A Rogue of One's Own
Bemusement set in when she approached the imposing granite façade of London Print.
An orderly queue of smartly dressed women lined the pavement up the front steps to the publisher’s lobby.
The queue continued across the foyer.
Covert glances and nervous smiles greeted her as she strode past, and still it did not dawn on her until she had reached her office floor, where the queue had derailed into a small crowd around a flailing Lady Athena, that these were her applicants for the positions she had advertised.
“Good morning,” she said, baffled and to no one in particular.
A chorus of good mornings rang back, reminiscent of a class full of well-trained pupils in a village school.
A small smile spread over her face as she made her way into her office. What an unexpected, wonderful development this turnout was.
The first applicant was a Miss Granger, five-and-twenty years of age, from Islington. Hectic red splotches bloomed on the woman’s neck above her high collar as she pushed the binder containing her references across the desk.
Lucie gave her an encouraging smile and picked up her pen. “Miss Granger, why don’t you tell me a little more about why you are interested in working for London Print?”
“Well, milady, there just aren’t enough gentlemen to go around for marriage these days, are there?”
“. . . Right.”
“I considered applying for one of the government grants that help single women find husbands in Australia, but after due consideration I decided I’d prefer to stay in England and find employment instead. Either way, we must be prepared to make our own bread these days.”
“Indeed,” Lucie said, “but why should you like to work here rather than say, a government office?”
The blue of the woman’s eyes lit up. “Oh. I do enjoy the magazines. My mother has a subscription to the Home Counties Weekly and I read every issue.”
Lucie nodded as her pen scribbled away in her interview diary. This was the enthusiasm she needed to see. Working life in London held challenges for a woman; some motivation besides a wage would help sustain anyone who joined the office.
“I also adore A Pocketful of Poems,” said Miss Granger, a slight pitch in her voice.
Lucie slowly raised her eyes from the page. “You do?”
The nervous flush claimed Miss Granger’s cheeks and nose. “Yes,” she said. “I was so surprised to hear Lord Ballentine was the author.”
“Weren’t we all,” Lucie drawled, not liking the heated gleam in Miss Granger’s gaze.
“He has such a scandalous reputation, but his poems made me believe it is based on rumors,” Miss Granger enthused. “Surely a true rogue wouldn’t be capable of such emotional depths?”
“What an interesting thought.”
“Is he here at London Print often? Lord Ballentine?”
“I’m afraid not, no.”
It had come out decidedly too dark, for Miss Granger’s face assumed a vaguely embarrassed expression, as if she’d been caught in the act of doing something naughty.
Lucie took a deep breath. To no avail. The headache returned with pounding force.
The next applicant was a Mary Doyle, heavily freckled, and twenty years of age. She had traveled all the way from Birmingham and the purple smudges beneath her eyes said she had risen at an ungodly hour to reach London on time.
“Miss Doyle—you are applying for the typist position, but from your papers it is not quite clear for how long you took typewriting lessons or where you worked before,” Lucie said, rifling through the woman’s application with a small frown.
Miss Doyle was studying the wood grain on the desk. “I have not yet fully trained as a typist, milady.”
Lucie arched a brow. “I see?”
A demure glance. “I was hoping I could acquire all the necessary skills here, at London Print.”
Lucie shook her head. “I commend you for your aspirations, but this position requires a fully trained typist,” she said, and when disappointment turned Miss Doyle’s mouth downward, she added: “It is, however, a good idea to establish a course here to teach women these skills.”
Such a good idea, in fact, that she was making a note of it in her diary.
“Would working here also involve tending to Lord Ballentine’s administrative needs?” came Miss Doyle’s voice.
For a blink, the swirls of her own handwriting blurred before her eyes.
She looked up, half-surprised that the girl didn’t turn into stone as their gazes locked.
“No position here,” she said, “involves tending to Lord Ballentine’s needs.”
Mary Doyle’s shoulders fell. “I heard he owns London Print.”
