She glared at her computer and tried again. The scene was pivotal; it had to be perfect, it needed to be believable.
Then again, what was believable about a rich rakish duke falling for one of his scullery maids, only to discover she was really part of the gentry? Even if she came from a good family, it would still be frowned upon. It wasn’t accurate, and it bothered her, but it was romantic, and that was why she’d decided to write it.
It was a horrible idea.
But that was what sold.
Rakes and Rogues.
And poor sad wallflowers who somehow magically became the object of their affection.
It was complete BS.
She’d been that wallflower.
She was that wallflower.
And nothing, not one thing, had set her apart from the other girls. Men might say they wanted character, they wanted something different. They claimed they wanted the girl next door, child-bearing hips, whatever. Their actions, however, and the women they actually dated, said it all.
Skinny.
Botoxed.
Implanted.
Airheads.
Margot slammed her hands against the keyboard and stood in a huff.
It was his fault.
Because he was late.
Not that she wanted to see him, anyway.
But still, it grated on her nerves.
In a moment of complete insanity, her grandmother, God bless her, had bid on one of the country’s most notorious playboys in an auction set up for cancer research.
Unfortunately, her grandmother had won.
Margot still remembered the phone call from that night.
“I’ve landed you a man!” Her grandmother yelled loud enough for half the country to hear. “Paid a pretty penny for him too! Oh, muffin, you’ll love him, he’s strong, and—”
“You bought”—Margot pressed her fingertips against her temple—“a man?”
“He was spendy, too.” Grandmother slurred her words a bit. “Cost at least half of what I was willing to spend, though.”
“Half?”
“Ten thousand dollars isn’t too steep!”
Margot choked.
Grandmother laughed.
“Are you drunk?”
“I had the whiskeys, yes.” Her grandmother sighed happily. “Such a delicious burn. Did you know Titus Enterprises just closed a deal on Honey Whiskey, Incorporated? Nadine’s such a dear, she even brought me a few bottles. Has her sights set on McCleery Whiskey too, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
Margot groaned and sat down on the bed. “A few bottles?”
“Ten,” Grandmother slurred. “Or was it twelve? Did I have two? Ha-ha.”
“Grand—“
“You know him! This man.”
“The man you paid ten grand for? That man?”
“Your new friend.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need you to buy me a man. I can find my own man,” Margot said through clenched teeth.
“How’s that working out for you, love?”
“I’m busy!” she snapped.
“You’re sad.”
“I’m—” Margot clenched her left hand into a fist and refused to stare down at her one good leg. She flexed the toes of her left leg and tried not to stare at the right. “I’m not sad. I’m fine. I have my books. I have my house. I have my work—”
“You have wild tom cats, too and cats are a bad omen.”
“How much whiskey did you say you had again?”
“Whiskeys. Plural,” Grandmother corrected. “Now, he’s going to report to the estate in two weeks. He’ll arrive at nine in the morning. I told him to be punctual. And you’re to give him the downstairs blue room during his stay.”
“His stay!” Margot yelled. “He’s not staying anywhere!”
“Of course he is.” Grandma said in soothing, albeit slurred tones. “It’s part of the package. Hah, not his package, but the package. I bought him, and once old Wellington discovered what I meant to use him for, he gave me more than the weekend that was up for bid. You get him a full month.”
Margot sucked in a breath.
“I know! Thirty days!”
“Did you say Wellington?”
Please don’t say Bentley. Let it be Brant, he always had a teasing smile, or Brock, the serious one. No it wouldn’t be Brock; didn’t he just get married?
“Bentley Wellington!” Her grandmother shouted with glee, confirming Margot’s worst fears and causing her eyes to search the room for her bottle of Xanax. “Lovely man. When he keeps it in his pants, which, let’s hope for the sake of my great grandchildren he doesn’t—”
Tears burned the back of Margot’s eyes as she blinked away the blurry vision of a boy she’d always wanted.
And never had.
He was a man now.
Featured in Forbes, among other magazines.
He dated supermodels, celebrities, pretty women.
Not her.
She glanced down at her right prosthetic leg. The amputation had been made right below her knee, so while her thigh looked normal, there was no foot, no ankle, no toes.
Definitely not women like her.