Chapter Nine #2
The moment when she’d landed in his arms in the forbidden room.
How he’d unwrapped her from the dustcloth and it had become something else, something .
. . shivery and new. Was that what Lady Claridge was describing?
That breathless feeling of danger, like she was only two steps from the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean.
A drop in the pit of her stomach. A desire to touch his scars, feel the ridged skin beneath her fingers.
Every line a testimony of the battles he’d fought, the internal war that still raged within him.
That moment in his study when he’d stepped closer and she’d thought . . . she’d thought he might be about to kiss her. No, of course he hadn’t been, but her overactive imagination had painted it.
What would it be like to be kissed by Warburton?
It wouldn’t be like any kiss described in Lady Claridge’s books, she knew that instinctively. It wouldn’t be a chaste peck on the cheek, or a worshipful brush of his lips against hers. His kiss would overwhelm her, send her senses into an uproar, like storm waters breaking through a levee.
But what, exactly, would he do? While his lips were on hers, where would his hands be?
Inside her bodice. His large hands covering her breasts. The scandalous thought made her pulse race. She certainly couldn’t write that in the book. Mr. Norwood would never publish such lusty details.
She could imply certain things, though, and the reader would fill in the rest. She dipped her quill in ink. Warburton kissed the way he hunted—with precise aim and single-minded focus. Adora was his prey. Her lips his prize.
No, that was too dramatic. And . . . goodness! She’d written Warburton.
She was becoming confused. Both her hero and her villain kept transforming into an ill-tempered, forbidding man who lived his life as if constantly negotiating for territory on a battlefield.
She’d even written a scene where Fortescue, the supposed hero, glowered and frowned and said things like “I shall bundle you back up into that dustcloth and forcibly carry you out of here!”
No reader would cheer for such a domineering, unfeeling hero.
She crossed the lines out and began again.
The door to Miss Crewe’s room was cracked open and Dex could hear her pen scratching across the paper.
He knocked but there was no answer. He pushed the door wider.
She sat at her desk, afternoon sun gilding her skin and running riot in her curls.
She was luminous, all gold and copper, concentrating so fiercely on her work that she had no awareness of his presence at all.
Her quill sped across the paper. She paused, staring out the window, and then bent to her work again. She filled every inch of the room with bright, crackling energy, like a fire blazing away on a hearth, warming and illuminating everything around her.
He cleared his throat. She jumped, and turned, quill in the air. “Oh, Your Grace, I didn’t hear you enter the room.”
A fiery blush spread across her cheekbones. She hastily covered the page she’d been working on with another sheet of paper.
“I knocked but you didn’t hear. Intent on finishing your novel?”
She grimaced. “More like my novel is intent on finishing me.”
“It’s not going well?”
“The tale I wrote to entertain my father and escape finishing school seemed to pour from my pen with ease. This one moves like treacle. I don’t have any practical experience in the ways of society.”
“You didn’t have any practical experience of dragons or swordfights.”
“That was different. I imagined an entire world. It’s not as if anyone could judge it and say I got it wrong—it was my creation.
This book is much more difficult because I must do Lady Claridge justice.
I have an intimate knowledge of her novels and yet it doesn’t seem to help when I attempt to write my own words.
I keep rewriting the same scene over and over.
I must astonish Mr. Norwood with my elegant and erudite prose. In short, this book must be perfect.”
“You’re expecting rather a lot of yourself. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It only has to capture the tone and style of Lady Claridge. Then the editors at Norwood & Pennington will help develop and improve the manuscript.”
“No.” She shook her head stubbornly. “This first draft must be perfect. It’s my only chance.
I honestly thought it would be easy. After all, Lady Claridge dictated three whole novels to me.
I’m steeped in her prose.” She waved a sheaf of papers at him.
“But writing an entire novel, even with a detailed outline, is much more difficult than I’d anticipated. ”
“How difficult can it be to churn out a romantic tale?”
