Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(18)

She scrunched her mouth up tight. She quite understood the need for discretion in their missives and in her writings. She didn’t accept it and didn’t care for it but certainly understood how a squeamish, standoffish man such as Mr. Werksman would hesitate to pay a female writer for her stories. She did not, however, understand this need for pretense.

“Mr. Michaelmas?” he prodded and dabbed again at his brow.

Hermione jumped. “Er, right. It is about…”

He resumed walking a path toward the long table at the back wall. She quickened her pace to keep up with his hurried movements. “I wished to speak with you about The Nefarious Duke.” A horrid title. Why didn’t publishers allow such important details to the creative writers who crafted those very stories?

“What of it?” He stopped so suddenly she knocked into him.

“Well.” She’d spent the better part of her night contemplating this meeting, confident she could bring Mr. Werksman around to her way of thinking. No, that isn’t altogether true, Hermione Rogers. You spent the majority of the evening thinking of a certain duke and not the one on your pages. She shoved aside the silently jeering voice at the back of her head. He set his papers down and turned back to face her. “What if he’s not a nefarious duke?” she blurted. She continued on a rush. “What if he’s…that is, I imagined him to be quite charming.” Sebastian, the Duke of Mallen flitted through her thoughts.

He shoved his spectacles up on his nose. “Charming?”

And possessed of the most glorious golden hair. “And affable.” With a smile that weakened young ladies’ hearts.

“Affable.” He peered down his bulbous nose. “Affable.”

She toyed with her reticule. With this meeting, in total she’d met with Mr. Werksman on three occasions. In the time she’d come to know him, she’d found whenever he repeated himself in that blank, faintly condescending manner it suggested just how much he cared for an idea. Which was usually not all. Hermione cleared her throat. “I imagine young ladies are quite tired of the brooding dukes and—”

“Mr. Michaelmas?”

“Yes, Mr. Werksman?”

“I’ve paid you to write The Nefarious Duke. Are you unable to write that story?”

She shook her head. She’d merely had an altogether different inspiration. The Duke of Mallen flitted through her thoughts as he’d done since he’d come upon her at Lord Denley’s office. “No. I simply—”

“You were instructed to write a story about a nefarious, brooding duke.”

She opened her reticule and fished out the folded page. “Yes, but I imagined if instead there was an affable duke with a villainous young woman with nefarious intentions of her—”

“And if you cannot write the story about a nefarious, brooding duke then I shall commission someone else.” He dabbed his brow. “Someone who is able. Are we clear, Mr. Michaelmas?”

She bristled at the man’s indolent tone and so very dearly would love to tell the portly bugger just what she thought of his high-handed attitude and unoriginal ideas. She sighed. “Yes, Mr. Werksman. Quite clear.” Yet, when her first work had been celebrated by a sea of no’s, Mr. Werksman had said yes and Hermione well knew the dangers of being too proud.

He returned his attention to the worktable and as though she were a small child summoned before a stern governess, he promptly dismissed her.

Hermione dropped her gaze to the page in her hand. She unfolded it and scanned the notes she’d made last evening. Any other day, at any other time, she would have wholeheartedly agreed with Mr. Werksman’s assessment for the characteristics of a duke. No longer. Now she found the brooding kind to be singularly uninteresting. She slapped the page down on his tabletop. His wide brow wrinkled. He eyed the sheet as though she’d laid a dead fowl upon his workspace. “I really believe you should read my notes, Mr. Werksman.”

His mouth tightened, a clear indication of his displeasure. “You are being difficult, Mr. Michaelmas.”

She was being direct…and she suspected the old publisher didn’t have much experience with mouthy, determined young ladies.

The older man scanned the contents, not deigning to touch the page. “I’ll consider your proposal.” Her heart quickened with the flicker of hope. “However,” he continued, his tone the stern kind she reserved for her younger siblings. “I am merely considering it. I want my brooding duke.” What was society’s fascination with a brooding duke?

She nodded. “I understand that, Mr. Werksman.”

He picked up a book and shifted his attention to the page. “I expect the first three chapters in no more than three days.” He waved a hand, dismissing her. “Good day, Mr. Michaelmas.”

With a spring in her step, Hermione retrieved her paper form his desk and marched toward the front of the office. She opened the door and stepped outside. The glaringly bright, sunny day momentarily blinded her. Hermione paused and raised a hand to her eyes looking out at the lively street. A smile pulled at her lips. Predictable, uninspired Mr. Werksman had not rejected her story in its current form, so hope remained.

“The door, Mr. Michaelmas,” Mr. Werksman called from inside the establishment, his tone heavy with annoyance.

“Er, right, my apologies.” She hastily tugged the door closed behind her. He really was quite an unpleasant fellow. Yet, he knew good stories. She trusted once he read the completed book, he would realize, just as she’d belatedly realized, how very appealing an affable, charming duke happened to be. The Duke of Mallen flitted through her musings.