Why had she rebuffed his apology? After all, it was something she never dreamed she would hear from his lips. Even as she pondered it, though, deep within she knew. It was not nearly enough. The hurt he had inflicted upon her had not been addressed.
Unwilling to look his way again, she listened. Alas, Joseph must’ve been sitting still as a statue, the way he used to do when challenged. Thinking. Waiting. Her ears only picked up the sounds of Walter puffing out soft barks as he scratched at some corner of the room, probably digging a hole in the unsightly, yet no doubt expensive rug that ran nearly the room’s entire length and width. Oh well. It was not her home, and therefore not her problem.
Mrs. Hartley and her son would return. And here she was, packing up, her cheeks likely an unsightly mottled mess of flaming red and freckles, her progress nowhere near where she’d hoped it would be by the end of the sitting. She released an angry huff, snapping her tin of pencils closed.
How she wished she could be a fine lady, with the refined dignity to express her scorn with no more than a lifted eyebrow and a long, drawn-out silence. But she could not. Not when she had so many things to say, so many accusations to level.
“And just what did you—” she started, only to cut herself off with a gasp when she turned to find a pristine folded white handkerchief thrust in her face.
Joseph stood before her, the intensity about his dark eyes the only hint to what emotions roiled beneath the aristocratic mask.
“What—”
“You’ve a smudge.”
“Oh.” She snatched the handkerchief, suddenly feeling very unsure of herself. Across the room a large mirror hung. She went to it. “You startled me,” she murmured as she wiped away the charcoal mark. Before turning about, she tucked back the bits of her hair that had escaped their pins.
He watched her as she came back toward him, with such focus that Rose dropped her eyes.
“Here,” she said, extending the handkerchief back to him, her arm stretching to its full extent as if she could not bear to have it near her body.
“Keep it. Something to remember me by,” Joseph said, his lip curling. “Over the next ten years.” He spat out those last words, throwing down the gauntlet.
Her fist clenched, crushing the fine starched linen. “Oh, is that how it’s to be?You’rehurt? You?!”
“Yes,” he said. “I think I deserve an explanation of whatever charges you lay at my feet. Rather than packing up without a by-your-leave and hightailing it back to your little coaching inn.Again.”
“Ugh!” She threw up her hands. “You and your… your…” she stuttered. A flurry of colorful epithets raced through her head, but she dared not speak them. Not yet, anyhow. Finally she settled on, “Your entitlement! Once more offering your unsolicited and unwanted opinion.”
He advanced on her, holding his walking stick before him like some shepherd’s crook. Rose narrowed her eyes and sneered.
“What evenisthat thing? A weapon?”
“It was a gift,” he said through gritted teeth, but he lowered it back to the floor, resting his hand gingerly atop it. “From my father. Not that you’d understand, but when one is thusentitled,one tends to accept what is given in good faith. As well as everything else.”
Suddenly she recalled the cheque from the Earl of Ipsley in her pocket. A shot of panic went through her, but she steadied herself. For how would Joseph know of it? Even as he now stood a mere few feet in front of her, she crossed her arms, unflinching, one eyebrow raised and heart racing.
“Oh? And howisyour father? And your sisters?”
A small muscle in his neck flexed. “They’re well. Thank you.”
“Liar. I doubt you’ve laid eyes on any one of them in the last year.”
His face twisted up in disgust, and she knew herself to be correct.
“So keen you are to see me take on the mantle of RoseDriffield, yet you can barely tolerate owning a mere half of your own sire’s name.” Her breathing came quickly now, she was so riled. “Thehypocrisy,” she spat.
Joseph rolled his jaw, his thick eyebrows drawn.
They glared at one another, so close now that were she to take but one step forward they would crash together. Somewhere in the room Walter barked in alarm.
They both looked to the dog, who was thankfully not at the door, but at an empty space along the adjacent wall. He stood before it, barking nonsensically. And furiously.
Amid the brief ceasefire, her emotions crystallized. It wasn’t that Joseph Palgrave singularly irritated her.
It was that he’d broken her heart.
Chapter Six
