Page 14 of A Baron's Scandalous Quill
“Perhaps I could make a suggestion?” Henry offered and stepped between the pair of them. “My lord, you could interview Miss Thornton. See what sort of a writer she is and consider if it’s a proposal you wish to go ahead with. Miss Thornton, equally, you can decide if it is a story you would like to write or not.”
“Very well.” She nodded, her manner almost wooden all of a sudden.
It was nothing like her warm and flirtatious manner at the ball. William wished for that manner to return.
Slowly and silently, he moved to a nearby armchair and sat down, the air awkward between them. Miss Thornton chose another chair, a little smaller than his own, and he noticed with interest that she avoided the finer-looking furniture in the room, and as she sat down, she adjusted the hem of her gown, hiding what appeared to be a small hole.
He hardly cared if her gown was poor. He was too busy in admiration of the fact that Miss Thornton had a career of her own.
“Perhaps you could tell me exactly what it is you want from this piece, my lord?” she said, reaching into a large reticule she carried and pulling out a small notepad and a pencil.
He hesitated, not saying anything and glancing Henry’s way. This time, though, Henry wasn’t going to take up the slack in the conversation. He simply stared back at William, waiting for him to tell his peace.
“My father died just over a month ago, Miss Thornton. He left behind him a reputation. A vile one, in truth.” He leaned forward, rubbing his hands together uncomfortably.
“Suffice it to say my own life alongside him was not…well, it was not a happy one. Now entering society properly after his passing, I see that everyone presumes I will be like him. Henry has suggested I set the record straight, so that people will know Iam not made in his image.” The words had escaped him in a rush in the end.
It almost felt like a confessional, explaining his deepest thoughts in quite an intimate way. Rather than making any notes with her pencil, Miss Thornton looked at him as he spoke, those aquamarine eyes never blinking.
“Talking of it though, well, it is not easy,” he said hastily.
She nodded in thought and looked down at the blank page in her notebook.
William said no more. Distracted, he stared at her, thinking of how they had danced together, how she had fitted perfectly into his arms, how he had not been able to sleep peacefully since, for he had woken with sudden dreams that all had her in them.
Always he saw those blue eyes staring up at him from his bedsheets, with the blonde hair tousled, reaching down her back. Thinking of her again now, he adjusted himself, crossing his legs self-consciously.
“May I tell you something, my lord?” She shifted a little, moving to the edge of her seat, and he nodded, encouraging her on, fearful he wouldn’t be able to speak with a level tone after thinking of having her in his bed again.
“The first few times I wrote, I was terrified, and perhaps, I had a reason to be. I made the mistake of using my own name,” she whispered in explanation.
“People were furious. Known acquaintances and friends called on my father. They lambasted him, for what I am not entirely sure. Perhaps for having an educated daughter, for choosing to teach his daughter to read and write when they thought I should have been trained to be a housekeeper or something of that ilk. Do you know how my father responded?”
“How?” he asked, intrigued by the nature of her story.
“He told them all that to have a daughter with her own mind was his greatest source of pride.” She smiled, rather sadly.
“It was for him, so he did not lose any more clients in his work as a lawyer, that I decided to start writing under a pseudonym instead. My father was never bothered again, and since that moment, Mr. Reginald Baxter’s writing has fortunately been loved by many.” Her smile grew into a happier one now. “It sometimes just takes the courage of challenging the status quo and even deciding to do it in your way to get what you want. No matter what others think.”
William sat back in his chair, resting his spine against the cushioned seat as he stared at her.
“You speak wisely for one so young.”
“Do I?” she said, at last looking a little more at ease in her own chair and sitting back herself. “Don’t tell anyone, my lord.” She winked at him. “People prefer the daughter of a lawyer to stay in her place and not be so bold as to give advice to barons.”
“Wisdom cries out in the street, and no man regards it,” he said with a chuckle, the words falling from his lips.
“Shakespeare again.” She sat forward, a sudden excitement in her movement.
“Just so.” He nodded. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. William quite forgot that Henry was in the room. He thought of those eyes, those lips, the feeling of her waist beneath his hands, and then—
There was a knock at the door. William fidgeted in his seat, just as Miss Thornton did in her own. Henry stood and went to answer it, taking the tea tray from the maid who had brought it. Setting it down on a nearby table, he prepared the tea as William turned back to Miss Thornton.
“Well, what do you think, my lord?” she asked, clearing her throat as if she, too, had felt the awkwardness of them juststaring at one another. “Will you have the courage to tell your tale?”
William waited. Henry glanced back at him from his task and nodded ever so slightly. It was an encouragement to take that leap for a change.
I am tired of being a prisoner between these walls. I don’t want to allow my father to make me a prisoner after his death, too.
