Page 9 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

“Better to be a newspaper hawker than a lily of the field like you,” she shot back, those tawny eyes flashing gold sparks, showing that Miss Deverill possessed not only a stubborn streak, but also a temper.

“A lily of the field?” Henry thought of the duties that filled his days and worried his nights, and he almost wanted to laugh. “Is that what I am?”

“You toil not, neither do you spin, yet you believe you are entitled to wield power over the lives of those around you.”

“I believe that I am entitled to wield that power because it is borne of my position. I am a duke. With a high rank comes high responsibility. That is how the world works.”

“Not my world.”

“I’m sure, but might we leave a discussion of that fact and your world for another day?”

“Certainly,” she agreed at once, gesturing to the door behind him. “I’m sure you have important, ducal things to do, like attend balls and go to race meetings. While I, on the other hand, must attend to the insignificant little task of earning my living. So, by all means, take your leave, sir.”

“Balls? Race meetings? Does that encompass the entirety of your knowledge about a duke’s duties?”

“Well, those things do seem to be the greatest preoccupations of your set. And the appropriateness of who marries whom, of course.”

Despite the pert sweetness of that last comment, her resentment was palpable, and he wondered if in addition to being a newspaper hawker, a suffragist, and a spinster, she was also a Marxist. “You have no grasp of what being a duke means.”

“And you have no grasp of what it’s like to earn one’s living.”

“Nor do I wish to.”

“A declaration that does not in the least surprise me. From the look of those clothes, work wouldn’t suit you.”

He opened his mouth to fire off a reply, but as badly as he wanted to set her straight about the duties required of men of his rank, a glance at the clock on her wall reminded him of his priorities. Unfortunately, he still didn’t know anything more about his mother’s plans than he had when he’d arrived here. “It is clear you are unaware of the many responsibilities of the nobility, Miss Deverill, but much to my regret, I do not have the time or inclination to instruct you on the subject. Finding my mother is the only thing I care about just now.”

“And in that regard, as I have already said, I cannot help you.”

He studied her face and knew he was wasting his time. Whether because she genuinely did not know his mother’s whereabouts, or because she was refusing to part with the information because of her misguided prejudice against his class or because of some absurd notion of journalistic integrity, he could not be sure. But whatever her knowledge or her motives, she was clearly not going to be of any assistance to him.

“Then, I shall bid you good day.” He gave her a bow, took up his hat from the desk and turned to go. By the door, however, he paused, one hand on the knob, and he turned to look at her over his shoulder. “But before I go, there is one thing I should like you to consider, if you would.”

She looked at him as if she’d rather swallow poison than consider anything he might have to say, but he forced himself to wait, and after a moment, her curiosity seemed to overcome her resentment. “And what is that?”

“I should like you to consider what impact your decisions may have on the lives of other people. If my mother suffers ridicule and condemnation because of you and your publication, what responsibility do you bear? If her life is ruined, what consequences should there be for yours? Given the part you will have played in her downfall, what punishment will you deserve?”

She inhaled sharply. “Is that a threat?” she asked, her chin tilting up in defiance. “There is nothing you can do to me, sir.”

“You think not?” He gave her a pitying smile. “Oh, my dear Miss Deverill.”

His words, soft and dangerous, caused a flicker of concern in those tawny eyes, a reaction he found quite satisfying under the circumstances. “If my mother corresponds with you in future,” he went on as he donned his hat, “I doubt you will inform me of the fact, but I hope you will have the courtesy to tell her that her family is worried about her and would like news of her. And by the way,” he added as he opened the door, “I am not a ‘sir.’ That title is reserved for knights. I am a duke, and properly addressed by a commoner such as yourself as ‘Your Grace.’” With that, he walked out and closed the door behind him, leaving her no chance to reply, which he could only deem a very good thing. In dealing with a woman like Miss Deverill, any man would be wise to ensure to always get in the last word. Otherwise, she’d devour the poor sod for breakfast.

Chapter 3

In all her twenty-six years, Irene had never known she possessed a hot temper. She’d always considered herself a levelheaded sort of person: calm, steady, and reasonably good-natured, but as she watched the door swing shut behind the Duke of Torquil, she felt anything but calm and steady, and she realized she had been quite mistaken in her own character.

She wanted to go chasing after him and tell him just what he could do with his pointless forms of address and his condescending manner, but she could not seem to move. Her feet felt embedded in the floor, her body burned as if on fire, and her blood seethed through her veins like lava. All in all, she felt like a mountain in the full throes of a volcanic eruption. If smoke had started billowing from her ears, she would not have been surprised.

“Oh,” she said, a huff of air that seemed dismally inadequate to the situation, but there was no other satisfactory outlet for her feelings. The knowledge that her outrage was of the impotent variety only served to increase it. “Oh!” she said again, her hands balling into fists. “What an awful man!”

The door opened, and Clara came in, a tea tray balanced on her forearm. She stopped by the door, glancing around in surprise as she shifted the tray back to both hands. “He’s gone already?”

“Unless he’s lingering in the outer office like some harbinger of doom,” Irene muttered, scowling, “then, yes, he’s gone. Thank goodness.”

Her gratitude at the man’s departure did not seem shared by Clara, who looked inexplicably let down. “And I fetched tea from the kitchen and everything,” she said, lifting the tray in her hands a bit higher as she came into the room.

“He wasn’t worth the trouble.”

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