Free A Duke's Temptation by Jillian Hunter Page B

how he lived his life, and, aside from a childhood tragedy, he had done well for himself. “As of midnight the lady was accompanied by only her chaperone, and a man I assume to be a naive relation. This was her first party in London.”
    “One would think it was your first party, too,” Mr. Thurber said tartly.
    “Give me a little credit for my ability to recognize a pearl in endless miles of sand.”
    “A pearl, is she?” The solicitor shook his head in surrender. “Meeting the lady of your dreams was bound to happen sooner or later, but as it has waited this long, I don’t see how another day could hurt.”
    “Absolutely not. I will not wait. That would signify indecision on my part.”
    “Give me until late morning to have my clerk draw up and deliver the papers for your approval.”
    Samuel grinned in gratitude, extending his arm to help the older man from the chair. “I would like her to receive the documents as soon as possible. Her family is staying with Viscount Stratfield. I do not know the address.”
    “At least you know her name.” The solicitor bowed, frowning closely at Samuel as if he had just noticed his party costume. “Don Quixote, isn’t it? I hope that is not prophetic. Congratulations, Your Grace.”
     
     
     
    Congratulations.
    Could it be that easy? Could a man choose the course of his life and expect everything else around him would fall into place? Samuel knew better than that. Life had played with him ever since he could remember. A lady’s heart was not a pawn.
    But his deepest feelings had never failed him. He had written for years about love, death, loss, and betrayal. His characters were often felled by their lethal flaws and performed craven deeds. His most popular heroine, Juliette Mannering, was an unconventional lady who had escaped a convent and an arranged marriage.
    I love Sir Renwick. Next to him, Lord Wickbury looks like a twit.
    Samuel circled his desk, deliberately not looking at the pen and stack of blank papers that was meant to be the last chapter. He had corrected every proof he could find at least ten times before facing what needed to be done. Tonight.
    The damned installment would not write itself. Perhaps he should leave the characters hanging in unresolved conflict. Lord Anonymous had not promised a perfect ending. He had a contractual obligation to Philbert, which as a gentleman he would satisfy, but was he obligated to repeat the same tiresome plot? He had a bond with his readers, a mystical connection that he did not understand but tried his utmost to keep unbroken. But neither monetary reward nor the admiration of strangers had ever motivated him to pen a single page.
    He approached his desk, frowning.
    He preferred working at home in Dartmoor, even if over the years he had learned that his writing skill was not limited to perfect location or circumstance. He often resisted his revisions until the last moment. Once the words started to flow, however, he drifted into another place and time. His thoughts calmed. Something inside him rose above the clamor of all else. His characters demanded that he listen.
    I love Sir Renwick.
    Why? Why did women adore such an unmerciful sod?
    Why was Juliette Mannering attracted to a malevolent wizard who had abducted her? A murderer. A necromancer and thoroughly nasty son of a bitch who had killed his own sister to please Satan and then thought he could raise her from the grave.
    Would Juliette triumph against Sir Renwick’s advances?
    “Excuse me . . . Your Grace?”
    Samuel stared absentmindedly at the long-faced man in silver-embroidered black satin livery who appeared in the door. “Your Grace?” the man said again.
    Samuel grunted as his butler glanced surreptitiously at the tidy desktop before training his features into a mask of pleasant impassivity. Why did everyone who knew Samuel sense when he was procrastinating? Bickerstaff would never say a word, but presumably he had noticed the blank pages. He was a