Page 29 of The Lady's Last Mistake
“Come now, Lady Cassandra, I am a gentleman at least forty percent of the time.”
She pretended not to hear him. “The duke will not allow a drawn-out courtship. He will corner you before long and demand you offer.”
Grant chuckled. “I rather think he will corner me and demand I sod off. But I wager we have a fortnight before that happens.”
“Wehave nothing,” she retorted swiftly. But then, more calmly, she returned to negotiations. “I am the one who will cry off. And it will be because you have done something wretched and unforgivable.”
He assented with a nod. “That will be more than believable.”
“I will allow no liberties,” she added, her voice quavering while naming the condition.
Grant pushed off the desk and came near. Close enough for her to trace his scent of cinnamon and sandalwood. “I would give you my word that I willtakeno liberties, but there is that other sixty percent of the time that needs to be accounted for.”
He wanted to get a rise out of her. Lead her into saying something he could use in some sarcastic remark. She wouldn’t give it.
“You have something to lose too, Lord Thornton. Do not forget that.” His clinic was important to him. Just as important as Hope House, she imagined.
“We both do,” he conceded. “So let us agree. These next few fortnights don’t have to be painful or unpleasant.”
She hated that he’d led her into this scheme by force. He was dangling her freedom over her head, using it to coerce her. And then acting as if they were on equal footing. She gritted her teeth so violently, they ached.
“Fine.”
He waited for her to say more, to form a new condition perhaps. When she didn’t, he nodded succinctly and stepped away from her. “There is a ball Monday night. Lord and Lady Tennenbright’s. I assume you’ve an invitation?”
She had received it last week and promptly set it aside. Lady Dutton’s ball had been the first she’d attended in some time, and that had been a glorified failure.
“I do.”
“Excellent. Attend. We will dance three times, and I’ll keep you away from all the other men. That should signal to everyone that I have an interest in you.”
The transactional performance left her cold. And furious.
“Is that all?” she asked, nipping her words.
Mischief brightened his eyes as he took his jacket from the back of his desk chair where he’d left it and inserted his arms. “It would help if you didn’t look at me as you are right now, as though I resemble a slimy snail.”
As soon as he said it, she felt the grimace tensing her facial muscles. She loosened them as well as she could.
“Just try to pretend to enjoy my company,” he said.
“Very well. But no quadrilles.” She held up a hand. “I hate the quadrille.”
Cassie leaped as frantic pounding came at the front door.
“What in God’s name…” Grant muttered, then headed for the front hall. Cassie followed, and the loud banging came again. Grant opened the door and a man rushed inside, a young boy in his arms.
“Mr. Mansouri, what’s happened?” Grant asked, clearly familiar with him.
“It is Amir,” the man said, taking the boy directly into the front room. Cassie jumped out of the way to let him pass. “He fell off a hitching post and caught his leg on a hook.”
He settled the young boy on the examination table, his pant leg soaked in blood. Grant removed the jacket he’d just put on and, once again, began to roll his cuffs.
“Miss Banks,” he said. She tore her eyes away from the boy’s bloody leg. “Fetch Miss Matthews.”
She nodded and hurried down the short hall. But the kitchen was empty.
“I think she must have left,” she told Grant once she’d hurried back to the front room. The boy, about nine or ten, whimpered as Grant used a pair of shears to cut away his torn trouser.
