abomination by a dashing hero.”
“I have yet to find even one editor willing to consider my poems.”
“Perhaps I can assist.”
“How so?” she asked.
“The trick in any business is to ascertain what the other party wants or needs. If they believe you can service that need, then they’ll do business with you. It’s a matter of discovering what that need is and finding a cost-efficient way to provide it.”
“You mean bribery?”
“Depending on your outlook, all business transactions are a form of bribery, Miss Hart. But I’d be happy to help in any way that I can.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I’m fond of poetry, and though I consider Burns the only poet worth reading, I’ll make an exception for you, Miss Hart. The sponsorship of a duke cannot harm your chances of success.”
“I’ve no wish to gain recognition by foul means.”
“I can help you to secure an audience,” he said. “Recognition would arise from the quality of your work. You could always choose a male nom de plume if you feel your sex is a barrier.”
“I don’t know…”
“At least consider it, Miss Hart,” he said. “The offer is there and will stand indefinitely, but I shall take no offense if you decline.” He smiled. “I must admit, I’d relish reading poetry as light relief from the effluent, which fills some of the newspapers.”
“Such as?”
“Have you heard of Jeremiah Smith?” he asked.
“N-no.”
Realistically, Lilah was telling the truth. How could she have heard of Jeremiah Smith if he and she were the same person?
“He writes for the City Chronicle,” he said. “His last article was a shallow attempt at wit, likening the line of Molineuxs to the ancient Pharaohs who inbred their way into insanity. What I first thought was going to be a series of remarkable critiques on our patriarchal society has turned into cheap sensationalism. You should read his work. It’s a prime example of how not to write.”
Before Lilah could answer, a couple approached them. The Honorable Sarah Francis was on her sixth Season, an impressive record, but not one to be proud of. Her father, Viscount Francis, was rumored to have exhausted his funds in his attempts to get her off his hands.
“Molineux! How pleasant to see you!”
Lilah’s companion stopped. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mr.…”
“Viscount Francis,” the man said. “We were introduced at Whites. May I present my daughter, the Honorable Sarah Francis?”
The lady inclined her head and held out her hand. Fraser took it and bowed.
“Charmed.”
“As am I,” she replied.
“Forgive me, Miss Francis, I have an appointment,” he said, “but perhaps we may meet again.”
“I do hope so.” Her voice bore a note of desperation identical to her father’s.
Fraser released her hand and steered Lilah back along the path. After about ten paces, she heard a snort of laughter.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“It never ceases to amuse me to observe how certain individuals simper over the hands of those they believe will be useful to them,” he said. “The pleasure is magnified one hundredfold when I find myself the direct recipient of a desperate viscount’s simpering, and that of his horse-faced daughter.”
“Viscount Francis has some influence,” Lilah said. “You’d find his friendship to your advantage.”
He chuckled. “You’re as ridiculous as they are, lass, if you believe me foolish enough to fall for such insincerity. What do the people of London see when they look at me? Half of them would spit in the face of the Scotsman, and the other half would prostrate themselves at the feet of the duke.”
“And which do you prefer?”
He stopped walking and lifted her hand to his lips. A thrill coursed through her as his hot breath caressed her skin.
“Neither,” he said. “I’d rather endure the frank rudeness of a wee terrier.”
“You think to insult me?”
His mouth curled into a smile, and a spark of danger shone in his eyes.
“Of course not, lass,” he said. “But I’ll wager you’d prefer the raw honesty of a Highlander over the insincerity of a fop.”
He took her wrist and caressed her skin with his thumb in a light, tender gesture, which sent a firebolt of need through her.
“Shall I be honest, Miss Hart?” He lowered his voice. “I think ye’re a woman in need of pleasure.”
“Nonsense!” she said, her voice tight. “The pursuit of pleasure is the origin of the evils of society.”
“Strange words for a young woman,” he said. “Do you really think that life is there to be denied? Why should we merely exist when we can live instead?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think ye