 I confess that I am a slow writer. To speed things up, I decided
to write a story about writers. “Write what you know,” is pretty
common advice in the publishing world, and if there’s anything I
know a lot about, it’s writing, so I thought writing about writers
would be like rolling off a log. Boy, was I wrong.
Still, I persevered, and the result is With
Seduction In Mind,
the love story of Sebastian Grant, irascible, cynical has-been novelist,
and Daisy Merrick, fresh-faced wanna-be writer. Their love story
has plenty of conflict, lots of romance, and some serious seduction.
There’s also one big problem: Sebastian doesn’t believe in happy
endings, and Daisy won’t consider anything less. With
Seduction In Mind is what happens when two writers fall in love, and it’s not
your average love story. As for how it ends, well, you’ll just have
to read it and find out for yourself.
top
 
 “With
her trademark sense of humor, lively pace and smart, sassy characters,
Guhrke pens a sparkling battle of wills between a thoroughly modern
miss and cantankerous writer with a dark past. Readers will enjoy
their verbal sparring as much as their passion in the second of the
girl bachelor books.” Kathe
Robin, Romantic Times :: (posted
8.25.09)
top
Chapter Five
The road to ignorance is paved with good editors.
~ George Bernard Shaw
To say that Sebastian Grant looked displeased was something of an
understatement. As those steel gray eyes of his narrowed on her,
she could feel resentment emanating from him like a blazing bonfire.
Even the ever-optimistic Daisy began to lose hope for the mission
that had brought her here.
Since leaving Lord Marlowe’s office yesterday afternoon, she had
rehearsed this moment at least a dozen times. But the reality of
telling one of England’s greatest writers his publisher had sent
a novice to help him with his work was proving to be a far more daunting
prospect than it had been in her imagination. He looked ready to
slice her into pieces and feed her to a pack of hungry dogs.
She couldn’t blame him. He had every right to resent her. She’d
thrashed his play, and now, when he was in the midst of creative
difficulties, she was here to come to his aid. It had to be a galling
situation for him.
Still, she had accepted Lord Marlowe’s offer, and there was no going
back. Wishing she possessed even a fraction of her sister’s tact
and sang-froid, Daisy took a deep breath, gathered her nerve, and
attempted to explain what the viscount had in mind without offending
the man before her any further.
“Lord Avermore, I know this situation is a bit unusual—”
“You are to assist me with writing? You? The critic who loathes
my work?” He laughed, a harsh sound that made her wince. “This has
to be a joke. It’s too absurd to be anything else.”
“If it were a joke, Lord Marlowe would never choose me to implement
it,” she told him, trying to smile. “I’ve no talent for jokes. I
always make a terrible muddle of them.”
“Then it’s an insult. Who are you to think your opinion is worth
a damn? When you’ve two decades of writing behind you, and some published
works to your credit, I might set some store by your opinion. Until
then, you can go hang, and Marlowe with you.”
She pressed her lips together, eying him with a hint of compassion.
“I am sure it seems somewhat insulting to you,” she agreed. “But
the viscount is genuinely concerned about you. He believes I possess
a certain insight that might assist you in overcoming your creative
difficulties.”
Daisy watched him stiffen as she spoke those last two words, and
she feared that her carefully worded speech had been for naught.
Those broad shoulders of his squared, harkening back to her first
impression of him as an angry bull, and she spoke again before the
bull could charge. “Despite what you may think, I do not loathe your
work, my lord.”
“You gave a damned fine imitation of it a week ago.”
“I did not like your latest play, that is true, but—”
“Nor do you seem to have much fondness for any of my recent literary
efforts.”
She refused to allow this conversation to degenerate into a pointless
and petty argument over that review. “Nonetheless, I think you one
of the finest writers of English literature ever born, and I would
consider it an honor and a privilege to work with you. I’ve read
everything you’ve ever written, seen all your plays—”
“And just what,” he interrupted her again, seeming not at all flattered
by her attempted compliments, “creative difficulties did Harry tell
you I am having?”
She decided perhaps it was best to follow his lead and cut to the
heart of the matter. “Lord Marlowe said you are unable to write.”
“Marlowe is mistaken.”
