“Miss Shanley is one of the fastest typists in my employ,” she defended poor Mary. “Her mother is a celebrated opera singer, and her voice is quite pleasing. There was no call to be so cutting with her.”
“I do not find humming pleasing,” he countered, his voice grim. “Show me the man who wants to listen to warbling whilst he is attempting to concentrate, I beg you.”
“Mrs. Camberley is a slower typist than Miss Shanley, I will own, but she is dedicated and persistent,” she continued, ignoring his biting remarks as she defended Eloise this time. “Her work is error free.”
He changed his stance now, placing his hands on the back of his chair, strumming his long fingers upon the surface as if he were bored. “It had damned well better be error free when it takes her nearly an entire day to type one bloody page of reports.”
“And Miss Long’s devotion was so strong that she reported for duty although she was not feeling her best,” she concluded, championing Clementina now. “All three typists sent to you are incredibly competent and some of the best our school has to offer, and yet you have bullied, threatened, and otherwise mistreated them. Indeed, Your Grace, had I been aware I was sending my ladies to suffer such ill-treatment, I would have declined your request for aid.”
“Here now, madam.” His fingers stilled and his mouth—a thoroughly sensual mouth, she had noted against her will—thinned. “I neither bullied, threatened, nor mistreated any of the meager offerings your school provided.”
Meager offerings?
Next, he would suggest something thoroughly wrongheaded, such as the supposition a man would be better suited to the role.
“You most certainly did,” she countered, thinking of Mary’s torrent of tears upon her return. “I greatly regret sending three of my typists to you, as now I am in the untenable position of having to reassure my ladies I am capable of finding them agreeable situations.”
The tenseness fled from his countenance, and once more, he was all self-assured arrogance. He smiled then. “Ah, I begin to see the problem.”
“Yes.” Still, she would not falter or drag her gaze from his, even if he incited a riot of unwanted sensation roiling through her. Most certainly, she was not attracted to him. Men of his ilk held no allure for her. “The problem is you.”
“I am the problem?” he repeated, as if she had spoken to him in a foreign language.
As if he could not comprehend a lady failing to fawn all over him. Undoubtedly, most women of his acquaintance did. He was unusually handsome. Not even his arrogance could diminish that undeniable fact. Her dislike of him did not render him any less attractive.
But that was not the reason for her pounding pulse, she told herself firmly. That was all down to her ire.
“Yes, Your Grace. You are the problem.” On a deep breath, she warmed to her cause. “No other establishment or individual to whom I have provided a typist has ever reacted in such fashion. Therefore, the sole conclusion I can draw is that you are in err. Meanwhile, it is the reputation of my school which is being jeopardized by your hasty actions. I demand a written apology from you, to each of the typists you chased away, along with a formal recommendation of my school to be printed in the Times.”
His bright-blue gaze narrowed upon her. “Shall I also offer my firstborn child as sacrifice? Perhaps I should kneel before you in Trafalgar Square and vow my eternal fealty.”
He was making light of her request. Mocking her once more.
I will not box his ears, she reminded herself. I will not box this arrogant, vexing, beautiful scoundrel’s ears.
“Of course I should not have expected a reasonable response from an autocrat who refuses to call me by proper surname but instead chooses to belittle me and make a mockery of my typists and school both.” She kept her voice cold, trying not to allow him to see the depths of her irritation.
“Madam, my response to you is the direct product of your unexpected interruption of my day, coupled with the graceless accusations you have hurled at me.” He skirted the desk once more, stalking toward her.
She held her ground, refusing to move as he approached, bringing with him a sense of electric energy she could not help but to feel. Something in her belly unfurled.
She ruthlessly quashed it. “And my response to you is likewise the product of your actions, sirrah.”
He stopped before her, towering over her. He was insufferably tall, the Duke of Westmorland. His shoulders were quite broad, his chest a veritable wall. With her petite stature, she felt quite small, a mouse before a lion. His scent reached her then, and much to her dismay, it was a very pleasant, spicy blend of cologne.
“I believe we are at an impasse, Miss Hilgrove,” he announced, using her true name for the first time.
“You do recall it after all,” she muttered to herself.
“Madam?” His voice was sharp, much like his rigid jaw.
“My name,” she elucidated. “I was persuaded you had forgotten.”
He made a sound low in his throat, part growl. “I propose an armistice. I will not apologize to your hen-witted typists. However, I will endorse your school, provided that you can prove to me you are competent.”
His suggestion took her by surprise. “I have nothing to prove to you, and neither are my typists hen-witted.”
“I require a demonstration,” he insisted coolly, his gaze once more flicking over her, assessing.
That iced-blue stare seemed to sear her. She told herself to remain calm. She told herself the endorsement of the Duke of Westmorland would be a boon to her school. That it would aid in her plans to grow and open more schools throughout the country. She was building an empire, after all, one which helped her and all her ladies.
“What manner of demonstration?” she allowed, reluctantly.
A predatory smile spread over his well-sculpted
