I will not box his ears, she reminded herself.I will not box this arrogant, vexing, beautiful scoundrel’s ears.
“Of course I should not have expected a reasonable response from an autocrat who refuses to call me by proper surname but instead chooses to belittle me and make a mockery of my typists and school both.” She kept her voice cold, trying not to allow him to see the depths of her irritation.
“Madam, my response to you is the direct product of your unexpected interruption of my day, coupled with the graceless accusations you have hurled at me.” He skirted the desk once more, stalking toward her.
She held her ground, refusing to move as he approached, bringing with him a sense of electric energy she could not help but to feel. Something in her belly unfurled.
She ruthlessly quashed it. “And my response to you is likewise the product of your actions, sirrah.”
He stopped before her, towering over her. He was insufferably tall, the Duke of Westmorland. His shoulders were quite broad, his chest a veritable wall. With her petite stature, she felt quite small, a mouse before a lion. His scent reached her then, and much to her dismay, it was a very pleasant, spicy blend of cologne.
“I believe we are at an impasse, Miss Hilgrove,” he announced, using her true name for the first time.
“You do recall it after all,” she muttered to herself.
“Madam?” His voice was sharp, much like his rigid jaw.
“My name,” she elucidated. “I was persuaded you had forgotten.”
He made a sound low in his throat, part growl. “I propose an armistice. I will not apologize to your hen-witted typists. However, I will endorse your school, provided that you can prove to me you are competent.”
His suggestion took her by surprise. “I have nothing to prove to you, and neither are my typists hen-witted.”
“I require a demonstration,” he insisted coolly, his gaze once more flicking over her, assessing.
That iced-blue stare seemed to sear her. She told herself to remain calm. She told herself the endorsement of the Duke of Westmorland would be a boon to her school. That it would aid in her plans to grow and open more schools throughout the country. She was building an empire, after all, one which helped her and all her ladies.
“What manner of demonstration?” she allowed, reluctantly.
A predatory smile spread over his well-sculpted lips. “I require you to act as my typist for the next week, Miss Hilgrove. If you can prove your skills are satisfactory, I will endorse your school in theTimes. Otherwise, I am afraid I will need to inform the Home Office of the lack of skilled typists at the Ladies’ Typewriting School.”
He was attempting to blackmail her. Of course, she should have expected nothing less from such a cad. But it would seem she had no choice. If she wanted her school’s reputation to remain pristine, she would have to report for duty herself. After all the effort and hard work she had put into building her school, she could ill afford to allow this man to ruin it. One negative word from him to the Home Office, and all the bricks would come tumbling down.
In her ire, she had taken a misstep. She had warned herself not to raise her voice, but to be calm and composed. To be gentle, yet firm. To take him to task and also appeal to his common sense. But it was apparent she had failed abysmally. Likely, he thought to chase her away. However, he had never met a lady with her determination before, she was certain.
“I look forward to seeing the notice in theTimes,” she told him calmly. “I will report for duty tomorrow, at nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Half past eight,” he returned, a small, satisfied smile curving those beautiful lips.
It had been a long time since she had noticed a man’s mouth. That she was taking note of the Duke of Westmorland’s now was most displeasing to her. His looks should mean nothing to her. It was his position, and his ability to either help or hinder her school, which must matter.
“The previous three typists began at nine o’clock,” she pointed out to him, maintaining her composure by the intense assertion of her self-possession.
His smile remained firmly in place. Those eyes of his burned into hers. “Indeed, madam, but I am terribly behind thanks to the three unacceptable typists you have already provided me. I have reports that require preparation, and neither the Home Office nor the dynamitards will wait upon sniveling typists with lung infections and predilections for humming.”
Oh, he was rotten to the core.
What a pity that such a blackhearted scoundrel should have such a gorgeous exterior. It seemed a sin. But that was life, was it not? Angels married devils and paid the price. The most glorious hothouse flowers had no scent. The most delicious fruit hid within the ugliest exteriors.
“I shall see you at half past eight,” she agreed, maintaining her calm by clenching her fists until her fingernails dug into the tender flesh of her palms.
He offered her a deep, elegant bow. One to rival a swain in any ballroom. His stare never strayed from her. “Until then, Miss Hilgrove.”
She curtseyed, irritated by the prickle of awareness that skittered over her flesh beneath his regard. “Until tomorrow, Your Grace.”
Isabella turned on her heel, intent upon quitting the chamber. Needing a respite from the intensity of his gaze and the unwanted impact he had upon her.
She was nearly to the door of his study and freedom when his deep voice cut through the silence, giving her pause.
