How little she knew of him. And worse, how little she thought of him.
“Of course it is not,” he said, turning his attention to his coat sleeve and calmly brushing at an imaginary speck of lint. “That would have been the fault of a different lady entirely.”
He did not have a mistress. Not only was it wrong of him to suggest he did, it was also ungentlemanly, indiscreet, and terribly rude. Mistresses were not referred to in polite company, even in passing. Yet, that same, irrational part of him longed to see if she would react. He cast a glance back in her direction to find her nostrils flared, her chin tipped up.
“Hardly a lady, I should think,” she said coldly. “Particularly if she lowers herself to keeping company with you.”
“As you have?” he could not resist asking.
Her lips compressed. “Through no will of my own.”
Her response nettled. “No one forced your presence here today, Lady Philippa.”
“Mrs. Shaw, if you please. And what would you call the note you sent round this morning, if not blackmail?”
That rather stung.
“It would seem you have me confused with the criminal you married, my dear,” he told her mildly, though he knew he should not.
Needling her had never been the reason for asking her here today. Nor had it been why he had insisted upon calling her to his home the day before.
“I had supposed you would be familiar with the definition of crime, Your Grace. It would seem you are confused.” The hands clasped in her lap fidgeted. Her gloved fingers toyed with her dull skirts, plucking at the ornamentation. “Mr. Shaw was no criminal.”
Nor had he asked her here to argue with her, but he could not deny the outrage within him that she could defend such a villain. The old pain, never quite abated, pulsated beneath the surface. How well George Shaw must have swindled her. But then, it was hardly a surprise, was it? Shaw had fleeced Roland first, and then he had stolen from him the only worthy prize he had ever possessed: Pippa’s love.
“That is simply not true,” he informed that vile man’s widow now. “The sooner you realize you are flying a banner for the enemy’s army, the better off you shall be.”
“The only enemy here is you, Duke.”
Had he expected her to relent?
“The tea grows cold.”
She remained unmoved. “Let it.”
So was he. “Pour, Mrs. Shaw.”
“I already told you I have no wish for tea.”
And still, despite their bickering and a suddenly dry mouth, neither did he. But if she wanted to accuse him of blackmail, he may as well commit it. Besides, he was reluctant to have her slip from his grasp so suddenly. Why? He could not be certain. Like so many of his conflicted feelings when it came to Pippa, it was disastrously complicated.
“If you want to see the letters,” he told her smoothly, “you will pour the bloody tea.”
“You are the one who demanded I see the letters. Perhapsyoushould pour the tea, Your Grace.”
They stared at each other, at an impasse. But she was not going to win this particular battle. He was determined.
He considered her, feeling deuced grim. “Perhaps you were more aware of your husband’s criminal dealings than you pretend, madam.”
Did he believe she had been involved in George Shaw’s devious swindling, shady manipulations and seedy deals which had led to innocent men being imprisoned? No. But he rather fancied the notion of watching her squirm.
She brought out the demons in him, as ever.
Fair enough. They all belonged to her anyway.
“First,” she said coolly, “I have yet to see proof that my husband was involved in anything nefarious at all. I will own that the letter I glanced over yesterday did cause me some concern. However, I must read the remainder of them before I can form any judgment.”
“Then pour away, Lady Philippa.” He flashed her a mocking smile.
