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Of course, he was the Earl, and of course, she would not allow him to intervene in her plans, he ‘translated’ from her words.
She would not “leave”. Not if he had a say in the matter. And he would be sure to have a say in it.
He did not give an answer, diverting the conversation to the manor’s issues instead.
A
The next morning, Robson the footman came to the kitchen to tell her the Earl requested a meeting. Cleaning her hands from the dough she had been kneading, she hurried to see him.
“Did you want to see me?” Otilia entered the study and closed the door behind her.
The Earl sat behind the massive desk with an imposing presence. Strands of his sleek coal hair fell on his brow, emphasising his rugged features.
He lifted his head from the ledger he was reading, and his jet eyes clasped on her accompanied by an answering current that shivered through her insides. The way he affected her both baffled and angered her because eight years should have been enough to put him firmly in the past. Instead, these years seemed to have been ineffectual in the task.
“I did. Please, have a seat.” His long, elegant hand motioned to a chair in front of him.
Outside, white clouds floated in the sky, delivering a clear but sunless day. The light fell on Thornton in a play of shadows that lit over his square jaw and thick neck.
“Any problems with the bookkeeping?” She saw no other reason for him to want to talk to her.
“The bookkeeping is flawless,” he rumbled as he rested the pencil on the wooden surface. “I have been thinking about your future.”
“I have my future in hand, thank you.” She hoped to find employment as soon as it could be arranged and be out of here and away from him post-haste.
“As a lady under my protection, it falls to me to guarantee your safety.” He sat back on the high-backed chair and cut her an unwavering look.
She might have had a lady’s education, but she was no real lady, not in the pedigreed sense of the word. Long ago, Otilia saw this and decided to deal with it upfront. “Your concern moves me.” The sarcastic inflection arose in her words despite her efforts to conceal it.
Those impossible and sensuous lips curved in a knowing smirk. “After a long deliberation, I decided to give you a dowry, so you have a chance to get married.”
The frown smudging her brow came from the absurdity of his idea. “You are saying you will marry me off, if I understand correctly.”
“Something along those lines.” His bulging biceps stretched over the armrests in a posture of complete self-assurance.
It also exposed a broad, steel chest and impossibly large shoulders to her free view. A lion in its den would not appear so at ease.
An unladylike scoff escaped her lips followed by his stare flaying on them. “An arranged marriage to a foundling.” Her head shook from side to side with the out-of-reality notion. “That is rich.”
“You are not a foundling.” His jet gaze flogged her with heated certainty. “My cousin took you in and gave you standing in society.”
“They gave me education and training. Enough for chances at decent employment now.” Her stance and voice went frigid with his statement. Any excuse would do for him to impose his plans on her when she had already assured him she had her own. “And I will not change my mind.” She cast a determined stare at the blasted Earl.
“The season is upon us.” His torso moved forward, elbows on the desk. “We will travel to London, where you can buy the required wardrobe.” His attention slid down her modest mourning dress, a tad too patronisingly.
Still unladylike, she sprang from the chair, too restless to heed her lessons in deportment. “I will not get married.” It came heated.
This would not be the first season in which she participated. Otilia knew what awaited her. Sneer and leer. Those floppy, sloppy noblemen had made it clear what they thought her good for, and she would not abide by their idea of different women for different purposes.
Along the years, she learned to lock away her disgust of them and present a cold facade whenever such propositions came her way. But inside, where her feelings and expectations lived, disappointment and hopelessness blossomed. The awareness she would never have the chance at love, a home, or a family numbed her on a bad day. She would spend a row of sleepless nights after those lecherous, titled imbeciles managed to say these things to her. Tears for her bleak future pressed their way out despite her efforts for them not to break free.
Why would this time be different? It would not, for sure. If anything, it would be worse. No doubt she was on the shelf at her age. Those contemptible predators would draw on this, making it even harder for her.
She forced herself to conceal these musings as she watched him in guarded posture.
He stood up, too, and rounded the desk to halt right in front of her. His tall, broad frame filled her eyes with his powerful masculinity and her nostrils with that male scent of his. “Yes, you will,” he answered silkily.
“So you can get rid of me and your conscience,” she threw, raising her angry face to him.
