CHAPTER 8
Ember’s hand shook as she tried to place the tip of the graver into the divot she’d created just before her stepmother’s screeching demands had pulled her away.Tea! She’d had to serve tea to the front parlor, and Ember had decided it was easier to give in—as usual—than listen to Machara squawk.
Little had she known who was waiting in that parlor.
Viscount Whatever-his-title-is had come to call on Tiffany, yes, but he’d brought his good friend, Mr. DeVille, along with him.
Mr. DeVille.
Max.
The man she thought she’d been falling in love with!
Forcing herself to take a deep breath, Ember shook out her hands and rolled her shoulders. Max was actually Mr. DeVille, the man she’d been set on impressing with this design. Last night, she’d blithely handed him her shoe, blathering on abouthow she hoped he’d put in a good word with hisboss, Mr. DeVille.
And he never once thought to mention who he was!
Hot, angry tears threatened to leak from the corner of her eyes, so she squeezed them shut.Damn him!Had he been laughing at her, at her stupidity, the entire time? Chuckling how this stupid little serving lass hadn’t realized who he was?
No!She wasn’t at fault,hewas! He was the one who’d lied to her!
Did he though? You only spoke about his boss last night, so maybe he assumed you meant someone else.
Surely she’d referred to Mr. DeVille? Surely he’d heard her refer to them as separate people, and simply hadn’t bothered to correct her?
She was an idiot for thinking he could be trusted. For thinking he cared for her.
Ignoring the tracks of the tears down her cheeks, she bent back over her father’s vice. The heel was clamped between the jaws, ready for her to embellish it so it’d match the one she still had upstairs.
Assuming she could focus her attention and energy enough to continue engraving. Right now, her body and mind felt on fire; full of fierce, impotent anger.
“Ember?”
Hearinghisvoice, in her workshop, caused her to gasp and whirl around. When she saw him standing in the doorway, his hat held protectively in front of him, her grip tightened on the graver in her hand.
“What do you want?” Her voice sounded raspy, gravelly, even to her own ears.
Slowly, he placed the hat on the workbench and shut the door. Good. No one needed to hear her rant at him, and as he took a step into the room—closer to her—she doubted she’d be able to keep her mouth shut and swallow down her hurt.
“I came to talk to you, Ember.”
Howdarehe be so calm!
“Did you come to explain to me why you lied?” she snapped.
“Whoa!” Holding up both hands, palm outward, he stepped closer again. “Hold your horses. I didn’t lie to you.”
“You are Mr. DeVille! The son of the laird!”
Cocking his head to one side, he studied her. “I’m just Max.”
“No!” She shook her head, the stupid cap flopping over one ear, as she tried to find the words to explain her anger. “You are notjust Max, you are the manager of Oliphant Engraving! You are the one I needed to help me start producing the shoes I designed and help me get out of here!”
The memory of how she’d unburdened herself—after she’d all-but-mauled him—and explained her needs, had her grip tightening around the graver again, shame washing over her. “You are Mr. DeVille!”
Solemnly, he nodded. “I am. I’m sorry I didn’t make that clear. I thought you knew.”
“What? How would I have known that?” Unable to face him any longer, she turned back to the vice, planted her hands on either side of it and felt the sturdy wood beneath her palms. Inher other hand, the weight of the graver pushed her knuckles into the oak, and she welcomed the pain. She blinked, the tears forming again. “You are practically a lord, Mr. DeVille.” She didn’t pause, didn’t let him deny it. “You are the viscount’s brother, you were the guest of honor at the ball!”