Studying his hard countenance, and her hopes for success fell another
notch. How? she wondered for perhaps the twentieth time since yesterday,
how was a novice like her going to help a legendary writer like him
compose a book, especially when it was plain as day he didn’t want
any help? Surely, it was impossible.
The moment that conclusion crossed her mind, Daisy shoved it out
again. Marlow’s rejection had made it clear that being paid for her
own writing was a more distant hope that she had thought at first,
and he had offered her five hundred pounds to accomplish this one
task. But Daisy knew there was more at stake for her than money,
and that was the true reason she had agreed to take it on. This was
about pride and accomplishment, about self-reliance and self-respect,
and about learning to do something well.
She cleared her throat to break the silence that had fallen between
them. “If Marlowe is mistaken,” she said gently, “then why has it
been four years since you last published a book?”
Those gray eyes flashed like glittering steel. “Assuming for the
sake of argument that I am having trouble, what in Hades are you
supposed to do about it?”
“Lord Marlowe proposes that I become your writing partner.”
“I knew it!” He slammed one fist against his opposite palm. “Damn
that crazy editor of mine, and his hare-brained ideas. Interfering
jackanapes. No one writes my books for me. No one.” He paused, scowling
at her. “Especially not you, for God’s sake!”
In the face of such animosity, anyone might have forgiven her for
giving up the whole venture in despair at this point, but Daisy had
promised Marlowe that she would try her best, and she was by no means
ready to give up. “I am not here to write your book for you,” she
told him. “I am here to help you write it.”
He set his jaw and folded his arms across his wide chest. “And how
do you intend to do that, hmm?”
Daisy herself wasn’t quite sure yet, but she decided Marlowe’s explanation
to her when he’d hired her would be sufficient to answer that question
for now. “I am to be a—a sort of sounding board for you, perhaps
provoke thought and discussion that will lead you to ideas for a
story. And then—”
“Well, Harry got that right, at least,” he interrupted. “You provoke
me beyond belief, Miss Merrick. In fact, I have once or twice felt
the desire to wring your pretty neck.”
“And I sometimes want to slap your insufferable face,” she countered
at once. “If that would help you write the damned book, I’d do it,
too! Now, would you kindly stop interrupting me so that I might finish
answering your question?”
Arms still folded across his chest, he gave her a little bow. “My
apologies.” He made a rolling gesture with one hand, then rested
his elbow on his opposite arm, pressed his knuckle to his chin, and
looked at her expectantly. “Pray continue. I’m waiting on pins and
needles, I assure you.”
“As you write, I am to critique your work.”
“Oh, now that’s a joyful prospect.”
“I would have thought it would be.” She looked into his eyes, meeting
his mockery head on. “Since you are also to critique mine.”
“Indeed?” A flicker of interest came into his eyes, the only hopeful
sign she’d seen yet.
“Yes. You are to sharpen your knives on my work to your heart’s
content, and I—” She paused, forcing herself to smile. “I am to take
it in the proper spirit and learn from the experience.”
“Clever, petal,” he said in an appreciative voice. “Very clever.
You’ve thrown out some bait I’m actually tempted to take.”
“Lord Marlowe feels my writing would benefit from your opinions
and advice, enabling me to improve.”
“Ah.” He tapped his knuckle against his chin, and a knowing look
came into his eyes. “Rejected your book, did he?”
It galled her to admit the truth to this man, but she had no choice.
“Lord Marlowe said my writing shows great promise,” she informed
him with dignity.
“Great promise?” he echoed, sounding amused. “Isn’t that a bit like
the plain girl being told she has a pleasing personality?”
“Oh! You really are the most insufferable—” Daisy bit back the insults
she so badly wanted to fire off, reminding herself that tact was
her new watchword. Still, she knew she could not let such remarks
go unchallenged or this man would walk all over her. “Is that your
way of saying I am plain, my lord?” she demanded, deliberately misinterpreting
his words.
She watched him glance over her, the same assessing perusal that
had made her blush so unaccountably in Marlowe’s office. She felt
it happening again, and she cursed her fair complexion, but she refused
to look away. “Is that what you think?”
“What I think is that you’re a delicious little morsel with pretty
hair, a shapely bum, and a deuced supply of impudence.”
