And Then He Kissed Her (9 page)

She folded all the pages of her column and shoved the sheets into an envelope, then she sealed the edge, dribbling wax on her desk in her haste. She ran for the door, opened it, and presented the envelope to the boy with a heart-felt sigh of relief. “Here you are, Mr. Hobbs.”

To her surprise, he did not take the envelope from her hand. Instead, he shook his head. “I’s been told to tell you you’re to bring your papers down to the
Gazette
yourself. I’m just here to fetch you.”

“But—” Emma broke off, frowning in puzzlement. This was a very odd and unexpected development, but Hobbs appeared to know nothing more about the matter. She fetched her bonnet and put on her gloves, then tucked her column into the pocket of her skirt and accompanied the lad to the offices of the
Social Gazette
on Bouverie Street.

When they arrived, the boy was dismissed, and a clerk with a harried expression on his face ushered her up to Barringer’s suite of offices. Emma’s astonishment increased further when she found Mr. Ashe, the earl’s secretary, engaged in the task of packing up his things.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ashe,” she greeted him. “What is it you do here?”

The secretary placed his silver inkstand in the wooden crate on his desk before replying. “Lord Barringer has sold the newspaper,” he told her.
“I was offered a post as secretary to the new owner, but I have been with Lord Barringer for many years and have chosen to remain in his employ, so I am packing up my things, as you see.”

“The
Social Gazette
has been sold? To whom?”

“To me, Miss Dove.”

The voice that came from behind her was appallingly familiar. She closed her eyes for a moment, praying that she was mistaken, but when she opened her eyes again and turned around, she found there was no mistake. Standing in the doorway, one shoulder against the doorframe and his arms folded across his chest, was her former employer.

Emma stared at Marlowe, and a little knot of dismay formed in her tummy as she felt her wonderful new life crumbling into dust.

“L
ord Barringer has sold the
Gazette
to you? This is…” Emma paused, struggling to regain her poise. “This is most unexpected.”

“Barringer and I have been discussing a possible sale for several months. We came to terms last week and signed the documents yesterday.” He straightened in the doorway and gestured to the office behind him. “I should like to discuss the situation with you.”

She preceded him into what had been Barringer’s office. Though the furnishings were still
intact, all personal traces of the former occupant had been removed. The bookshelf was empty, the elegant desk was bare, the paintings had been removed from the walls, no carpet covered the wooden floor.

Marlowe closed the door and moved to stand behind what was now his desk. He indicated the chair opposite his own. “Please sit down.”

Emma didn’t want to sit down. She wanted to get this over and depart. She pulled her latest column out of her skirt pocket. “For next week’s edition.”

She held out the envelope to him, though she fully expected him to refuse it. Her eyes met his across the desk, daring him to tell her that her silly little column was being dropped from the newspaper, and that she was now unemployed.

That would be quite all right with her. She wouldn’t write for Marlowe now if he were the last publisher on earth. Besides, she had gained some mea sure of success during the past two months, and she could surely find another publisher to take her on.

Fortified by these internal reassurances, she was able to speak with a mea sure of good cheer. “You don’t want it? Oh, but what am I thinking? Of course you don’t. It’s all about tableware. Runcible spoons and fish knives and that sort of thing. Dull as ashes. Who’d want to read that?

She started to put the envelope back in her pocket, but to her surprise, Marlowe held out his hand. She gave him the envelope and he set it to one side of his desk, then once again gestured to
the chair. “Miss Dove, I’d like to be comfortable while we talk, but as a gentleman, I can’t sit until you do. Etiquette, you know.”

She lifted her brows in a skeptical sort of way that made short shrift of his expertise in that regard.

“I truly do have some knowledge of good manners.” Laugh lines creased the corners of his deep blue eyes, and a rueful smile curved his mouth. “Although, as someone recently reminded me, I do not employ that knowledge as often as I should.”

Emma reminded herself that self-deprecating charm was one of his greatest talents, one that had enabled him to get around her so many times over the years, and she did not smile back. Instead, she took a deep breath and decided she wasn’t going to wait meekly for the ax to fall. She took the offered chair, then she took the initiative.

“My lord, I am aware of your feelings regarding what Barringer has chosen to publish in the past. You have already made them quite clear to me. In light of that, I’m sure you intend to take the
Social Gazette
in a new and different direction.”

“That is true, but—”

“And,” she went on in a rush, “it’s obvious the silly, inconsequential stuff I write can have no place in your plans.”

