excerpt from The PLEASURE Trap
ISBN 978-0-553-58957-3
Bantam Release Available July 31, 2007

To set the scene: Imagine a symposium of writers at a posh hotel in London's Mayfair, a symposium that is open to the public so that avid readers can meet their favorite writers. Since the story is set in the Regency period, the authors, all female, write Gothic fiction.

Characters:

• Leigh Fleming is their publisher

• Eve Barrymore (her pen name) is one of the authors

• Ash Denison (Viscount Denison), who appeared in The Marriage Trap. and The Bachelor Trap, is with his grandmother and cousin, Amanda. Ash is not interested in Gothic fiction. He's intereted in the writer who uses the pen-name "Angelo" and has published provocative if not damning short stories in the Herald. A number of people would like to discover Angelo's identity and wring his neck.

• Jason Ford who has been hired by someone to discover Angelo's identity.

One more thing. Eve has psychic abilities that she does her utmost ot suppress . . .

London, April 1818

Leigh Fleming was taken aback when he and his bevy of writers entered the Clarendon’s public dining room, which served temporarily as the meeting place for the symposium. It was standing room only and that had never happened before. Even more surprising was the presence of so many gentlemen. Men did not read romances, so why were they here? He was wishing, belatedly, that he’d hired a few strapping lackeys to evict any gentleman who thought it amusing to heckle the guests of honor.

He smiled encouragingly at his authors as he shepherded them to their places at a long table facing the audience. His fears subsided a little when he went to the lectern and the babble of voices died away. Taking a deep breath, he began his opening remarks.

Eve relaxed a little when Leigh cracked his first joke and the audience laughed along with him. All the authors were nervous, though this wasn’t the first time they’d been in this position. And really, there was nothing to fear. They would each do a short reading, answer questions from the floor, then mingle with the audience when refreshments were served.

Her gaze shifted to a table in the front row where her aunt, Miss Claverley, and a group of ladies were gazing in rapt attention at Mr. Fleming. Aunt Millicent enjoyed these writers’ get-togethers more than Eve did. In fact, Eve found this part of the proceedings more of a trial. At the back of her mind, there was always the niggling fear that she would be recognized outside the hotel and hounded like a hapless fox. As a result, she dressed in her plainest garments and did nothing to draw attention to herself. What she looked forward to was when the symposium was over and they could all relax and enjoy themselves at Lady Sayers’s beautifully appointed home.

A movement caught her eye. A gentleman at one of the tables in the front row was surveying the proceedings through his quizzing glass.

Ill-mannered fop, she thought, and she turned her attention back to Leigh.

Ash lowered his quizzing glass and responded to some remark his grandmother had made. He and his little party had arrived early, at his cousin's insistence, so that they could get the best seats. As Mr. Fleming introduced each writer in turn, Amanda elaborated for Ash’s benefit.

“Lady Sayers you already know,” said Amanda, “but in these circles she is known as Mrs. Windermere. She won’t thank you if you betray her identity to her adoring readers. There was an unpleasant incident last year, when a zealous admirer besieged one of the writers in her own home. All very unpleasant! Poor Mrs. Farrar hasn’t written a thing since.”

Ash nodded. “Mrs. Windermere. I shall remember.” The lady had buried four husbands and, in Ash’s opinion, had the stamina for taking on another four. She was a straightforward, straight-spoken lady and Ash liked her immensely. When her gaze alighted on him, he gave her a tiny salute.

The next writer was dressed from head to toe in flowing black which accentuated her sickly, bloodless complexion.

“Mrs. Contini is into vampires,” Amanda said.

Ash had no idea what his cousin meant, but it sounded revolting. Just looking at Mrs. Contini made his skin prickle.

The next in line, Mrs. Rivers, was not one of Amanda’s favorites. “She doesn’t write about love,” Amanda scoffed, “but about you-know-what.”

“Lust,” his grandmother interjected from his other side.

That got Ash’s attention, and he raised his quizzing glass to get a better look at the lady. She was a dasher, all right, and was dressed for the hunt in a form-fitting habit with a saucy hat to match. All she needed to complete the picture was a horse and hounds. Bold eyes returned his own bold stare. The symposium, Ash decided, was turning out to be quite interesting.

