Page 11 of A Baron's Scandalous Quill
“Oh.” She gasped, realizing that Baron Lancaster knew nothing of this. It was Mr. Fitzwilliam alone who had brought her here tonight for this conversation.
“You would, of course, be paid for your work,” Mr. Fitzwilliam added quickly. “You would be paid well.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled. The money could indeed be useful to her, but there was something else on her mind now. To be the writer who told the true story of a titled man and his father, a known deceiver and trickster, could afford her a fame in writing that she had only dreamed of.
Yet it was not the only thing to consider. She would be meeting Lord Lancaster on a regular basis to make such a piece. Her poor world of cheap printers and small houses in the back-to-back buildings of London would be colliding with his world of riches and finery.
What would he think of the woman he danced with then?
“I need to think about it,” she said in a rush, clutching the brooch on her gown and pulling it off as quickly as she could.
“Keep it,” Mr. Fitzwilliam urged. “Of course, you need to think about it. If you decide it is something you wish to do, then write to me at this address.” He handed her a small card. “I hope you will consider is seriously, Miss Thornton. I believe it is a venture that could help both you and my master.”
With these final words, he departed, bowing his head to her once last time. She held the brooch between her fingers, feeling the stones cold and harsh to the touch, as she sought out Lord Lancaster across the room. He was moving back to the dance floor but with Lady Heather this time, and now their dance felt like a distant memory, disappearing like smoke from a fire that had gone out.
***
Becca paced up and down her small room in the attic of her father’s house. There were so few chambers in the building that it was the only option for a room of her own. The floorboards creaked beneath her weight, and wary of waking him up, she sat down at the foot of her bed, staring through the dim light at nothing in particular, for her mind was such a whir.
Now clad in a nightgown with the fine gown she had worn that evening at the assembly tossed across the back of a chair nearby, she felt more herself again. She was no fine lady, no actress on a stage playing a part, but a writer used to the darkened corners of hidden rooms, where no one could see the true face behind what she wrote.
“I cannot do this. I cannot possibly do it,” she murmured aloud, somehow hoping that by speaking the words, she would convince herself all the more. It was a war of head and heart. Her good sense told her it was too dangerous, but her heart knew that there were good things that could come from it.
The possibility of writing for a titled man would indeed bring her writing attention that she could only have dreamed of.
Yet there was another argument her heart kept making, one that urged her heart to beat faster, her palms to grow clammy, and her mind to start cursing at herself.
I would be able to see Lord Lancaster again.
She huffed and stood, dropping the shawl she had wrapped around her shoulders to keep herself warm. She no longer felt cold, for a heat had begun at the thought of Lord Lancaster, and like a fire, it could not be easily quelled.
“I cannot do it,” she whispered once more, and turned to the small writing bureau in the corner of her room. The one candle she had lit to keep her company rested on the desk, the flame flickering a little as she moved toward it.
In a single drawer, stuffed full, were the most recent periodicals that held her writing. She took out the top paper and turned to her article, nestled deep within the pages near the back, hardly the title piece or the one that would draw the most attention.
It would be a way to become a new writer, to be more widely read.
She returned the paper, stuffing it into the drawer and slowly moving back to the bed, climbing under the covers.
“I know what I want to do,” she whispered aloud. It seemed her heart had made up her mind, even when her head argued against it. “I have to do it.” She flung herself back onto the bed and pulled the covers over her head.
Sleep came quickly, and in those dark depths, Becca’s mind wandered.
She was no longer alone in that chamber. There was another walking into the room. He didn’t light another candle but leaned against the doorframe for a second, just looking at her with thosedeep brown eyes. There was a little stubble across his chin where he hadn’t yet shaved himself for the day, and his curly hair lifted up on his forehead. Becca longed to reach out, to tangle her hands in that hair and pull him to her.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, he walked toward her. He bent down over the bed where she lay, tugging at the bedcovers in one swift movement. They fell off her onto the floor, yet she was not wearing much at all. Her night gown was gathered around her hips, revealing her legs, and the neckline was wide open, offering a glimpse of her breasts.
Becca knew what could happen between men and women. As a girl of the streets, she and Charlotte had grown up away from what the women who sold their bodies in Soho offered men at night, and sometimes early in the morning. Becca had once or twice imagined what it could be like to share herself with a man, but never had it felt this heated.
She reached up as he bent down toward her, his lips finding her own. The kiss was sudden and passionate, not a brief peck on the lips, but firm as he parted her lips. Her hands reached for his shoulders, pulling him down over the bed as he pulled at her skirt, tugging it higher and higher until it was gathered just under her bust, revealing her whole lower body to him.
She raised her knee on impulse, giving him access to her, then his hand found her. His fingers reached for her core and slipped inside of her, finding that pleasure point which made her lips part from his and a gasp escape her lips.
“Oh!” Becca woke up, sitting up in the bed suddenly. She looked around at the doorway, but there was no figure there, no tall man walking toward her, ready to explore her body in the dead of night. She was alone, trembling in excitement, her body feeling as if it was engulfed in fire. Rubbing her legs together, there was a wetness there she had not been expecting.
“Oh God,” she cursed aloud and flung herself back on the bed, thinking of the man that had so invited her dreams with such sudden pleasure.
She’d happily been drawn into that dream, enthralled by the imagining, and even now as she tried to banish him from her thoughts, she could not. Fully awake, she wondered what it would be like to be touched by him in such a way.
