Page 2 of Defending the Duke (The St. Clairs 4)

It wasn’t an invitation.

Laurel sat and watched as he flipped through different ledgers. He nodded to himself sometimes and clucked his tongue in disapproval twice. Every now and then, he would ask her a question and she was thankful she was able to answer it to his satisfaction.

Finally, Farmon closed what he perused and studied her. She felt herself grow warm under his intense scrutiny.

“You know numbers, I’ll give you that.”

“Women can add, you know,” she snapped, once again regretting her flare of temper.

His hand shot out and grasped her wrist. She froze. Her eyes met his and she saw he wanted to intimidate her. She swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to keep her fear locked away.

“How would you like to run this store?” he casually asked.

It would be a wonderful opportunity—if Julius Farmon wasn’t her employer.

“What about Mr. Cole?” she countered.

“I’m buying the chandlery from Cole,” he replied. “Since you’re familiar with everything and have a good system in place, you would be his natural replacement. I wouldn’t have to train anyone else.”

Excitement mixed with disgust. Laurel didn’t want to work for this man but if she ran the shop, it would mean more money. If Hudson did leave, she would be able to care for Mama.

Cautiously, she said, “I earn money both as a clerk and for keeping the books. What would my salary be if I managed the store?”

Farmon smiled, his teeth yellow and crooked. She shivered, sensing evil within him.

“The same.”

His answer startled her. Maybe he hadn’t understood her question and so she decided to clarify things for him.

“If I gained more responsibility by managing the place, I should be fairly compensated,” she pointed out.

“You would run it. And continue to serve as both clerk and bookkeeper.”

“Then why wouldn’t I receive more salary?” she asked, her voice rising in anger. “Because I am a woman?”

“Your salary remains the same.” An odd glow entered his eyes. “But I do have a way you could earn more. If you’d like to take advantage of a... unique opportunity.”

Her stomach twisted. “What would it involve?”

“Making me happy.”

She might be a young woman of eighteen but she’d grown up just the other side of poverty—and knew exactly what Farmon meant.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” she said stiffly. She rose, hoping to throw off his fingers, but they still held her wrist firmly.

Farmon also came to his feet. “You are exactly who I want to service me. You will accept my offer. You’ll run the store by day and keep me happy at night. Both will keep you plenty busy.”

“No!” she said, jerking her arm away. “I am not that kind of woman.”

He laughed. “Every woman in your position is that kind of woman, Miss Wright. Despite your haughty airs and skill with numbers, look at you. That threadbare gown. The drawn look to your cheeks. Being too thin from not eating enough. And I hear that pretty mother of yours is doing poorly. Surely, you want to make sure she’s taken care of properly?”

His fingers slid to grip her forearm. His touch repulsed her. She took a step back, freeing herself.

“I repeat. I am not that kind of woman, Mr. Farmon.”

“You’re saving yourself for marriage?” he asked, a sly look in his eyes. “Too bad your mother didn’t.”

“Leave my mother out of it,” she snapped. “She is the best person I know. You aren’t fit to even mention her name.”

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