“Yet he wagered nonetheless.” She lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “And just like so many gentlemen before him who engage in an ill-considered wager, he lost.”
“Ambrose was my father’sfriend, Miss St. Claire. My fathertrustedhim, only to find himself maneuvered out of his deceased wife’s childhood home—a home she loved, and that he loved for her sake.”
Her gaze wandered past him, to the window. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. “What of you, Your Grace? Did you love it, as well?”
“I did once.” A long time ago, when he’d still known how to love something.
“And now?”
“Come, Miss St. Claire. For all your innocence, even you must realize love can turn to hate in the space of a single heartbeat. They’re but different sides of the same coin.”
“No, Your Grace, they’re not. A flip of a coin is a matter of chance. Neither love nor hate happens by chance—they’re things onechooses. They’re nothing at all like the flip of a coin.”
“Is that so? Very well, Miss St. Claire. What are they, then, if not a coin? Astonish me.”
She thought for a moment, then, “A pendulum, I suppose, or something like it, where each side exists in balance with the other.”
He laughed, but it was as if the sound had been wrenched from his chest, torn out from under his breastbone. “How fanciful, but I prefer my analogy. Tell me, though. If they are a pendulum, what lies in the middle, and keeps the balance between them?”
Her eyes held his. “Forgiveness.”
“Is that your way of saying I should forgive Ambrose? It would be the proper thing to do, I suppose, with him dead and buried now, but I beg you will excuse me. Ambroseruinedmy father—ruined my family. Nothing was ever the same after he stole Hammond Court from us.”He’dnever been the same. “I’ll never forgive him for what he did.”
If she had even a trace of proper feeling, such a declaration should have brought her to tears, but her face remained expressionless, the only sign of agitation a few rapid blinks of those pretty green eyes. “Let me understand you, Your Grace. Because your father was in his cups at the time of the wager, you feel as if you’re entitled to my share of Hammond Court?”
“Entitled? Hardly. I’d pay you handsomely for your—”
“It’s not that surprising, really,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Feeling entitled to things that don’t belong to them is, I believe, a common malady among the aristocracy.”
He stared at her, speechless. That was . . . she was . . . by God, it had been years—no,decades—since anyone had spoken so insolently to him. He was the Duke of bloody Grantham, for God’s sake, one of the wealthiest peers in England, known for his ruthlessness, and this little speck of a blond-haired chit that resembled nothing so much as a woodland spritedaredto insult him?
God above, who was this girl?
He already knew the answer to that question, didn’t he? She may not be of Ambrose’s flesh, but she washis, every inch of her. She was just like him, cold down to her marrow.
But even Ambrose’s daughter was no match for him. He’d crushed dozens of wealthy, influential noblemen under his boot heel, and he’d made quick work of her, too. “You may call it whatever you like, Miss St. Claire, but Iwillhave this house back, one way or another.”
“Is that a threat, Your Grace?”
It was, yes. A subtle one, but a threat nevertheless, and if she had any sense at all, it would have been enough to send her scurrying up the stairs to pack her bags, but she remained where she was, a picture of unruffled, ladylike calm. “It wouldn’t be at all gentlemanly of me to threaten a young lady, would it, Miss St. Claire?”
“That’s not a denial, Your Grace. Still, I appreciate your frankness. Permit me to be equally frank. You may do as you will, but I warn you.” Her green eyes had gone dark, a storm brewing in their depths. “I haven’t the least intention of turning Hammond Court over to you simply because you demand it.”
No, no doubt she wouldn’t, but the girl had no idea the sort of resources he had at his disposal, nor did she understand how relentless he could be. “Since half of Hammond Court is now mine, perhaps I’ll move in.” He settled back against the settee, crossing one booted foot over the other knee. “Unless, of course, you have an objection, Miss St. Claire?”
She would object, of course, and rather strenuously. Proper young ladies didn’t put themselves in the clutches of unmarried gentlemen, particularly not those with his reputation for ruthlessness.
But she only gave him a bland smile. “None whatsoever, Your Grace. I’ll see to it Ambrose’s bedchamber is made ready for you. It’s a nice one, you see, the finest in the house, and all the windows are intact.”
“No concern for your reputation, then?” He studied the tip of his boot, frowning at the damp stains. “I daresay the village of Fairford will have a good deal to say about the two of us living alone together in this house.”
She shrugged. “It’s kind of you to be concerned for me, Your Grace, but I’ve never troubled myself much over village gossip. Let them talk, if they must.”
Good Lord. She had an answer for everything, didn’t she? “Come, Miss St. Claire, enough of this nonsense. Since you appreciate frankness, allow me to point out the obvious.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” She gave him an encouraging nod. “Please do.”
“This house is tumbling down around your ears.” He waved a hand around the drawing room, indicating the bare windows and shabby furniture, the fire stuttering in the grate. “You haven’t got the funds to repair it.”
