“Miss Lenox,” she reminded the duke primly.
“Yes, but you were not Miss Lenox then, were you? Rather, you were Lady Miranda. You still are, despite your insistence to the contrary.”
“I have chosen to eschew all honorifics,” she said, plucking at the fall of her skirt as the familiar knife’s edge of sorrow burrowed itself between her ribs.
“Why?”
No one had questioned her on the matter before, and Mrs. Kirkeland had chosen to continue referring to her asmy ladyout of habit, one Miranda had not bothered to correct. Her friends had accepted her decision, not wanting, she expected, to pry.
She decided to answer him honestly. “I am no longer the Countess of Ammondale, and I have no wish to hold on to that courtesy title any more than I desired to remain married to the earl. And when my family refused to acknowledge our connection following my scandalous divorce, I decided to follow suit.”
His jaw tightened. “Your family has disavowed you?”
“Are they to be blamed? The scandal was tremendous.” Secretly, she did blame them. Their defection cut deeply.
But she could understand. Divorce was exceedingly rare for good reason, and she had been forced to obtain hers by resorting to extreme, disgraceful measures. With the aid of Waring, she had feigned adultery, a sin that only the two of them knew had never been committed. In the wake of the scandal, Waring had left for America. Miranda would be forever grateful to him for the sacrifice he had made to his own reputation so she could secure her freedom.
“Yes, I do think they are to be blamed,” Whitby said, surprising her. “You are family, are you not? Blood ought to be thick enough to weather any gossip.”
She had thought so as well. How wrong she had been.
She could still recall Mother’s countenance when she had informed Miranda that she was no longer welcome.On account of your sisters, Mother had added.You cannot expect Daisy and Elizabeth to suffer because of your actions.
Heractions.
As if she were solely to blame for the misery of the marriage her parents had selected for her. She had never wanted to wed Ammondale. It had been Father who had arranged the match with the earl’s sire. Father who had urged her to marry in such haste, when she had been naïve and young and eager to please.
“It proved considerably thin,” she said at last, her voice irritatingly thick with old emotion.
Miranda did her best to keep her thoughts from straying to hurtful happenings she was incapable of changing.
“Is that why you started your school?” Whitby asked softly. “Have you no other means of sustaining yourself?”
Her cheeks went hot. “That is none of your concern, Your Grace.”
“Rhys.”
She was lost. “I beg your pardon?”
He smiled, and this time, there was far less of the suave rake in his countenance than genuine tenderness, taking her aback. “My given name. It is Rhys. When we are alone, I hope you might call me by it.Your Graceis so dreadfully formal. Do you not agree?”
Formality was what she must cling to where he was concerned. Much to her dismay, she found herself wanting to try his name. Wanting that familiarity between them.
She stiffened, casting such treacherous notions away. “No, Your Grace, I very much do not agree. In this situation, you are my employer. We are not equals. Nor are we even friends.”
“But of course we are equals. You are the daughter of an earl. I am the son of a duke.”
And a duke in his own right. A gorgeous temptation. Sin incarnate. A peril to her future in every way, lest she surrender to her attraction to him as he wished. He held all the power in this game of theirs. If he took her as his mistress for a month, he would walk away with his reputation intact. Whereas Miranda’s future would be destroyed. It was difficult enough trying to lure pupils to lessons being taught by a notorious former countess. If she were a kept woman, it would be the end of the Lenox School of Cookery forever.
Miranda fanned herself with increasing vigor, nettled with him. “You know what I mean.”
He tsked. “I think this silly society of ours has left you suffering from the misconception that you are somehow lesser because you are a divorcée.”
“Because I am.” She snapped her fan against her palm, closing it with one frustrated motion. “You may call society silly, but I haven’t the same luxury. As a man—and a duke, at that—you have no need to adhere to propriety. As a woman, I am treated with scorn for every mistake I make, perceived or otherwise. All the blame is heaped upon me.”
He stared at her, his expression pensive. She wondered if it was the first occasion in his life where he had been made to confront the disparity between men and women, a gaping chasm that only grew with scandal.
“I am sorry, Miranda.”