“Half. He owns half.”
The little time waster from Birmingham perked up. “Are you in need of someone serving refreshments, then? I have some experience with handling a tea cart.”
By the time the next candidate walked in, a woman in sunshine yellow muslin with a suspiciously enthusiastic spring in her step, the pulse in her temples radiated heat with every beat.
She cleared her throat. “Good morning, Miss . . . ?”
“Potter, milady,” the girl said, then blushed, curtsied, and pulled back the applicant’s chair.
“Miss Potter. What made you apply to London Print, apart from the possibility of catching a glimpse of Lord Ballentine in the flesh?”
The girl quite froze in the act of lowering her bottom onto the seat, her mouth opening and closing without producing a response at first. “Nah,” she said. “I must make my own bread, my lady. I’m in need of employment, here in London, to care for my mum.” She bit her lip and gave an apologetic shrug. “But I’m afraid it’s well known that his lordship looks like an angel.”
“I see,” said Lucie. “Do excuse me for a moment.”
In the antechamber, dozens of faces turned toward her, pale ovals beneath hat rims and artfully arranged front locks. How many of them had done their hair this morning with special care, with only one thought on their mind? By the time Tristan’s office door came into view, her heart was thrumming harder than her headache.
He sat behind his desk in only his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, head tilted, writing something. A lock of his overlong hair had slid loose and fell into his eyes.
She pulled the door firmly shut behind her.
He glanced up and looked bored to see her, though his eyes lit with faint intrigue on the interview diary in her hand. That was how she noticed she was still holding it. It would be satisfying to hurl it at his stupid, handsome head.
“I’ll take it,” she said.
A puzzled expression passed over his face. “Well, that’s lovely. And what would it be?”
She flung the diary onto the nearest chair.
“Your offer.” She raised her chin. “A night in your bed for a percent of shares. I’m taking it.”
The bemusement was wiped clean off his face. His expression was an utter blank.
Her chest rose and fell violently, her head filled with the bright roar of a storm hitting a forest.
“Are you now,” came his voice, a low murmur.
She gave a nod, her throat feeling too tight for words.
His eyes bore into her, and she stared back into the golden depths, face hot, hands clenched. Let him try to call her bluff.
She watched his gaze fill with an unholy light.
He leaned back in his chair, toying with the fountain pen between his fingers for a beat or two.
“Then I suggest you lock the door.”
Chapter 22
She had gone and done it. There was no stopping it now; her words were on the loose like hounds on a hare, like a tumbling rock already setting off the avalanche.
She blindly searched the door behind her back for the lock.
The metallic click of the key raised the fine hairs on her nape.
Tristan was not moving a muscle there behind his desk; he appeared transfixed.
She crossed her arms. “Did the cat get your tongue, my lord?”
His lids lowered, making slits of his eyes. “Come here.”
Her heart was trying to flee her chest, the erratic thumps almost painful. She dropped her arms to her sides and approached as commanded, but she slowed when she rounded the corner of his desk.
She halted an inch outside his reach.
The chair scraped across the floor when he pushed away from the desk to face her. His knees spread, head cocked, he was contemplating her, and she endured his inspection with a defensive little sneer fixed on her face, endured it as the silence between them stretched and hummed—
He gestured at her head, a lazy flick from his wrist. “Take down your hair.” His voice was husky.
Her knees turned shaky. He was going far to try and call her bluff. Or perhaps he was not calling her bluff at all. Perhaps he was serious. Perhaps he wanted to begin it right here—he would be depraved enough to try.
She raised a hand to her hairpin.
The audible hitch in his breathing made her pause.
His eyes were fixated on her fingers as they hovered over the pin, looking . . . hungry.
Interesting.
He might sprawl and issue commands, but unaffected, he was not. It made her give the pin a tug. Another twist, and her hair slid free. The scent of citrus soap wafted up as the long strands unfurled and cascaded down around her to her waist.