Dark Duke by Sabrina York Page A

coach rolled to a stop. Kaitlin nearly bounded out, but
forced herself to wait for John Coachman to descend from the box, open the
door, let down the steps and hand her out. She sucked in a breath, steadying
her nerves, and tipped back her head, sailing into the Crescent Moon publishing
offices as though she owned the place.
    Sometimes it paid to be fearless.
    Or pretend to be.
    A short, squat man with enormous protruding eyes and a pair
of spectacles perched on a bulbous nose leapt up as she entered. He scuttled
sideways around the desk like a crab, lapping at his thick lips as though they
tasted good. They shimmered with a glistening sheen.
    What this he? Lord Hedon? He didn’t look so very lordly.
    “Hullo,” she said. “I am Kaitlin MacAllister.”
    “Mr. Dithers. William Dithers. Publisher.” His eyes flicked
to her and away and then everywhere but at her.
    Ah. Not Lord Hedon. She didn’t know why relief trickled
through her.
    “Hullo, Mr. Dithers. I have an appointment with—”
    “Lord Hedon. You have an appointment with Lord Hedon.” His
hands fluttered at his side as though they could not be kept still. “He’s
waiting in my office. But—”
    “But?”
    He drew in a wheezing breath. “Please, miss. Before I take
you in, I must prepare you.”
    My. That was ominous.
    “Prepare me?”
    He smoothed his hair. Rubbed his chin. “Lord Hedon is
somewhat… eccentric . Brilliant writer. Brilliant. Sells lots of books.
Loads of them really. But very eccentric.”
    Kaitlin did not care how peculiar Lord Hedon was. She wanted
this job. “I understand.”
    “He values his privacy above all else.”
    She nodded. Edward had told her as much.
    “He must guard his true identity.”
    “Naturally.”
    “When you meet with him, he will be wearing a disguise.”
This last bit, he whispered in a lurid fashion. “I did mention he was
eccentric?”
    “You did.”
    “I do not want you to be alarmed.”
    “I appreciate that.”
    “He can be…ominous.”
    “Thank you.”
    Mr. Dithers glanced around the room, blinking several times
in succession.
    She cleared her throat. “May I see him now?”
    “What? Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course. This way.”
    He led her down a narrow hall flanked on both sides with
bookcases stacked high with various tomes to a door marked Mr. William Dithers,
Publisher. He opened it and ushered her in. “Lord Hedon,” he said, “Miss
MacAllister.” And then he promptly shut her in.
    With him.
    Lord Hedon. The man whose creations had created a storm in
her soul. Whose words had brought her to completion at her own hand time and
time and time again.
    She shivered.
    The room was wreathed in shadows. A man—a tall, dark,
looming man—in a cloak and half-mask stood by the windows. He turned as she
entered. And though he was wearing the mean clothes of a pauper who would know
no better, he bowed.
    Heavens, he was handsome. She could tell, even with a good
portion of his face obscured by the mask, his chin was that defined. And he was
large, well-muscled and imposing.
    Ominous, indeed.
    He was also, quite obviously, Edward Wyeth, the Duke of
Moncrieff.
    Why he presumed a cloak and a scrap of silk would befuddle
her senses was beyond her.
    She stared at him in silence as her mind spun. Was he truly
Lord Hedon? If he was, she should be surprised. But she wasn’t. Edward had a
way about him, a charm, a facility with words, certainly a creative sexual
side, that would put him at ease writing such books.
    Or was he merely pretending to be the author of those books?
Was all this some clever ploy to make her think she was earning the money she
required? Or better yet, one of his games?
    Either way, she didn’t care. This opportunity to make pots
of money, as he had promised, this opportunity to pay off her brother’s debt
and free her from McCloud’s shadow—and maybe even create a life for herself—was
intriguing.
    And, truth be told, he was a bit intriguing as well.
    So she decided to let this