Templeton?
A swell of rage rose in him. He’d expected offers to come pouring in. He’d not expected to feel so damned angry that he could whip every man within ten miles.
“Why the hell didn’t you refuse him?”
“I couldn’t. He had a tight grip of my arm and said he’d more than match any other offer.” Her voice sharpened. “It’s why I went to Lady Soanes. Now I understand why you told me to carry a weapon.”
“I’ll speak to him on your behalf.”
“There’s no need. I shall deal with the problem myself. What you can do is tell me something that’s true. You owe me that, at least.”
What did she want to know?
That he’d never taken tea with a woman?
That he liked the idea of her in breeches?
That her white shirt showed the shape of her breasts?
“Your father was my mother’s lover. By necessity, not choice.” He might have used a more cutting term, but remembered she was grieving.
“That much I gathered.” Her gaze drifted to the gold locket resting on the mantel. When she spoke again, her voice wavered. “May I ask when?”
“Eleven years ago.”
She closed her eyes as if the answer were a blessing. “After my mother died, then. That’s one consolation, Isuppose.” She paused, a faint crease forming on her brow. “Why wait until now to shame him? You could have ruined me during my first season.”
“You had a season?” Why was she not married?
“Of course. I’m three and twenty. My father was a baron.” She glanced at her hands resting in her lap. “And I’m a dreadful disappointment.”
How? For the life of him, he couldn’t see it.
Suspicion flared.
“What did you do to deter your suitors?” He used the plural deliberately. He was a good judge of men’s tastes and habits.
“Insulted them. Drew attention to their flaws.” She sounded quite proud. “I told Lord Wimborne I’d developed a terrible gambling habit that began at the races. Told Mr Smith-Turbot that I sometimes slipped into a Whitechapel twang when among friends.”
“Do you have friends?”
“Not really, but I gave a stage-worthy demonstration.” A giggle escaped her—like the one she’d bestowed upon Ramsey yesterday—before she dropped into a perfect slum accent: “’Ere, gov’nor. Can you spare a poor love a penny?”
Dominic laughed. A sound a privileged few got to hear.
“No wonder you’re content with a trundle bed. I’m lucky you didn’t lure me onto the terrace and make off with my purse.”
She leaned in slightly, as if sharing a secret. “In a gown, I’d have few places to hide it.”
He fell silent.
He’d fought bare-knuckled. Walked ten paces at dawn. A woman had once come at him with a pearl-handled blade while high on opium. And yet here he sat, drinking tea in a quaint cottage, and had never felt so disarmed.
Miss Harland was a damn sight more dangerous than her father. And just as bloody devious.
“I believe it’s my turn to share an honest observation.” The blood chilled in his veins as the memories rose. Diving deep into a mire of hatred was the only way to avenge the one person he’d loved. “Your father hurt my mother in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine.”
She heard the venom in his tone and leaned back. “Hurt her more than you planned to hurt me? I hope so, otherwise that makes you a hypocrite.”
