His smug arrogance, was it? Oh, ho. Things had just gotten decidedly more interesting.
The Duke of Westmorland was an arrogant, autocratic arse. Isabella had known it prior to her arrival at his Grosvenor Square residence, and she knew it now more than ever. He was the sort of gentleman she despised. Wealthy, powerful, and expecting everyone about him to bend to suit his whims. He was a handsome devil, sauntering about his study in the fashion of a man who was all too aware of his looks.
Fortunately for her, she was as unaffected by an attractive face as she was of ducal airs.
“Ah,” he said, seeming to mock her announcement, both with his raised brows and the tone of his voice. “You are the proprietress of the establishment which purports to provide highly trained typists.”
He was definitely mocking her, the bounder.
She had come prepared for battle, however, and she was not about to let him win. “We do not purport to provide highly trained typists. We do provide them. I oversee the training courses of all my typists, ensuring each is rigorously inured to the new system of typing with all ten digits. I personally guarantee each of my typists is the most proficient and accurate of any typist in all England.”
“How enlightening.” Once again, his pleasant baritone contained an edge of derision she could not help but note.
He was worse than poor Mary had described, she thought grimly.
More wretched than Eloise had suggested.
Every bit as insufferable as Clementina had warned, in between bouts of tears.
But he was an important part of the Home Office, she reminded herself. And opportunities to place her typists within various branches of government were hard won, not to be dismissed. She had dozens of women relying upon her to find them respectable positions. Women who were intelligent and hard-working. Women who could become independent and live their lives without needing to subject themselves to the tyranny of marriages with pompous men such as the one before her.
“Your Grace,” she began with care, attempting to keep her disdain for him from her voice and expression both, “perhaps we may get to the reason for my call to you this afternoon.”
He gave her a long, slow perusal, beginning at her head, then raking down her form. “No.”
Was it her imagination, or had the blighter lingered upon her bosom? Why were her cheeks so bloody hot? Oh, now he had her cursing, devil take him, when she had been doing so well to purge all such unworthy thoughts from her mind.
But she must keep her mind settled upon the task at hand.
“No?” she repeated as she found her tongue, incredulous. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. Why would you deny me the opportunity to discuss the necessity behind my audience with you today?”
“Because there is no necessity in your audience with me,” he said curtly, cocking his head to one side as if to offer her a challenge. “I can discern already that you are aquiver with incredulity, Miss Killjoy.”
Briefly, she entertained the fantasy of closing the distance between them and boxing his elegant ears.
“It is Miss Hilgrove,” she gritted through clenched teeth, “as you well know, Your Grace.”
“But Miss Killjoy seems so much more apt.” He turned away from her then and sauntered casually—hands clasped behind his back as if he were a man at leisure—to his big, ornately carved desk.
“There is no need to be disrespectful,” she snapped at him, irked beyond her ability to hold her tongue now.
Everything about the Duke of Westmorland set her on edge. She could not fathom by what means the Home Office had chosen to venerate him with a position so closely tied to domestic safety. The Fenians were laying bombs all over London, and it seemed horridly absurd that such an arrogant cad could be supposed to save them all from the looming menace.
“I intend no disrespect, madam,” He stood behind his desk now, as if he were a king upon his throne. His shockingly blue eyes seemed to sear her as they met her gaze. “Indeed, it is you who has paid me an insult by barging into my study when I am in the midst of important work. And this after providing me with inexperienced, unacceptable supposed typists. I understand that you claim to offer them training, Miss Killjoy, truly I do. However, I must regretfully inform you that your training is woefully insufficient.”
He still refused to call her by her true name. And he was being dismissive now. To say nothing of the rude fashion in which he dismissed her careful, rigorous studies for her typists—all created by Isabella herself—and the excellent typists she had sent him, each of whom he had dismissed within hours of their initial placement with him.
She marched toward his desk, for he had thrown down the gauntlet, and she was picking it up. Her temper, ever one of her weaknesses, controlled her now. Along with her senses of justice and pride. “How dare you suggest my training is insufficient? Or that any of the three incredibly proficient typists allocated to you were inexperienced? I will have you know that each of them engaged in arduous training specifically designed by myself.”
His expression was bland, imperturbable. “Miss Killjoy, the first typist you sent hummed to herself as she completed a task. When I suggested to her how distracting I found her habit, she burst into tears and fled. The second had all the torpor of a lame horse and as much dedication to her task as a corpse. The third was ill. I will not countenance a pestilence-ridden typist, you understand. My work is far too important, and I cannot afford to have a contagion in my midst.”
He was still referring to her as Miss Killjoy, the knave. It