Daisy sucked in her breath, shocked by his most improper reference
to her backside, and it took her a moment to realize he had also
complimented her hair. The idea that he thought there was anything
pretty about her was surprising enough, but her hair? The
carrot-colored mop that had made her such a favorite target for teasing
in her childhood?
Daisy frowned. Maybe he was color-blind. Or maybe he was just crazy.
Before she could decide, he went on, “But I don’t know if you can
write worth a damn.”
She strove to recover her poise. “Lord Marlowe said I have natural
talent and original ideas.”
“That’s nice. So why did he reject your manuscript?”
“He also said I have a few things to learn before I am ready to
be published.”
“And I’m supposed to teach you, eh? Is that his idea?”
“Yes.”
He unfolded his arms and took a step toward her, closing the distance
between them. “There’s a great deal I could teach you, I think,”
he murmured, leaning close to her, so close she had to tilt her head
back to look at him. “But would you be a willing pupil?”
A tingle ran up her spine, an awareness—not of danger, but of something
else, something that made her flustered and nervous, but it wasn’t
fear. He’d asked her a question, but she couldn’t seem to remember
what it was. He was staring at her, his mouth curved in that slight,
one-sided smile. He thought her hair was pretty. She had a shapely
bum. She felt the color in her face deepening. She tried to speak.
“I…umm…I…” But her voice trailed off as his lashes lowered and he
fixed his gaze on her mouth.
He bent his head a fraction, and she realized wildly that he was
going to kiss her. Daisy’s heart gave a little lurch. Oh, heavens.
He was making advances upon her person. Reminding herself that she’d
lost her previous employment because of this sort of thing, Daisy
jerked back a step and tried to return to the matter at hand.
“The most important thing,” she said, her voice sounding strangled
to her own ears, “is that I am here to assist you with your writing.
And I hope that you can also help me. In addition, I can provide
you with clerical assistance. I am an excellent typist. I can act
as your secretary, your stenographer, whatever you want to call it.”
“I call it idiotic.”
Those words wiped out any tingly warmth she might have been feeling
a moment before. “I will do whatever I can,” she said through clenched
teeth, “to see that you provide Marlowe Publishing with a book.”
“And Marlowe is paying you for this pointless exercise?”
“Well, I’m certainly not doing it because of your charming demeanor
and pleasant temperament.”
He gave a shout of laughter. “By God, you’ve a fair amount of nerve,
I’ll give you that.”
“My primary task,” Daisy said doggedly, “is to see that you recover
from your creative drought and fulfill the terms of your contract.
For that, I shall be paid a fee of five hundred pounds. In addition,
it is my fervent wish that your influence and guidance will enable
me to become a more accomplished writer. If you are any good at teaching,”
she added, “Marlowe will publish not only your next book, but mine
as well.”
An odd expression crossed his face, an inexplicable hint of melancholy.
He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “I can’t teach you how
to be a writer, petal.”
“But you can teach me to improve, to be a better writer than I am
now. And perhaps, I can assist you to break free of this dry spell
you are in. That is Marlowe’s hope. And mine.” She paused, studying
him. “Yours, too, I think, deep down.”
With those words, any trace of softness in his expression vanished.
“There is nothing you can do to help me. And as for helping you,
it’s futile. As I said before, the only way one learns to write is
by writing. There’s nothing I can teach you. God knows,” he added,
sounding suddenly tired, “if I could teach anyone to write, I’d teach
myself.” He bent and picked up her dispatch case, then reached for
her hand and wrapped her fingers around the handle. “Good-day, Miss
Merrick.”
“My lord, I know this idea seems unorthodox, but it could benefit
us both.”
“I doubt it.” He let go of her hand, gripped her elbow and turned
her toward the door.
“Surely, it is worth the attempt,” Daisy argued, as he began ushering
her out of the drawing room. “And I truly would like to help you
if I could.”
He paused just beside the door. “Miss Merrick, there is one way
you can help me tremendously.”
“Oh?” Daisy’s spirits lifted a little. “How?”
“By leaving.” His grip on her elbow tightened, and before she knew
what was happening, he had propelled her out of the drawing room
and into the corridor.