His grandmother elbowed him in the ribs. Correctly interpreting that silent rebuke, he swiveled his quizzing glass to take in the next lady.

“Mrs. Barrymore,” said Amanda in a voice that told Ash this writer was one of Amanda’s favorites. “She creates the most appealing heroines. When I come to the end of one of Mrs. Barrymore’s stories, I feel that I can attempt anything.”

“Incredible heroines,” he agreed obliquely, earning him a sharp look from his cousin.

Mrs. Barrymore, in his view, was letting the side down. The other authors had dressed to make themselves stand out. If one was into vampires, whatever that meant, then Mrs. Contini with her bloodless complexion would instantly come to mind. For a lusty tale, Mrs. Rivers was her own best advertisement. There was more to it than her dramatic good looks or the clothes she wore. Every gesture, every glance from those expressive dark eyes were a challenge every red-blooded male would recognize. Mrs. Barrymore, on the other hand, looked as though she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Her plain gray walking dress hung in loose folds, concealing her figure. Her hair, likewise, was concealed by a lace cap. She was young, no more than twenty-four or twenty-five, and was pretty enough to attract any man’s attention if she put her mind to it. Many ladies of rank came to him for advice when planning a new wardrobe. Now, if Mrs. Barrymore were to put herself into his hands . . .

She turned her head at that moment and their eyes collided. There was no bold stare from Ash this time.

He was blinded by the temper that sizzled in her eyes before she looked away.

Uh, oh, he’d been caught staring and the lady was not amused. She probably thought he was lusting after her. The idea was laughable. All the same, he’d embarrassed her. The gentlemanly thing to do now was to set her mind at rest. When the symposium was over, he’d seek her out and talk to her intelligently about her book, and if that was beyond him, he’d simply tell her how much he enjoyed it.

That ought to make amends for his unthinking perusal.

Another dig in his ribs brought his attention back to Amanda.

She whispered fiercely, “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?”

“What?” He dropped his quizzing glass.

“Mrs. Rivers! Don’t encourage her! She’s an overbearing, loud chatter-box who loves to be the center of attention. We’re here to cheer on Mrs. Barrymore. Kindly remember that.”

The dowager added, “Amanda dislikes Mrs. Rivers because she is always blowing her own trumpet. She never has a good thing to say about her fellow authors.”

“Hush,” said Amanda. “Mrs. Contini is about to read from her book.”

Ash looked down at his program. Let Sleeping Vampires Lie. He could hardly wait.

* * * *

As Mrs. Contini gave an introduction to her book, Eve edged closer to Lady Sayers. “Who is that gentleman with Lady Amanda?” she asked softly.

Lady Sayers bent her head to Eve’s. “Her cousin, Ash Denison. Viscount Denison, to be precise. He is heir to his grandfather, a cantankerous old Scot who, I believe, lives in a crumbling estate near Inverness. Ash will be a marquess one of these days, and it couldn’t happen to a nicer gentleman. He is immensely popular, but,” she added hastily, “not for the likes of you.” Her eyes twinkled. “He’ll go to any lengths to avoid marriage.”

Eve’s tone was dry. “If he is heir to a marquess, his fate is already sealed. Some pretty little debutante will snap him up. I can’t think why it hasn’t already happened.”

“He has no money, leastways, that’s what we’ve all been led to believe. His grandmother—she’s on his other side, by the way—says that that is an exaggeration, so no one is quite sure what to believe.”

She patted Eve’s arm. “Don’t look so anxious. Did you think he was staring at you? You can put that idea right out of your mind. Mrs. Rivers is more Ash’s style, and doesn’t she know it. Look at her preen.”

Eve looked. The Prima Donna, as Mrs. Rivers was referred to in private, had struck a pose: the Highwayman in woman’s clothing. If she had produced a cheroot and started to smoke it, Eve would not have been surprised. Unlike the other authors, however, Eve enjoyed Mrs. River’s affectations. What she did not enjoy was the lady’s acid tongue.

