Lord Stafford was arrogantly appraising her. He appeared to expect an indication of surrender, but she wouldn’t be cowed, wouldn’t grovel. She wouldn’t let him see how terribly his behavior had wounded her.
“Will that be all, Miss Wilson?” he snidely asked.
“Yes, Lord Stafford, that will be all.”
“Your neighbors aren’t quite as concerned as you imagined them to be.”
“No, they’re not.”
“I presume I won’t have to hear any complaints from you in the future.”
“No, you won’t have to.”
“Don’t pester me. Don’t knock on my door. Don’t ever again harass me with your frivolous grievances.”
She wanted to say, they’re not frivolous, but what would be the point?
“I won’t, milord. I apologize for bothering you.” At having to beg his pardon, she nearly choked.
Having sufficiently demonstrated his authority, he gave an imperious, benevolent nod. “Why don’t you help yourself to the seed and the ale before it’s gone?”
If he’d slapped her, he couldn’t have been more insulting.
Anger washed through her, and she wished she had the temerity to march up the steps and shake him until his teeth rattled. But as swiftly as her fury had flared, it fizzled out, replaced by a desolate sense of betrayal.
Her burdens pressed down on her, so heavy that she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She was just a woman—with no skills or abilities worth mentioning.
The life she’d known, the life she’d wanted for Nan and Nell, had vanished, and she had no idea how to get it back. Was he aware that they were about to be tossed out on the road? Did he care?
She was sure he didn’t.
Because he’d kissed her, because he’d gazed at her with lust in his heart, she’d imbued him with honorable traits he didn’t possess.
He wasn’t the man she’d believed him to be, and the despair she was suffering over her mistake was all out of proportion to the facts of the situation. He was a brute, not a champion. Why had she anticipated a different result?
She was awfully close to crying, and she could barely keep from falling to the ground in a bereft heap.
Mute and defiant, she peered up at him, refusing to be the first to glance away. For a short, fraught interval, he met her stare, and apparently, he was capable of some shame.
He whipped away and went into the house. His brother and Mr. Mason tagged after him. As they departed, Mason glared down at her, his threat and menace clear.
What would happen now? In light of how easily her protest had been quashed, her trivial stand was pathetic. She had no power or influence to wield, so there’d be no stopping any further calamity.
From out by the barn, she could hear laughter and camaraderie, the ale jugs uncorked. There would be hours of merriment, then reality would sink in. She might have joined them, but at that moment, she didn’t want to see any of them ever again.
And when Mr. Mason evicted the next family, when people were outraged and they came knocking . . . well . . .
She turned the other way, toward the woods and the cottage that would be hers for a few more days, and started the long walk home.
“She always was a troublemaker,” Benedict Mason was blathering.
“Was she?” Nicholas asked, not really listening.
“Just like her father. He complained constantly.”
“Good thing he’s deceased then.” Nicholas was being sarcastic, but Mason didn’t recognize his mockery for what it was.
“Yes, his death was a blessing in disguise for us,” Mason rudely said. “He never should have taught her to read and write. It’s made her feel superior.”
Stephen chimed in. “There’s naught worse than an educated woman.”
“No, there isn’t,” Mason concurred.
It was only the second occasion that Nicholas had spent any time around Mason, and he had a brusque, curt personality that was grating. Nicholas had quickly figured out why his tenants were so upset. It was bad enough for an employee to be let go, but when the words were delivered in such a harsh fashion, by such a gruff, unpleasant individual, it had to be doubly hard to accept the consequences.
They were strolling down the hall, headed for Nicholas’s library, when he passed a window and could see down into the drive. Miss Wilson was still there. What was wrong with her? Why hadn’t she left? He yanked away, not anxious to view the dismal picture she painted.
He hated to admit it, but he’d been extremely proud of how she’d dared to confront him. She was so passionate, so devoted to her cause. It was rare to witness such blind, potent determination.
He’d known that he could crush her revolt in its infancy. But he was sorry for how he’d embarrassed her, and he was incensed at how she’d been deserted by her cowardly allies.
What kind of men were they? What kind of neighbors? They’d pushed her to be their leader, but at the first hint of conflict, they’d abandoned her.
He was glad none of the spineless oafs served in his regiment. He wouldn’t want any of them guarding his back.
In the library, he sat at the ostentatious desk, struggling to focus as Mason spewed numbers about crops and harvest and austerity measures, but he couldn’t concentrate. Miss Wilson kept distracting him. There at the end, she’d been so forlorn. For a wild instant, he’d thought she might burst into tears, but she hadn’t, and he was very relieved.
If she’d begun to weep, he’d have felt as if he was kicking a puppy.
“Where does Miss Wilson live?” he asked, interrupting one of Mason’s speeches.
“Miss Wilson?” Mason appeared confused, as if she—having been vanquished—was so far from his mind that he didn’t remember who she was.
“Is she still residing on the estate?”
“Yes, but not in the house her father occupied. I’ve supplied them with other quarters away from the main buildings.”
“Them?” Nicholas inquired. “She has
