“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 urging, 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?