“On the con—”

“If you do intend to publish the column I just gave you, I would appreciate it if you would ar
range for my compensation. Then you shall never have to see me again, read a single piece of my work, or endure any further lectures from me about your manners.”

She started to rise, but his amused voice stopped her.

“Miss Dove, I’ve just admitted I don’t always mind my manners, but I do know a few rules of decorum. For instance, I believe interrupting people is a violation of etiquette, isn’t it?”

Emma felt the heat rush into her face, and she tried to muster her dignity. “I wasn’t aware I was doing that,” she said. “My…my apologies.”

“Apology accepted.” His voice was grave, but there was still a suspicious curve to one corner of his mouth that made her stiffen in her chair.

He must have seen it, for his amusement vanished at once. “I wasn’t laughing at you. Well, perhaps I was,” he amended, “a little. It’s just that you always take these matters of etiquette so very seriously.”

“And we both know you don’t.”

“The only thing I take seriously is business, and even that had best be fun or it’s not worth doing.” He pulled a copy of the
Social Gazette
out of a drawer and unfolded it on top of the desk. Opening it to page three, where her column was located, he went on, “I admire your perspicacity in understanding my intentions. I do intend to make changes here. Sweeping ones, in fact.”

Emma wanted this business over. “If you are removing my column from the paper, just say so, please.”

“I have no intention of removing it.”

“You wish to keep it?” A lady was never supposed to betray surprise, but Emma couldn’t hide her astonishment. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him right. “But you hate my writing.”

“
Hate
is perhaps too strong a word.”

“You called it silly.” Emma folded her arms and glared at him. “You said it wasn’t any good.”

“That is not precisely what I said.”

“Let’s not split hairs. It’s what you believe.”

He didn’t argue. Instead he gave her a curious look. “Does it matter so much to you what I believe?”

“When I worked for you, it mattered. I respected your judgment. I trusted you with my writing, something very dear to me, hoping one day you would deem it worthy of publication. All the while, you couldn’t be bothered even to read any of it, much less judge it fairly.”

“I did read some of it, and I am not going to explain myself again on that point. Nor am I going to justify the opinion I formed.” He paused and studied her face for a moment before he spoke again. “Miss Dove,” he said and leaned forward in his chair, “I rejected your work because I honestly did not see its appeal to the public. But it’s obvious I made an error of judgment. I was unable to look at your work objectively.”

“Because you do not enjoy reading it, you could not understand that other people would.”

“Just so. You called me closed-minded, and I
have come to realize that in regard to your work, at least, it was a fair accusation.”

Emma was slightly mollified by that. “And now you want to publish it?”

“Yes.” He held up his hands, palms toward her. “I freely admit I do not understand what is so fascinating about decorating a flat or planning menus for wedding breakfasts.” He paused, lowered his hands, and leaned back in his chair. “But given your success, I would be a fool not to acknowledge that such fascination exists and find a way to take advantage of it. You uncovered a need, Miss Dove, a need I did not see. Wherever there is a need, there is also the potential to make money. I don’t have to like your work in order to publish it.”

“You mean, now that I have proven I can make money, you wish to profit from what you have rejected and ridiculed?” Emma stood up. “No. I shall take my column to another publisher, one who respects my work and appreciates it.”

She expected him to laugh at that declaration, but he did not. “You are free to take your work elsewhere, of course,” he said as he rose to his feet. “Should you make that choice, I cannot stop you. Pity, though,” he added as she started to turn away. “If you leave, I won’t be able to expand your column into an entire section of its own.”

She froze, then slowly turned back around. “I beg your pardon?”

“I had thought to devote an entire section of the
Social Gazette
to matters of etiquette and
style.” He shook his head. “A great business opportunity lost. Such a shame.”

She frowned, studying his face, searching for any sign he was being disingenuous, but she could find none. “Are you truly serious?”

“I told you, I am always serious about business.”

Emma swallowed hard. She sat back down. “What, exactly, did you have in mind?”

“What ever you like. Etiquette, shopping, recipes, clever ideas like pink flamingos and such. It would be your decision, for you would be in charge of all content. You could conduct interviews, dispense advice, answer questions from readers, share cookery recipes. Just keep the public’s interest. That is all I ask.”

Emma felt a rush of excitement so powerful she could scarcely breathe.

“I know that Barringer kept your identity a secret,” he went on, “and although I hate to give the man credit for anything, in this case I must agree with him. Your credibility would be hurt if people knew your background. Besides, secrecy does add to your appeal.”

Emma did not reply. Creative ideas were ricocheting around in her brain so fast, she couldn’t think of anything of say.

