Why should he, indeed?
The correct answer, of course, was that he should not. Nor should she want him to do so. But when had she ever been able to discern the difference between right and wrong when it came to the Duke of Westmorland?
Never.
Her chin tipped up in proud defiance. “You already know the answer, should you pose such an insulting question again.”
He smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. The effect rendered him less polished perfection yet somehow even more handsome. “For a lady who suggests she found my offer insulting, you certainly do seem to have a way of continually referring to it, all the same.”
He was not wrong about that, blast him. She needed to erect the walls of her defenses anew each time she saw him, it seemed. Good heavens, at this rate, she would need to build a fortress.
“I merely want my position to be clear,” she clipped.
“Your position will be just as it was before, madam.” His stare turned cool, assessing. “You will act as my typewriter, compiling the reports I provide you. You will have free reign of the library. Our paths will never cross, nor would I wish them to.”
His tone was cruel, cutting.
Good. That was what she wanted—nay, what she needed to exist between them—enmity. Not desire. Not longing. Certainly not the hunger unfurling within her traitorous body, even now.
Was she truly contemplating his offer? Why should she? One thousand pounds, whispered an insidious voice inside her. She had invested most of her funds into the school. If it failed, she would be left with only the sum she had set aside. Though that sum was not meager, one thousand pounds would go an incredibly long way toward giving her the reassurance she needed.
Still, she was suspicious of his motives. “Why do you need it to be me, Your Grace?”
“You have already proven your mettle, unlike the untried typewriters you provided initially.”
His voice was firm. Confident.
“None of the ladies I provided you were untried,” she argued. “They simply did not fulfill your unreasonable expectations.”
His lips twitched. “You are the one I want, Miss Hilgrove. Two thousand pounds is my final offer. One week of your time.”
Dear heavens, he had just doubled the amount she already considered a veritable fortune. How could she decline such an invitation? He had already said they would not be alone together.
“You must make your decision now, however,” he added.
“Very well,” she found herself relenting. “I will accept the position for one week only, and only on the condition that I do not have to see you.”
His jaw tensed. “I expect you to report to Westmorland House tomorrow at the appointed hour. Young will know what to do. I bid you good day, Miss Hilgrove.”
With an elegant bow, he took his leave of the room.
She watched him stride away, thinking herself a fool. And not just because she had agreed to his madcap proposition. But because the part of her that longed for his kisses and touch burned hotter than the fire in the grate.
Chapter Ten
“Miss Isabella Hilgrove,” announced the butler at the townhome of the Duke and Duchess of Bainbridge later that evening.
Isabella hesitated at the threshold of the opulent drawing room, still feeling rather as if she were a usurper. Her time in the country that charmed summer with Mama’s cousins had ill-prepared her for the magnitude of old familial wealth evidenced by men such as the Duke of Bainbridge and the Duke of Westmorland. If she had thought Westmorland House a monstrosity of marble, staircases, and cavernous chambers, she was positively awed by the decadence on display around her now.
But all her trepidation faded at the sight of her hostess rushing forward to greet her. “Miss Hilgrove! I feared you would be unable to join us for our little impromptu soiree this evening. How pleased I am to see you here after all. Do not tarry on the threshold. Do step inside. We are in desperate need of your opinion.”
The elegant, auburn-haired Duchess of Bainbridge was a rare beauty rendered lovelier by her innate charm and her generosity and kindness. Isabella had never met ladies such as Callie and her coterie of friends. They were, all of them, intelligent and welcoming, with a unique lack of deference to the old world’s love of rank. Though she could only claim a middling connection to her mother’s family—most of whom had turned their backs upon Mama when she had married a shopkeeper for love—none of the ladies eagerly greeting her now seemed to mind.
It set Isabella instantly at ease as she allowed herself to be guided deeper into their territory by the duchess.
“I must thank you for the honor of the invitation, Your Grace,” she told her hostess softly now. “Your Lady’s Suffrage Society is a worthy cause, and I am pleased to aid you, however I may.”
“It is intolerable that a representative government proposes to exist whilst denying representation to women, is it not?” the duchess asked, patting her arm as if they were dear old friends. “Please, do call me Bo. All my friends do. I shall call you Isabella. Miss Hilgrove seems so very proper, and no one deplores propriety more than I.”
The duchess’s candor appealed to Isabella. She found herself smiling back at her newest friend. “Propriety has its place, of course.”
“In ballrooms and at dining tables and wherever we must find ourselves kowtowing to it,” Bo agreed. “But not here, amongst good friends.”
The sumptuous carpet seemed to nearly swallow her sensible boots as Isabella followed her to the gathering of other ladies seated in a horseshoe-shaped arrangement of gilt-backed chairs. Of course, everyone in attendance was dressed as befitted their stations. She supposed she was as well, though she wished she had changed from the black day