Lady Sayers was wrong about Ash Denison, though. He’d been staring at her, not at Mrs. Rivers. Her highly overrated sixth sense didn’t come into it. Any woman worth her salt would have recognized that comprehensive, thoroughly masculine appraisal. He’d taken inventory of every small detail of her person, from her lace cap to the little half boots on her feet. Not only was she offended but she was also deeply mortified and was wishing that she’d taken Aunt Millicent’s advice and worn one of the new gowns that had arrived from the modiste that morning. By dressing as a frump, she had made herself conspicuous.
Damn and blast the man! He had wounded her vanity.

She sucked in air when she was suddenly overcome by a wave of dizziness. When she could catch her breath, the dizziness gave way to a vague unease, and she looked out on the sea of faces, sensing all was not right. She sensed—she hated to use the word, but in this case, it was the right word—she sensed a malevolent presence. The air seemed to pulse with emotions: fear, hatred, rage, and she recoiled as though she’d been struck. Someone in the audience hated her.

As suddenly as they’d surged, the emotions receded. It took her a moment to come to herself. She wasn’t reading someone’s mind, she assured herself. She was reading their expressions. It seemed to her that there were some disgruntled gentlemen in the audience and they meant to cause trouble.
This had never happened before. They were a group of innocuous writers. What on earth had they done to stir people up?

She looked over at Ash Denison. Once again, she caught him staring at her. She dragged her eyes away and breathed deeply to calm her nerves.

After the reading, there is an ugly scene with hecklers, all wanting to know who Angelo is. The hecklers leave, refreshments are served, and the authors being to mingle.

Ash gazed at Mrs. Barrymore. She’d lost the little color in her cheeks and was smoothing her brow with her fingertips. He could almost hear her making her apologies as she tried to disengage from the ladies surrounding her. She looked ill.

Someone spoke to him, but he brushed him off. A few strides took him to Mrs. Barrymore’s side.

Allow me,” he said and, ignoring her objections, he cleared a path for her from the crowded diningroom, through the door and into the spacious front vestibule. No stranger to the Clarendon, Ash guided her to a pretty little alcove with a sofa and two chairs. She took one of the chairs.

“I don’t know what came over me,” she said. “I sensed. . . ” She stopped, looked up at him and managed a weak smile. “It’s Lord Denison, isn’t it? You’re Lady Amanda’s cousin.”

“And you’re Mrs. Barrymore.” He sat on the sofa, right by her chair. “How do you do?” He gave her one of the gracious smiles for which he was famous, not too admiring, but not shy either. It didn’t seem to work. She was gazing at him as though he threatened her in some way. Violet eyes, he noted, with pupils dilating in alarm.

He forgot to smile graciously. “Look, are you alright? Would you like me to get you something? Lemonade? Tea? Something stronger?”

“A glass of water would do fine.”

He hailed a passing waiter, asked for a glass of water and turned to look at her again. Color was returning to her cheeks, but her beautiful violet eyes had turned to gray. A moment before she’d been off-balance. Now, her eyes told him, she had herself well in hand.

He said easily, “You said you sensed something?”

“Did I?” She gestured with one hand. “The heat was too much for me. And the crowds. I became dizzy. That’s all it was.”

And he sensed that there was more to it than that. But he was in no position to correct her. “I wouldn’t let those hecklers upset you. The ringleader was a bully and the others were followers. We won’t be seeing them again.”

“Yes, it was an unpleasant business. A strange business. I don’t know what to make of it. Thank you for your intervention. That was well done.”

The glass of water arrived, and she drank it back as though she’d just been rescued from the Sahara desert. It came to him that she couldn’t wait to get rid of him, and that as soon as she drained the glass, she would shake him off and run for cover.

He was mildly annoyed. Women didn’t take to their heels when he paid them a little attention. And how this country mouse could imagine that he was anything but a gentleman was beyond belief. So, he’d stared at her through his quizzing glass. Most women would have been flattered. He wanted to dress her, not undress her. The trouble with Mrs. Barrymore was that she’d been reading too many Gothic romances and was confusing them with real life.

