“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 whorehouse, 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—”
“Poor coachman.”
He glared at her.
She ignored him.
“He knocks out her coachman and takes her prisoner. She struggles.”
But she was already drawing that. The lovely armful of woman caught in the clutches of a dark demon bandit. She captured the struggle wonderfully. The image made him restless.