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“I’m sure you understand, Miss Harwood. Though your resume is impressive, and your recommendations stellar, without experience…” The diminutive little Mr. Birdwhistle clasped his suit lapels, tucking his weak chin to his hollow chest. “And there is the issue of your American accent. I regret to say, our elite clientele insist on a proper British accent, so their progeny learn to correctly pronounce the words.”

Condescending arse.

One of the women snickered unkindly, but at Ansley’s reproachful glare, she swiftly lowered her attention to her gloved hands in her lap.

As someone who’d endured a good deal of teasing as a youth, gloating about another’s misfortune or humiliation infuriated him. He also couldn’t help but think the tidy little rejection speech most inappropriate for a common area.

To spare her chagrin, it should’ve taken place in the privacy of the twitting fellow’s office. If Mr. Birdwhistle was an example of the type of people the registry office employed, Ansley would take his business elsewhere. Indeed, he would.

He needn’t see Miss Harwood’s face to know she bristled in umbrage. Her spine had gone so stiff, it might snap, and her bonnet jutted upward, her stubborn little pixy chin, no doubt angled high in vexation.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Birdwhistle.” She half-turned toward the exit but then swung back to face him. “Mr. Birdwhistle?”

He’d already retreated into his office, and with one hand on the door gave her an impatient, puzzled look. His beetle eyebrows crashed together like great, hoary caterpillars. “Yes?”

His curt, dismissive tone raised Ansley’s ire higher yet. Not only would he take his business elsewhere, he’d spread the word to others to avoid patronizing the establishment. Such deliberate unkindness would not be tolerated.

“I rather think,” she said crisply, green fire sparking in the depths of her eyes, “the way words are pronounced is irrelevant when it comes to learning letters, arithmetic, grammar, writing, rhetoric, geography, music lessons, French, Greek, Latin, biology, chemistry, physics, natural history, ancient hist—”

“Good day, Miss Harwood!” Mr. Birdwhistle snapped, all semblance of civility having flown.

“Perhaps, sir, I ampronouncing the words correctly, not you.” She spoke without a trace of American inflection. No English peeress could’ve sounded more haughty or regal. “For I believe I detect a distinct Birmingham accent in your speech.”

Oh, well done, Willow. Ansley couldn’t help the delighted bark of laughter that escaped him.

When her feathers were ruffled, she was an absolute delight. She’d succinctly taken Mr. Birdwhistle down several superior pegs, just as publicly as he’d humiliated her.

She shot Ansley an astonished glance. Her soft mouth parted in a small ‘O,’ her eyes beneath arched red-golden brows yet flashing with justified ire. She hadn’t known he stood but a few feet away.

Behind him, Mr. Snodgrass cleared his throat, and Ansley glanced over his shoulder toward the interior of the manager’s neat-as-a-pin office.

Mr. Birdwhistle’s door snapped closed with a distinct, peeved clunk.

Willow made a satisfied sound in her throat.

Mr. Snodgrass smiled, his slightly bucked-tooth, yellowed teeth and rather large ears sticking straight out from the sides of his head, gave him the unfortunate appearance of a large, anxious hare.

“My lord?” He swept his hand aside, indicating Ansley should enter his office.

Ansley glanced between the waiting sallow-faced man and Willow.

She bobbed a graceful curtsy. “Lord Scarborough. What an unexpected surprise.”

“Indeed, Miss Harwood.” He removed his hat and bowed his neck, speaking low. “You have need of a position?” He hadn’t thought to ask her last night why she’d come to London.

Expression guarded, she glanced around as if uncomfortable at the attention they were receiving and gave a stiff nod. “I’m seeking a governess position. As I mentioned last evening, my grandfather was a professor at Cambridge, and my father taught at Yale. I’ve had an exceptional education. One that would make most men envious.”

She gave a proud little thrust of her pixy chin with the last declaration.

Two of the waiting women bent their heads near as one whispered something to the other. He’d vow, Miss Harwood’s education exceeded all of theirs, yet that prejudiced, shriveled, little scrotum-in-a-cravat had turned her away for lack of experience.

More probable, it was her accent and not else. Prejudiced prick.

An idiotic impulse gripped Ansley.

No. He didn’t have impulses. Or whims. Neither was he impetuous.

Nonetheless, the troublesome notion persisted, growing louder and louder, until it beat a resounding cadence in his mind.

Offer her the housekeeping position.

Wholly unwise. Entirely foolish. Unquestionably imprudent. Such stupidity could only lead to further disruptions and deviations in his orderly life.

Don’t do it. He opened his mouth. Do. Not. Do. It.

He edged closer and, grasping her elbow, lowered his head near hers. He was bloody mad. Because, despite the cacophonous clanging of warning bells in his head, he was going to do something rash. Unplanned. Reckless, even.

God save him. God save them all.

“I have need of an exceptional housekeeper,” he murmured in her shell-like ear, inhaling her lemony scent. “The position is yours, should you wish it.”