Page 17 of The Wedding-Crashing Duchess

“You are not required to remain in a household where you feel unsafe.”

“I was foolish; please forgive me.”

“If you wish to resign, I will not prevent you, and I will provide a reference that speaks honestly of your work with Sarah,” he sighed.

Miss Mendel’s breathing had quickened.

“I do not wish to resign,” she said. “Lady Sarah is dear to me, and I am grateful for my position.”

“Then stop behaving as though I am a threat to you.”

“I shall try.”

Ronan disliked the answer immediately.

Trying implied that fear was justified and must be overcome through effort. He had never raised his hand to a woman, never harmed a servant, and never threatened anyone beneath his protection. Yet his height, his title, his cane and the severity of his face appeared sufficient to convict him of any cruelty people could imagine. It was no wonder Augusta Cluett had looked upon him and decided he was capable of murder.

The thought brought her face into his mind with unwelcome clarity.

Her brown hair had been arranged neatly for the wedding, though several soft curls had escaped near her temples. Her green eyes had been bright with certainty when she stood before the entire church and destroyed his marriage. Even frightened, she had held herself upright and challenged him as though he were no more formidable than any other man.

She was also exceptionally beautiful.

Ronan had spent several days attempting not to remember that last fact, and even now he tried to push it out of his thoughts.

“You may go, our discussion is finished,” he said to the governess.

She curtseyed quickly. “Yes, Your Grace. Thank you.”

Ronan was not certain what she was thanking him for, but he let her leave without asking. When the door closed, he remained alone in the schoolroom.

He had intended to visit Sarah next. He ought to find her upon her return, ask about her walk and perhaps endure the awkward silence that always arose between them until one of her attendants supplied a reason to end the conversation. Instead, he turned toward the corridor leading to the rear of the house.

He needed to strike something.

Gregory Welby was in the fencing room, exactly where Ronan expected to find him. The Duke of Brawnhite stood near the windows, examining a foil while speaking to the fencing master. Unlike most men, Gregory did not become tense when Ronan entered.

“Finally,” he grinned. “Congratulations on the nuptials.”

Ronan removed his coat and handed it to a waiting servant. “I am not married.”

“So I heard,” Gregory said, selecting another foil and offered it to him. “You were interrupted, apparently, by a young woman who stood before half the ton and declared that you had killed someone. I confess I am offended.”

Ronan took the weapon. “Why?”

“Her reason isn’t sound enough, or believable. I might have stood and objected on the grounds that the groom possessed an intolerable temperament.”

The fencing master wisely excused himself, leaving them alone with one servant posted near the door. Gregory took his position upon the strip. “Shall we?”

Ronan set his cane upon a bench and faced him.

“So,” Gregory said between strikes, “What will you do now? Challenge her brother-in-law?”

“No.”

“Have her confined to a distant convent?”

Ronan caught Gregory’s blade and forced it aside. “She would escape within a week.”