“One would think it would be simple, I know. I have the outline—simply flesh it out, throw some meat on its bones, and have done with it. But it’s so much more difficult than it looks.”
“When I read your letters to your father, I also read the chapters of the fantastical novel you were writing. Truth be told, they were captivating. I read eagerly and was disappointed when I never found out what happened to the princess and the dragon.”
She shot him a surprised glance, obviously struggling to absorb the compliment. “You enjoyed it? I-I wouldn’t have thought it to your taste. Mr. Norwood said The Dragon and the Blue Star would never appeal to the sensibilities of the modern reader.”
“He was wrong. My sensibilities were well engaged.”
“But it doesn’t matter if he’s wrong. He’s the publisher, and he won’t publish it.
A new Clovercote novel is the only one he will consider.
It’s been my long-cherished dream to become a published author.
I want to hold my book in my hands. Smell fresh ink on the page and know that my imagination might open a door for a reader to walk through.
I wouldn’t even care if the critics hated the novel if it found its way into the hearts and minds of readers.
I want all the joys and sorrows that come along with being an author, and that dream has only solidified since my father’s disappearance.
My father and Lady Claridge encouraged my dream, told me that I possessed creative talent, but now I’m not so sure. Perhaps it’s an impossible fantasy.”
He hated the dejected look on her face. She was usually so sunny and optimistic. “I’m certain your writing can’t be as bad as all that. Here, let me have a look.” He reached for the sheet she’d been working on.
“Not that one!” She placed her hand on the sheet, weighing it down on the desk.
“Why not?”
“The ink isn’t dry yet.”
“You’ll have to relinquish your writing to others’ eyes at some point.”
“Here, you can read this one.” She handed him a sheet, covering her face in her hands. “Don’t judge me too harshly.”
The duke read in silence, sitting in a chair near her desk, his face as impassive as ever. Only a slight quirk of his eyebrows betrayed any emotion. What did that quirking mean?
He finished and lowered the sheet.
“Well?”
“Ah . . .” His face contorted. “Ah, it’s . . .”
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Of course not. I rarely laugh.”
“That thing you’re doing with your lips. You’re manfully attempting not to laugh. Admit it!”
A strangled noise. More twitching of his jaw muscles.
“Well!” she cried, snatching the sheet from his hand and retreating to her desk. “At the very least, I’ve finally managed to elicit some mirth from you! That’s worth something. I told you it wasn’t any good. I truly don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
“It’s not you. You’re a good writer, there’s no doubt about that.”
“If it’s not me, then what is it?”
“It’s the subject matter. You’re approaching the kiss as if you’re describing tactical moves on a chessboard. I’d wager it’s your lack of life experience that’s impeding your progress. Lady Claridge was a woman of advanced years, a widow who traveled the globe.”
She bit her lip, taking in his analysis, weighing it with her head cocked to the side. “Meaning that I’ve never been kissed and therefore I have no business writing about such things? Was my kiss so unrealistic?”
“There were certain . . . logistical inconsistencies.”
“Well, I don’t know what happens during kissing. Whose hands go where, how the lips move—if they do move? Does the tongue move? Is the tongue involved at all?”
This last train of thought sent her into a slight panic. Had she spoken it aloud? To the duke? She must be suffering from writer’s strain. Lady Claridge had often spoken of the condition, which always occurred around the date when her novels were due to the publisher.
“Sometimes the tongue is, ah, involved, yes.” The duke cleared his throat. “And the hands go wherever they want, when the participants are amenable.”
“That tells me very little! But I can see that you’re trying to be helpful. You’re a man of few words, and not up to describing the art of kissing to me. Perhaps you could write a brief description in your terse, manly language and I could embellish it?”
Or . . . he could kiss her. That would solve the problem of her lack of experience in the area. His lips weren’t so very far away. His large hands rested on his knees. His thighs were spread, boots firmly planted on the floor. She could go to him, perch upon one of his knees . . .
