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“I was just delivering petticoats to a girl who helps us with the sewing. Her father might have been at that tavern with you. He was certainly there yesterday. Her face was green with the bruises. I hope you enjoyed yourselves.”

His eyes locked on hers. His jaw was clenched.

“Hitting women, children.” He shook his head. “I would never stand for such a thing.”

“Ha!” Her explosion startled him. His faint sneer of surprise drew the lines down from his nose, a frame for his lips. She focused on his eyes, glassy, the red threads that unraveled from the green.

“You can’t stand at all, which is my point exactly. Your word weighs nothing in the balance. Sit. I’m not rolling you out of the fire.”

He sat, folding his long limbs into the chair she pushed toward him. This docility mollified her slightly.

With calmness came the realization that she should change her tack. He was sitting in front of her; nothing else mattered. He’d kept her waiting, yes. As she’d fretted at buttonhole after buttonhole, too distracted to turn the needle true, he’d been laughing and drinking, in a tavern, maybe even in a brothel. So what?

She still needed him to go to Mabeldon. No point in ruining her chance because he’d hurt her pride.

In the silence, they could hear the whirring of the sewing machine. Lucy opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the kettle screamed. She seized it, kept herself—barely—from slamming it down on the table.

“I was early, actually,” he said. Sitting, he had to look up into her face. Interesting what simple shifts could do, in terms of perspective. In terms of power. From her vantage, she waited for him to continue, staring into the black close-set waves of hair.

“I wanted to know something more of the parish, see the factories, the terraces, so I walked up and down.”

He slurred and seemed to hear it. He frowned, then continued, speaking more carefully.

“I got hungry, and then . . . I got carried away.”

His gaze sharpened. “Why did you tell your aunt my name was Turner?”

She made a shushing noise. The sewing machine whirred on.

“She has the ears of a bat.” She filled a teacup and placed it before him, returning the kettle to the hob. She sighed, hands fisted on her hips. A ducal visit would have required more explanation than she’d been willing to give.

“If you think she’d have been courteous if she knew your name was Weston, you’re mistaken. Tell her if you want, but now might not be the best moment for the truth. A man who passes out in a coachman’s cape, then awakens and declares himself a duke is usually thought insane. I will style you properly when I credit you for your role in reversing the eviction.”

He held his palm over the teacup to feel the heat of the steam. She had the impression he wanted it to burn.

“When I reverse the eviction. Then, of course.” He dropped his palm onto the rim of the cup. His fingertips touched the table and one began to drum the surface. He enunciated so his words were clear and clipped, but he couldn’t scrub the alcohol from his voice completely. Raw edges betrayed him. “Don’t worry. I’ll rise to the occasion.”

His tone—halfway between jeer and apology—disturbed her. She looked up from his hand, studied his face, presented to her in profile: heavy lines, dramatically masculine. She let her eyes trace the dark, knotted brow, then down the straight ridge of his nose. Her gaze skimmed the full, frowning lips, the jut of the chin.

“Because I’ll go to Mr. Teed?” She’d meant it as a threat, but it came out sounding like a question. She was a terrible liar. The way she’d spoken—it was tantamount to an admission the lithographer did not exist.

He turned his head and she felt the full force of his beauty press the air from her lungs. His eyes sparkled . . . with tears?

“Because I can’t bear the thought of your being turned out onto the street.” No, his eyes didn’t sparkle with tears. They sparked with something hot and dark, closer to rage than sorrow. “The world is a horrible, mean, miserable place. I’ve seen people walking into the snow with their villages burning behind them. There, it’s armies that do it, with steel. Here it’s boards, with paper. I want to do something about it.”

She let this sink in. Compassion—not blackmail—his motivator. And yet . . .

“The world?” She sat slowly in the empty chair beside him. He did nothing about the world. “You sit at the bar until the world disappears.”

His smile was all bitterness.

“Show me what you want to show me.” He stood up, stretched, reached for the ceiling beam with his fingers and pressed into it, gauging its strength. Or maybe he was holding himself upright.

“Well made,” he said.

She snorted. It felt like a provocation, his body displayed, the column of his neck lengthening as he examined the beam. He smelled like malt and smoke, cinnamon and sweat.

“Sober.”