“This entry here,” Joan said, pointing to a line in the ledger. “What does ‘miscellaneous improvements’ refer to? The sum is rather large.”
“Repairs to the tenant cottages,” the Duke replied. “New roofs, primarily. The storms last winter were quite severe.”
Joan made a note in the margin and continued reading. A maid entered silently and placed a tea tray on the edge of the desk, well within the Duke’s reach. He lifted the cup bringing it to his lips without spilling a drop.
Joan watched him despite herself. His movements were fluid and assured, showing no hesitation or uncertainty. He navigated his own limited vision with remarkable skill.
“How do you do that?” she asked before she could stop herself.
The Duke lowered his cup and turned his face toward her. “Do what, precisely?”
Joan felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I meant—that is—how can you perform certain tasks without difficulty if your eyesight is so impaired?”
The Duke’s posture relaxed slightly. “I can see,” he said. “Simply not with the clarity I once possessed. I can perceive shapes and movement, distinguish between light and dark. Sunlight is unbearable—it causes terrible pain—but in dimmer conditions I can manage reasonably well.”
“You are unbearable,” Joan muttered under her breath.
The Duke’s head snapped toward her. “I beg your pardon?”
Oh God. He heard that.
“Nothing, Your Grace,” Joan said quickly.
“Indeed,” the Duke replied thoughtfully. “It is a sentiment I have encountered… in other quarters.”
Joan’s composure fractured at once. “Your Grace!”
“Do not look so outraged, Miss Sinclair.” His smile was wickedly amused. “I assure you, I am not in the habit of making foolish assumptions.”
“Nor am I in the habit of inviting them!” Joan shot back before she could reconsider.
The Duke laughed—a genuine sound of amusement that transformed his severe features. “Then why did you pretend to fall earlier? Surely not just to have an excuse to touch me?”
“I did not pretend!” Joan’s voice rose despite her best efforts to maintain composure. “I genuinely tripped! I would never—I have no interest in you!”
“Whatever you say, Miss Sinclair.” The Duke’s tone suggested he believed absolutely nothing she was saying.
Joan opened her mouth to protest further, but no words came out. She was so angry she was actually shaking, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
The Duke took another sip of his tea, seemingly oblivious to her fury. “I suggest you focus on your work, Miss Sinclair. We haven’t all day”
She forced herself to take a deep breath. Then another. Violence against a duke would not help her secure the hall for the children and would likely land her in prison.
No matter how satisfying it might feel in the moment.
She turned back to the ledger, her jaw clenched so tightly she feared her teeth might crack. Her fingers gripped the pen with enough force to snap it in half.
Never had she wanted to punch someone so badly in her entire life.
CHAPTER SIX
Joan had endured two full weeks of the Duke’s insufferable company, five days of biting her tongue while he made infuriating comments.
But she had also spent those days reading through his meticulously kept accounts, marveling at the care he took with his estate despite his impairment.
He kept his word.
“The hall is yours,” he had said, sliding a set of keys across the desk toward her.
