She was being charitable. In certain parts of London, the Duke of Burenwood’s name was met with a curse.
“The Gambling Devil,” one man had muttered, spitting to the side. “You want no dealings with that one, missy. Ruins lives, he does.”
The man in question had been a coachman offering passage, about ten miles outside of London. He had apparently withdrawn his offer when he learned where Maggie was trying to go. It shocked her, somewhat, and hinted that the man’s reputation extended far beyond London itself.
Maggie had no chance to explain further, for Mrs Thornton stopped so abruptly that she almost collided with her.
“I’ll have no truck with gossip in this house, Miss Winter,” she said sharply, her eyes glinting. “A little harmless chatter is one thing, but I will not abide slander—least of all against the duke. The man pays our wages, if that has escaped you.”
Maggie blinked, taken aback. “I… It isn’t slander.”
“Oh, no? And you know the truth of it, do you?” The housekeeper’s tone could have curdled milk. “Mind your tongue, Miss Winter, or you’ll be out of this house faster than the rest—and that would be a pity, for Miss Emma seems to have taken a liking to you.”
Without waiting for a reply, Mrs Thornton turned and strode off again, leaving Maggie wide-eyed in her wake.
I cannot recall the last time anyone scolded me so soundly, she thought wryly, and hurried after her.
They went on in silence for what felt like ten minutes, winding through stairways and corridors, until at last Mrs Thornton halted before a tall, rounded door marked ‘Study’.
Whatever sort of guardian he is, Maggie thought grimly,he clearly prefers the nursery kept well away from his own rooms.
Mrs Thornton drew herself up, gave Maggie a quick, appraising glance, sighed, and knocked.
“Enter,” came a gravelled voice from within. She opened the door but did not step inside. “Miss Winter,” she said, gesturing.
Maggie obeyed—and found herself in a large, airy chamber with high ceilings and bookshelves lining every wall. A great window poured sunlight upon a battered desk set before it. A man sat there, his figure half-silhouetted by the glare.
Maggie advanced a few paces. London had taught her what men’s studies could be like—dim, dusty, and jealously guarded from the maids’ dust-cloths. But this room was immaculate; even the bookshelves gleamed.
The door clicked shut behind her. She turned—Mrs Thornton had gone. She was alone.
Alone with the duke.
A faint scratching told her he was writing.
He must know I am here, she thought, a twinge of irritation rising.He summoned me, after all.
She cleared her throat. The pen stilled.
“Yes, Miss Winter?”
The voice was deep, a little rough—like a man recovering from a cold, or accustomed to giving orders at a shout. It startled her.
“Well, I’m here, your Grace. You sent for me.”
“And you would like me to drop what I am doing to attend you, is that it?”
A chill prickled down her spine. She reminded herself that this was her employer now, and that a good reference might one day stand between her and ruin.
“No, of course not,” she said lightly, folding her hands before her. She schooled her face into patient calm, though she longed to shift her weight. There was no chair set before the desk, only one large armchair turned towards the fire—and she did not presume it for herself.
With a sigh, the man laid down his pen and rose.
He kept rising—taller and broader than fashion allowed, his shoulders near blocking the sun.
When he stepped away from the window’s blaze—perhaps positioned there to dazzle his visitors—she saw him clearly for the first time.
The Duke of Burenwood was far younger than she had imagined. She had pictured a severe man of forty, grey at the temples and lined about the eyes. Instead, this one could not be thirty. His hair, thick and black, brushed his collar—far too long for Town. His suit was dark green, slightly faded, stretched across a chest that needed no padding. His cravat was tied in a simple knot, unadorned by a pin. London’s dandies would have sniffed—but perhaps envied his figure.
