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“I don’t want her growing up thinking she’s too good for a day’s work, but also knowing that her place will be beside another duke or, God willing, the next king, so it’s important she learn when to speak and when to be quiet,” he continues and I stare at him.
When to be quiet? He’s already thinking of who she’ll marry? She’s not even ready to go to the school-room for full-time hours each day. She’s barely out of toddlerhood.
He sounds so clinical and detached, like he’s giving me instructions on how to water his begonias. It shocks me, and I think of my own parents raising me.
They never cared much for me, or any of my siblings, doing what they had to in order to survive their marriage to each other, but— at least they taught us to speak our own minds. I guess they wanted us to go our own way in the world and not be sent back to the leading strings because we couldn’t defend ourselves, or speak out when needed.
But what am I supposed to say?
“Of course, your Grace,” I say, quietly seething. His eyes lift off of his screen for the second time since I’ve walked into the room, and he properly looks at me. He goes still, his eyes boring into mine.
I freeze, a deer caught in the predator’s gaze.
“Do you think my demands unfairly harsh?” He asks, voice quiet and hushed. It’s a dangerous trap. He’s allowing me a moment to show myself, if I want to.
“Of course not, your Grace,” I reply. His face, neutral up until now, turns up into a grim smile.
“The courts in D.C. are filled with vipers. My daughter will have to navigate that with all risk that comes with it. She cannot secure the duchy through her line, and must make her own way in life without that title to afford her protection.” He’s staring me down, as if he knows exactly what I think about him andhis little plan to ‘school’ his daughter, and finds me lacking the experience to understand why it must be that way. “She needs to know when to be quiet. It may be the only thing that saves her at times.”
He smirks.
“Just like you know when to be quiet and not contradict your employer,” he says as he waves a hand toward himself. “Or did you think that your impotent rage went unnoticed? Mrs. Harris wouldn’t like your tone. She’d call it impertinent.”
“I’m sorry, your Grace,” I say, taking a breath before I speak so that I can say his title without gritting my teeth. He might be handsome, but he’s arrogant. His ego emanates from him. “I wouldn’t know, but if I had a choice in the matter, I wouldn’t send my daughter to any court or place where she’d be eaten alive for speaking.”
Ah, shit. Shouldn't have said that.
I’m dead. His gaze flickers, and he laughs, a short, sharp bark.
“How little you know,” he says, “and how very much you inform the world on what knowledge you do not possess.”
His words are like a slap right across my face, and even though I should shut my mouth right now, and say nothing more, I can’t help it. It spills out of me, an unstoppable force, spurred on by his rudeness, hislackof grace despite the title.
“I know enough that you considered me a serious contender for the role of looking after your daughter,” I say, drawing myself up, refusing to be brought small by him. In that moment everything falls away. My need for the job, my need to hide here in these guarded walls. None of it matters. There have been somany women like me, like the woman Lady Madeline will be one day, who’ve been asked to stay quiet. What would the duke say, if I told him of Benedict’s behaviors? The marquis is as much a bad apple as any man who thinks he can take what he wants. And women like us are expected to stay silent about it. It rasps over my skin like a burn, and I will not back down. “So clearly I have something you want.”
He gets to his feet at my words, surging forward. His chair rolls back, and his hands grip the edge of his desk, and for a moment I think he’s going to come over the top of it at me, grab me by the throat and physically toss me from the room. I jerk, stepping back as his eyes flash.
His jaw is tight, column of his neck hard as he stares me down. His fingers flex on the edge of the desk, and our eyes are connected for a long moment.
He’s staring at me like he wants to destroy me.
My heart is slamming hard and fast inside my rib-cage. Every instinct is screaming at me to run. He’s a predator. I’m prey, helpless and weak. I should never have challenged him like this.
His lips part.
He’s going to tell me to get out.
Instead his gaze slides away from me, toward the windows, to watch the breeze in the vineyards beyond the glass.
“You’re dismissed, Miss Bell,” he says.
“You’re firing me?” I squeak and he snorts, sitting back down, relaxing into the back of his chair with a sigh.
“No. But get out of my office.” He waves a hand lazily toward the door. I hesitate. “Now!” He snaps and I bolt, rabbiting out of the room. I pull the door closed behind me, and Mrs. Harris is standing there, staring at me like I’ve grown an extra limb. She obviously heard most of my exchange with the duke.
“Have you lost control of all your senses?” She hisses, and then shakes her head. “Never-mind. Let me show you to the kitchens, you’ll be down there quite a bit. If you last the week.”
I follow her, meekly, my shoulders rounded.