Those lustrous gray eyes, her best feature, were staring at him as though she expected him to pounce on her. He was tempted to laugh. Since diplomacy was getting him nowhere, he came straight to the point.
“Do you know who Angelo is?”

The wariness in her eyes cleared. “Angelo?”

“The author who got on the wrong side of the hecklers.”

“No.” She almost smiled. “I’d never heard of him until today. I still don’t understand what all the fuss is about. What did he do that was so awful?”

“I gather some of his stories are based on real events and real characters.”

She set down her empty glass, but she didn’t try to run away. Evidently, she was no longer wary of him. “Some of my stories are based on real events,” she said. “Every writer could say the same. However, using real characters is a tricky business. If they are recognizable, an author can be sued for slander, or is it libel? I can never remember the difference.”

He said carefully, “You’ve never read one of Angelo’s stories?”

“No. I live in Henley and the Herald is a London paper.”

When she looked a question at him, he said, “I’m almost sure that he’s a woman, one of your colleagues, perhaps.”

There was a momentary silence as she digested this, then she said, “What makes you say so?”

“The style. The voice, as my cousin Amanda calls it. Angelo’s work has a Gothic feel. Women don’t write the same way as men, and Gothic writers in particular use flowery prose and exaggerate every emotion. I’m basing my opinion on the readings I heard today. Take your own work, for instance. I’ve read one of your books and—”

“Yes, Lady Amanda told me.” Her voice was crisp. “What about my work? Oh, don’t hold back because I’m a female. I’m a novelist, Lord Denison, not a delicate flower, and you are entitled to your opinion.”

He’d been on the point of telling her how much he’d enjoyed her book, but the snap in her voice and the ice in her eyes tested his patience. He liked women, really liked them, and they liked him. Even his former lovers had nothing but good to say about him. This little harridan had gone too far.

As blunt as he could be, he said, “Your hero is too bland. Anemic, in fact. And when he takes the heroine into his arms, he shouldn’t be spouting poetry or comparing her to some distant star.”

By degrees, they’d moved closer till they were almost nose to nose. She let out a huff of breath. “And you would know all about it?”

He almost smirked. “I’m a male. You bet I know all about it.”

“So, tell me, Lord Denison, how should my hero act?”

“Like this,” he said.

She gave a little start when his thumb brushed her lips, and sucked in a breath when his hand cupped her neck. It took very little to bring her lips close to his. Their warm breath mingled. She didn’t struggle, nor did she yield. Her eyes stared defiantly into his.

Against her lips, he whispered, “He wouldn’t be talking at all. He’d be wondering how he could get her into bed.”

He released her at once and steeled himself for the obligatory slap he thought he deserved. Mrs. Barrymore did the nexpected. She laughed and got to her feet.

Shaking her head, she said, “What you have to understand, Lord Denison, is that in my books, the heroes are accessories, like a fan or a handkerchief. My heroines are my heroes.” She turned away then turned back. “Thank you for the glass of water.”

“My pleasure,” he responded, but this time he made sure the lady understood he was not harmless.
He watched her as she made a dignified retreat. From this angle, he had a better idea of the figure she tried to hide with the shapeless gown—straight spine, small waist and a curvaceous bottom. He really would like the dressing of her.

When she disappeared up the stairs, he got up and returned to the symposium. Jason Ford found him in quiet reflection a few minutes later.

“Why the smile?” Jason asked.Without thinking, Ash replied, “I was laughing at myself.”

“What’s so funny?”

He wasn’t going to tell this serious young man that he’d been undressing the little country mouse in his mind. Young Ford would be scandalized. “It’s not important,” said Ash, and it wasn’t. “Did you find anything out?”

“Not about the hecklers. But Mrs. Rivers is hinting that she is Angelo, but she’s being coy about it. I can hardly twist her arm behind her back to get her to tell me whether she’s telling the truth or not.”

Mrs. Rivers. The dasher. Ash couldn’t see it. He’d rather put his money on Mrs. Barrymore. He was remembering how ill she’d looked, how shaken she was after that ugly scene with the hecklers. Something had frightened her badly.

“Leave Mrs. Rivers to me,” he said.