her coachman—”
