Page 5 of Harpy of the Ton
Or, more likely,forcedhimself…
His mirth faded. What if Lady Arabella was unwilling, and her awakening to the marital bed was filled with pain and terror? Lovemaking should be a mutual sharing of pleasures, not a violation where the woman submitted to the brute who’d purchased her.
Bloody hell—one glimpse of a sad, pretty face, and I’m goin’ soft.
He glanced toward the window again. A man—the duke himself—had joined the woman, and he seemed to have his hands about her throat. She withdrew from his grip, and he bowed and disappeared, then she approached the window and looked out.
She stiffened as she met Lawrence’s gaze. For a moment, they stared at each other, then she frowned and retreated.
Lawrence resumed work. Moments later, footsteps approached.
“You there—gardener!”
It was Dunton.
“Yes, sir?”
“It’sYour Grace,” the duke snapped, before muttering under his breath, “Disrespectfulpeasant.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Lawrence said, gritting his teeth and bowing.
“How long will this all take?” Dunton gestured toward the garden.
“About a fortnight.”
“A fortnight! I hope you’re not expecting to be paid by the day, or you’ll be here forever, won’t you? I know your sort.”
“My fee is fixed, regardless of how long the work takes,” Lawrence said.
The duke narrowed his eyes. “So, if you finish sooner than expected, you’ll have earned yourself a tidy penny for less work.”
Hardly. Lawrence was barely making a profit as it was—what with the cost of the plants and his board at the King’s Head.
The duke pointed to the shrub Lawrence had just planted. “Why isn’t it flowering?”
“It flowers later in the year,” Lawrence said. “But it may not flowerthisyear—it often takes a year or two after planting for the flowers to come.”
“That’s damned inconvenient. What’s the point of a plant that doesn’t flower? Lady Arabella won’t likethat, and she’s insisting on this damned garden.”
“I’ve chosen the shrubs to ensure there’s flowers throughout the year,” Lawrence said. “You’ll find—”
“Don’t answer me back!” Dunton stepped toward Lawrence, his eyes gleaming spitefully. How many schoolfellows had he bullied at Eton or Harrow—or whatever fancy school he’d languished in while honest men worked for a living?
But rather than cower, Lawrence stretched to his full height and crossed his arms—the only way to deal with bullies.
A sharp scent assaulted his nostrils—soiled clothes and cheap perfume. Perhaps Dunton was on his way to bestow his attentions on another harlot. If he could find one who could stomach his touching her. Millie said that the girls at the King’s Head refused to service him, but there was a brothel at the other end of the village where the women were of a more robust constitution and charged Dunton an extra two shillings to satisfy his tastes.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Lawrence said. “Perhaps I should discuss the matter with Lady Arabella. Or I could attend both of you—unless you have a more pressing errand? Or we could discuss it at the King’s Head. I’m lodging there and have often seen you patronize it and other…establishmentsin the village.”
The duke shook his head. “There’s no need to disturb her. I’m afraid she suffers from nerves.” He gestured toward the shrub. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, but I’ll be watching you,boy.”
Boy?
At thirty, Lawrence hadn’t been called aboysince he’d left the schoolroom.
“Get on with it, then!” the duke said. “I want this done, and you gone, as soon as possible.”
Before Lawrence could respond, Dunton turned his back and disappeared down the path, roaring for a groom to saddle his horse.
