“Good morning, Miss Hilgrove,” he returned. “Thank you, Young. That will be all.”
The butler made his departure, leaving Isabella and the duke alone. She stood near the threshold, and this morning, also unlike the day before, it was not the massive library surrounding her which stole her breath.
“There is no time for tarrying, my dear,” he said, quite shattering the spell which had been cast upon her. “We have a great deal of work awaiting us today.”
Yes, you fool. You are here to work, not to ogle a duke you do not like.
But she had liked him yesterday. Indeed, she had been quite tempted by him yesterday.
“Of course, Your Grace.” She moved toward him. “Forgive me, but I was momentarily thrown off by the relocation of the typewriter.”
“Ah.” He gestured toward the chair awaiting her. “Sit, Miss Hilgrove. I will be dictating this morning, hence the necessity of your nearness. If you are at the opposite end of the library, you shall scarcely hear me, and I dislike having to repeat myself.”
The sharpness in his tone was a bleak reminder of why she did not like him. He had no inkling of the proper manner in which he ought to speak to others. He was arrogant and dreadful. He had sent three of her typewriters home in tears.
“Naturally, I would not wish to displease Your Grace in any way.” If her words were stiff, tinged with a hint of challenge, it could not be helped.
Their brief, rare clash in his private library the night before had produced a strange confusion within her. For a few, lost moments, she had been someone else, wrapped in the cocoon of the wine, wearing one of her best dresses, feeling falsely feminine. Almost alluring. Had she believed he had stared at her lips as if he wanted to claim them with his kiss?
It had been the wine.
Never again, she vowed as she seated herself and prepared her posture for a long morning of typing. The machine before her, like everything else in Westmorland House, was the best money could procure. Set in a sleek mahogany case with ebony keys, it looked more like a musical instrument a virtuoso might employ rather than the workhorse typewriters she had on hand in her school. Typing upon it yesterday had been an undeniable joy. Seeing it once more before her now was a reminder of the vast difference between their social strata.
She glanced up from her perusal of the expensive machine to find him seated, watching her with an inscrutable expression.
“You are ready to begin, Miss Hilgrove?” he asked solemnly.
Her fingertips settled upon the smooth keys. “Begin at your leisure, Your Grace.”
His stare still riveted upon her, he began. “Twelfth January, eighteen hundred eighty-five…”
Knowing his gaze remained upon her left her flustered. But she forced herself to listen to the deep baritone of his voice above the strokes of her keys and the rapid striking of the hammer as letter by letter, his words appeared upon the page.
He spoke rapidly, but her fingers were agile from years of practice, first on the piano, and then later on the typewriter models her father had begun selling in his shop. She could keep pace with the duke easily. Part of her relished the sound of his voice as he unemotionally relayed an account of recent Fenian arrests made in the wake of the death of Drummond McKenna. Another part of her was grateful for the distraction.
Time passed by with relative ease until at last the duke came to the conclusion of his narrative.
“I believe we shall pause there,” he said suddenly, “in favor of some sustenance. Would you care for some tea and biscuits, Miss Hilgrove?”
The abrupt shift took her by surprise.
Tea and biscuits with the Duke of Westmorland? Yesterday, she had taken her tea at her desk while he had gone elsewhere for a brief break.
“I am not sure that would be wise, Your Grace,” she managed. “If you have other reports for me to type, I would be more than happy to carry on with those while you take your tea.”
“Are you not hungry? I am certain I heard a stomach rumbling a time or two in the last quarter hour.”
Her face flamed. Her traitorous stomach had been the source of the inglorious rumbling, and no doubt because there was nothing in it.
“A gentleman would not comment upon such an indelicacy,” she said, unable to squelch her dismay.
Quite likely, the stomachs of ladies never rumbled. Or if they did, they employed a clever ruse to cover up the sound. She ought to have coughed, she thought mulishly now. Or laughed.
“I am not precisely a gentleman, my dear,” he drawled, his brilliant eyes once more upon her, assessing. “I thought you may have realized that by now.”
He was dressed like a gentleman. Indeed, he was dressed like the elegant, wealthy duke he was. And she had once more dressed in a serviceable black day gown to nettle him. There was no hint of the lady she had fleetingly allowed herself to be, for the span of dinner last night.
Belatedly, she realized her gaze was traveling over his broad shoulders and strong arms, encased in his well-tailored coat. She jerked her eyes back to his, cheeks hotter still. “I believe I am beginning to understand that.”
A small smile curved his lips. “Do not forget it, Miss Hilgrove. I have every intention of winning this wager of ours. First, however, tea.”
She opened her mouth to politely thank him and decline.
“Yes,” she said instead.
And she had no earthly idea why.
Benedict had no earthly idea why he had invited Miss Hilgrove to take tea and biscuits with him.
Very well, fair enough. Her stomach had rumbled. Twice. He had taken note, and he had realized she had likely not breakfasted that morning. Out of economy? Lack of funds? It had startled
