At least some of the fellows responsible had hopefully beaten him to the task, by rendering themselves nothing more than flotsam in the Thames.
“Turn,” he repeated, not wanting to think about the dynamitards and the Fenian menace.
Perhaps for ten minutes, he could entertain himself by nettling this unique and thorny woman. At least, until he sent her on her way like he had her predecessors.
“I do not understand, Your Grace.” Her hauteur was more defined than ever. She drew herself up, as if she could make herself seem larger or menacing.
The color in her cheeks had deepened, and he found himself staring at the high collar of her gown, the place where silk and creamy feminine skin met. Setting his lips there suddenly seemed like the most delicious prospect in the world.
But he knew Miss Hilgrove had no intention of allowing herself to be seduced. Moreover, he hardly had the time to spare for a frantic fuck with his seasoned mistress, let alone a slow and protracted wooing with a virginal miss such as the woman before him. When had he ever had any interest in virginal misses anyway? Never, he was sure. Nor would he begin now.
He shook himself free of the brief, lustful urge. “Spin about, Miss Killjoy. I need to make certain your attire is appropriate, given your attempt to represent the office of the Special League as my typist.”
“My name is Miss Hilgrove, Your Grace,” she snapped, standing perfectly still and denying him the joy of watching her turn for him.
Pity. He would not have minded admiring her from the rear as well. There was something positively erotic about the curve of a woman’s neck, the secret hollow behind her ear.
Good God, he obviously needed to pay a visit to Roberta. What was he doing, slavering over a frigid lady typewriter who was not nearly as beautiful?
He would put an end to this, here and now.
“If you will not spin for me, you cannot remain in my study,” he told her pointedly. “And if you will not heed me as your employer, then I cannot, in good conscience, retain you in my employ. Nor can I send you away with a reference. Indeed, I cannot imagine why the Ladies’ Typewriting School would hope to employ such a dour, disagreeable creature as yourself.”
“The Ladies’ Typewriting School does not employ me, Your Grace.” Her full lips flattened into a grim line as the weight of her disgust for him attempted to emerge. “Nor do you. Indeed, I would not subject myself to laboring for a tyrant. Nor will I subject any of my typists to it.”
Her words gave him pause. Dimly, he recalled having read an article in theTimesabout a Society for Promoting the Employment of Women. A Miss Hilgrove had been mentioned within it, he felt certain. At the time, he had envisioned a woman every bit as dour but thrice the age of the woman currently looking at him as if he were vermin she had just discovered running across the floor.
“Yourtypists,” he said, casting another glance over her. “Explain, madam.”
“I am the proprietress of the Ladies’ Typewriting School, Your Grace,” she bit out. “And I have come to discuss your unacceptable treatment of the typists my school has provided you. After having just witnessed myself your smug arrogance, I shudder to think what my poor ladies were forced to endure.”
Hissmug arrogance, was it?Oh, ho.Things had just gotten decidedly more interesting.
The Duke ofWestmorland was an arrogant, autocratic arse. Isabella had known it prior to her arrival at his Grosvenor Square residence, and she knew it now more than ever. He was the sort of gentleman she despised. Wealthy, powerful, and expecting everyone about him to bend to suit his whims. He was a handsome devil, sauntering about his study in the fashion of a man who was all too aware of his looks.
Fortunately for her, she was as unaffected by an attractive face as she was of ducal airs.
“Ah,” he said, seeming to mock her announcement, both with his raised brows and the tone of his voice. “You are the proprietress of the establishment which purports to provide highly trained typists.”
He wasdefinitelymocking her, the bounder.
She had come prepared for battle, however, and she was not about to let him win. “We do not purport to provide highly trained typists. Wedoprovide them. I oversee the training courses of all my typists, ensuring each is rigorously inured to the new system of typing with all ten digits. I personally guarantee each of my typists is the most proficient and accurate of any typist in all England.”
“How enlightening.” Once again, his pleasant baritone contained an edge of derision she could not help but note.
He was worse than poor Mary had described, she thought grimly.
More wretched than Eloise had suggested.
Every bit as insufferable as Clementina had warned, in between bouts of tears.
But he was an important part of the Home Office, she reminded herself. And opportunities to place her typists within various branches of government were hard won, not to be dismissed. She had dozens of women relying upon her to find them respectable positions. Women who were intelligent and hard-working. Women who could become independent and live their lives without needing to subject themselves to the tyranny of marriages with pompous men such as the one before her.
“Your Grace,” she began with care, attempting to keep her disdain for him from her voice and expression both, “perhaps we may get to the reason for my call to you this afternoon.”
He gave her a long, slow perusal, beginning at her head, then raking down her form. “No.”
Was it her imagination, or had the blighter lingered upon her bosom? Why were her cheeks so bloody hot? Oh, now he had her cursing,devil take him, when she had been doing so well to purge all such unworthy thoughts from her mind.
