“Only that the trail of students into your still relatively new Lenox School of Cookery has been a trickle at best.” He paused, his gaze dipping to her folded arms, and curse him if she didn’t feel the heat of his gaze to her toes. If it didn’t make her breasts tingle and her nipples tighten to hard points. “Some think you shall fail within the next few months, given the expense of upkeep. Fresh ingredients daily that are never used. Fish, butter, eggs, to say nothing of the fruits and all that ice.” He shook his head. “A terrible shame, according to the fellow across the street.”
Her pride forced her to carry on, even if what Whitby said was not entirely wrong. “Any excess is sent to the orphanages, who welcome it. Nothing goes to waste.”
“Generous of you to be sure, madam, but can your coffers withstand such largesse?” he asked with far too much perception.
“The school attracts new pupils every day,” she insisted—also a terrible hyperbole. “We continue to grow.”
“Mmm,” he hummed, as if deep in thought, tapping on the divot in his chin with his forefinger. “Do you know what I suspect, Miss Lenox?”
“I am certain I should not want to know.”
But he was going to tell her anyway. Of that, she was equally sure.
“I suspect that you have a few more weeks before you begin needing to take drastic actions to keep this cookery school of yours solvent.”
He was not wrong. And blast it, she had just reached a similar conclusion before his unwanted appearance in her office. It was as if he had somehow bored into her mind to see its contents laid before him. Either that, or her dire straits were painfully plain for everyone to see. Her last, futile hope was about to be ruthlessly dashed.
“How amusing, Your Grace,” she said tightly. “I do so hate to disappoint you, but your suppositions are all wrong.”
“Prove it to me, then.”
He was unrelenting. And nettlesome.
Her chin went up. “I need not prove anything to you.”
“So, I am correct.”
“You are not correct.” She glared at him, huffing with indignation she had no right to feel. “You are decidedly wrong.”
“Is it your pride that stops you from accepting my offer, Miss Lenox?” He cocked his head, studying her with an intensity that made her long to shield herself from him.
What did this glorious rake see when he looked upon her? Some foolish part of Miranda was desperate to know and terrified at the prospect of what she would discover just the same.
“Accepting your offer would be disastrous,” she told him firmly. “My reputation has sustained enough damage, and I cannot afford to place myself in an unseemly position at a house party hosted by a notorious rake.”
“Am I notorious? I confess, I didn’t know.” He smiled, looking amused again. “You assume anyone would know youwere present at the house party. I can assure you that every guest in attendance adheres to a strict policy of secrecy.”
“You may wish to believe so, Your Grace, but no one knows better than I do how swiftly, eagerly, and viciously tongues wag.”
His levity faded, his countenance turning serious. “My guests do not dare breathe a word of what happens at my house parties or who is present. When I tell you that your reputation will be unblemished by attending, it is not an empty promise.”
“I have been promised a great many things before, and all of them were lies. You must forgive me my reticence.” Miranda couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.
Some old wounds were slow to heal.
Perhaps they never would.
“Not by me, however.” He straightened, his pose no longer languid but instead alert as he loomed over her. “I pride myself upon being a man of my word.”
She wanted to believe him. He seemed earnest enough. But the past had taught her to trust almost no one. And anyway, it did not signify. She couldn’t accept his offer. Didn’t dare.
Miranda forced a polite smile, trying not to note his proximity or the way his scent—amber, musk, and forest—curled around her like a loving embrace. “Nonetheless, I am afraid that my answer must be no.”
“If two thousand pounds does not persuade you, then perhaps three thousand will,” he said, shocking her.
Three thousand pounds. It was a veritable fortune in terms of what it could do to support her school. It would give her the ability to publish her cookbook on her own. It would grant her the means to do so much, without the crushing dread that her debts would forever outweigh her ability to pay them.
“Just think of how three thousand pounds could comfortably keep you and your school of cookery afloat,” Whitby added in his low, melodic voice.