Daisy dug in her heels at the top of the stairs and jerked her elbow
free of his grasp. “Lord Marlowe wants us to try to work together.”
“Quite a mad fellow, that Marlowe.” He wrapped an arm around her
waist and lifted her off the ground, ignoring her yelp of protest.
“They say insanity runs in his family,” he added, starting down the
stairs with her body pressed to his side and her feet dangling in
the air. “Personally, I think his lunacy stems from years of exposure
to writers. That would drive anyone mad.”
Daisy knew she couldn’t put up a struggle and risk tumbling them
both down the stairs. But once they had reached the bottom and he
set her on her feet, she dropped her dispatch case and made a grab
for the newel post. “But I need your help, too,” she said, wrapping
her arms around the carved teakwood pineapple finial and clinging
for dear life. “Don’t you want to help me?”
“No. I’m such a cad.” He began prying her loose from the newel post,
and though she struggled mightily, she was no match for his superior
strength. It was only a moment or two before he’d pried her away
from the newel post.
“Marlowe told me you want to begin a new novel,” she said, as he
once again lifted her off her feet, retrieved her dispatch case,
and started across the foyer toward the front door, marching her
past the dour-faced butler who stood by without raising an eyebrow.
“He told me your problem is that you can’t seem to get started.”
“No, the problem is that I don’t want to write at all. But even
if I did, it would have nothing whatsoever to do with you.” He plunked
her down beside the front door. “Please tell Marlowe I am touched
by his concern on my behalf,” he added as he opened the door, “but
I do not require a partner or an assistant.”
“I can type your manuscripts.”
“There is no manuscript, and if there were, I would type it myself,
thank you.”
She was unable to stop him from shoving her across the threshold,
but the moment she was on the front stoop, she turned around to face
him. “I can edit your pages—”
“I already have an editor, something Marlowe knows perfectly well,
since that editor is he. Good day, Miss Merrick.” He bowed and started
to shut the door.
“I could help you,” she said in desperation. “Really I could, if
you’d just—”
The door slammed in her face.
“Give me the chance,” she finished, but she was now talking to the
bright red panels of the closed door.
She’d bungled it. Daisy’s shoulders slumped in discouragement. It
was always like this, she thought dismally. Somehow, she always managed
to make a mess of these things. Lucy, no doubt, would have handled
the entire situation much better.
Thoughts of her sister caught her up sharp, and she put aside any
inclinations to feel sorry for herself.
This time, she vowed, was not going to make a mess of things. She
wanted the five hundred pounds Marlowe had offered her. It was more
than she could earn as a typist in half a dozen years, and surely
in that amount of time, her writing would improve enough to make
her worthy of publication. Besides, she didn’t want to go in search
of yet another post. Most important of all, she wanted to prove to
Lucy and to herself that she could succeed at something. The man
on the other side of this door was the key to accomplishing all of
those goals.
Somehow, she had to induce him to write his novel. There had to
be a way. Daisy looked through the window, and saw him still standing
in the foyer, watching her. Their gazes met, and Daisy pressed the
electric bell beside the door, but she was not surprised when he
folded his arms across his chest and remained right where he was.
Contrary, stubborn fool, she thought in irritation, but with that
thought came the memory of Marlowe’s words about Avermore.
It’s good for him to be knocked back on his heels once in awhile.
He’s too arrogant by half. The worst things anyone can do are pander
to him or pamper him.
Daisy considered that for a moment, and as she did, a plan began
to form in her mind. It was a bold plan, and it would take nerve
to pull it off, but as Avermore himself had pointed out, nerve was
something she had plenty of.
Daisy smiled sweetly at the man on the other side of the glass,
and she took great pleasure in watching his black brows draw together
in a suspicious frown. Still smiling, she waved at him, then turned
away and descended the front steps.
Sebastian Grant might not know it yet, but he was going to write
that book. She intended to leave him no other choice. Filled with
renewed determination, Daisy started down the sidewalk in search
of a telegraph office.
With Seduction
in Mind can
be ordered at the following sites.
» Amazon
» Barnes & Noble
» Borders
E-book editions of With Seduction
in Mind are available in the following formats:
» Adobe
eBook Reader from HarperCollins.com
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