She would never be so forward. And her stern, regimented guardian would never reciprocate even if she was mad enough to beg him to kiss her.
“I’ll introduce you to some ladies of my acquaintance.
Talking to them will be far more helpful than anything I might write.
In fact, that’s why I came to see you. My friend the Duchess of Osborne is hosting an art exhibition tomorrow evening.
Should you wish to attend, I’ll ask Aunt Glynis to accompany you there. ”
“An art exhibition? How exciting. I’d love to attend.” The next best thing to actual kissing would be asking for descriptions from ladies who had been kissed.
“It will be your first appearance in society, but you’ll be among my friends.”
“So you’ll be testing me.”
“Aunt Glynis will be observing whether or not you conduct yourself with appropriate propriety.”
“I was just now thinking that going to such a society event would afford me the opportunity to ask your lady friends to help me describe kissing. If I can’t describe a brief kiss, how am I to portray Adora’s scandalous adventures in the world of the ton?
She has a proposal from a duke, she turns down a viscount, she is nearly kidnapped, two gentlemen fight a duel over her, she drinks champagne, flirts outrageously.
She’s spirited into a dark garden by a handsome rake and then rescued .
. . unless . . .” Her mind careened down a new path.
“Unless I actually experience those things? Myself. Practical experience to enrich the written world.” She knit her brow delicately, then nodded, making the decision.
“Perhaps I do wish to attend the Season after all.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Now you don’t want me to attend the Season?”
“I don’t want you doing any of those things.”
“Which ones?”
“Any of them,” he thundered. “You are to attend balls and other events under Aunt Glynis’s watchful eye. That is all.”
She eyed him carefully, trying to assess just what it was that was rubbing him the wrong way.
Surely a man with his keen eye and obvious intellect couldn’t be na?ve about the tawdry adventures of the upper ton?
She may not have any intimate knowledge of the details, but even she knew the broad strokes.
“You’re the one who asked your aunt to prepare me for a debut in society. Aren’t scandal and intrigue key parts of any Season?”
“You may try a few sips of champagne. I may take you riding on Rotten Row but I will definitely handle the reins. Nobody will be permitted to fight a duel over you. And you certainly won’t be in need of rescue.”
“Won’t I?”
“Not while I’m in attendance.”
“Then I shall have to evade you.”
“Hah. You may try, but you will fail. There will be no scandal, no intrigue, and no kissing of rakes in moonlit gardens. Do I make myself quite clear?”
At that moment he was so very dragon-like that she almost believed smoke might rise from his nostrils and if he opened his mouth, she would see razor-sharp teeth waiting to make a meal of her.
Amsonia had willed herself not to tremble in the presence of the Dread Dragon, and Ana must do the same.
“It’s all very clear to me, Your Grace.” She raised her chin, meeting his gaze.
“You don’t want me to have any fun at all.
You will make balls as entertaining as sitting across from you listening to your deafening silence at the dinner table. ”
“I’m sorry that my presence is so distasteful to you.” He rose from his chair and gave her a perfunctory bow. “I’ll trouble you no longer.”
“Your Grace—” she started, meaning to apologize for offending him, but he was already gone.
The room seemed colder after his abrupt departure.
Their argument had made her blood pound and her heart speed.
What did he want from her? First he alluded so tantalizingly to logistical inconsistencies in her description of kissing, then he ordered her never to be kissed, and then he took umbrage at her very accurate description of the dinners they had shared.
And then there was the matter of how every time she was near him, she thought about what it would be like to kiss the man.
What was it about him that turned her thoughts so wanton?
He was distant and silent most of the time.
Yet he’d thought enough about her to invite her to attend the art exhibition.
She was looking forward to it. Perhaps she’d spent too long in the company of the Dread Duke of Warburton.
It was time to experience all that London society had to offer, and then write the most vivid, wildly romantic novel imaginable.
A novel that Mr. Norwood simply couldn’t refuse to publish.