“Before you decide, Miss Dove, it’s only fair to warn you that I intend to be heavily involved in this project, as I am with all new ventures. Because I am changing other aspects of the
Social Gazette
in order to make its style more modern and fresh, and because I just paid Barringer an
enormous amount of money for this paper, I shall oversee all aspects of it for the foreseeable future, including your section. You would report directly to me, and I would edit your writing myself.”

Emma’s excitement dimmed with those last few words, and she came to her senses. “It will never work,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like you.” The moment she said it, Emma pressed her gloved fingers to her mouth, horrified by her lack of tact. Aunt Lydia would have been appalled.

But to her amazement, Marlowe began to laugh. “I shudder to think how little money I’d make if I only did business with people who liked me, Miss Dove.”

She lowered her hand. “That was rude. Forgive me. I should not have said it.”

“But you meant it.” His amusement faded, and he tilted his head, studying her. His expression became thoughtful.

Under this scrutiny, Emma shifted in her chair. She didn’t know what to say. She’d probably said quite enough already.

“Despite the recent friction between us, I always thought you and I rubbed along rather well,” he murmured. “Was I wrong?”

She sighed, knowing the damage was done. “No,” she answered. “But we got on so well because I never questioned you. I was your secretary, paid to follow your orders. My duties had nothing to do with my personal opinion of you or how you conduct your life. To have expressed
my opinions would have been an unpardonable impertinence.”

“You seem to have little trouble expressing them now.” He laughed again, but this time his laughter had a hollow ring to it. “I know there are men with whom I’ve done business who have no fondness for me, but it never occurred to me that you had any dislike for me.”

She hadn’t known it, either, until the words had come bursting out of her mouth. “It isn’t dislike, I suppose, but more of a lack of common ground,” she began, trying to explain what she didn’t quite understand herself.

“Don’t qualify your honest opinion for the sake of politeness.”

“I’m not. It’s just that we are very different people, you and I, and we see things from a very different perspective. You think what I write is silly and pointless, but that is partly because you’re a peer. Peers can be rude, and no one cares. Peers can bend the rules, sometimes even break them. People in my class of life don’t dare behave that way. This is particularly true of women. When I was a girl, my father was very strict. He was a retired army sergeant and I had—” Emma stopped, feeling her throat start to close up.

“You had what?” he prompted when she paused.

It was hard to talk about personal matters with anyone, especially about her life with her father, but she owed Marlowe some sort of explanation for her opinion. It was only fair.

She forced herself to go on. “I had what you
would no doubt deem a rather…rigid childhood. There was no teasing or any such nonsense in my father’s house hold. So to me, you seem glib and brash and insincere. Everything seems like play to you, so it’s hard for me to know when you are serious and when you are making fun. And I think you have very little consideration for others, not buying presents for people yourself, your lack of punctuality, that sort of thing. And your life, I cannot help but feel, is a terribly dissolute one—your disdain for marriage, your liaisons with cancan dancers and other women of low moral character.”

He laughed again. “Well, a liaison with a woman of high moral character would hardly serve the intended purpose.”

Emma supposed that was a joke.

His grin faded and he gave a little cough. “Yes, well, so you disapprove of me. In addition to being manipulative and insincere, I am glib, brash, inconsiderate, unpunctual, and a rake. Did I leave anything out?”

Put that way, it sounded quite harsh. She hadn’t meant it to be such a thorough condemnation, but then, she wasn’t accustomed to criticizing anyone. “It’s not as if you have much regard for me, either,” she hastened to say, terribly uncomfortable. “I know you think I’m dry as dust and have no sense of humor.”

“Well, you can’t blame me for that. You never laugh at my jokes.”

That did make her smile a little. “Perhaps because they aren’t amusing?”

“Yes, yes, all right. I did leave myself wide open for that, didn’t I?”

She became serious again. “The point is that I cannot go back to the sort of…of unequal arrangement we had. For what you propose to work, I would have to feel free to express my strongest opinions as a writer and you would have to respect them.” With every word, Emma’s spirits sank a little more. “We would have to look at each other in a new way. Not as an employer and his secretary, not as a lord and an army sergeant’s daughter, but instead as two people whose opinions and ideas are equal in importance and value. We should have to regard each other with mutual respect and consideration.”

“You don’t think that’s possible?”

Emma thought of all the times he’d taken her for granted. All the times she’d been too intimidated to speak up. “No.”

There was a long pause, then he nodded. “You’re right, I suppose. You don’t like me, and I don’t really like what you write, so it does seem rather a hopeless business.” He gestured to the door. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”