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“No one mentioned you were mule-headed, taxing, and uncompromising,” Lord Ronan muttered beneath his breath. “Not traits one generally seeks in a governess.”

Ooh, the rotten wretch.

Mercy clamped her teeth together against a very, very unladylike oath and muscled the retort down.

God rot the clodpoll.

He would expect a biddable, tractable, and docile mouse of a governess. In fact, he probably thought all women ought to be compliant, worshipful, obedient bacon brains.

She jutted her chin up another mutinous inch, her glare blistering as she mentally impaled him.

Do your worst, you pompous prig, she silently challenged, her gaze dueling with his.

Shaking his head, the merest hint of a smile teasing the corners of his molded mouth, Lord Ronan rose and came around the desk. Arms folded across his impossibly broad chest, he rested his slim hips against the edge of the desk before crossing his ridiculously long legs at the ankle.

“I apologize, Miss Feathers. This wasn’t the direction I meant for this conversation to go.” He glanced up from studying his crossed ankles. Or mayhap it was the pattern on the carpet that caught his attention. “I generally give people the benefit of the doubt and presume their innocence.”

Well, thank you very much.

“And I am the exception?” she clipped out, standing her ground.

Nevertheless, every fiber of her being screamed for her to turn tail and run from the room. To put as much distance as she could between herself and this aggravating man. Her breaths came in shallow little rasps, and the knot in her middle tightened further, making her sick at her stomach.

Or perchance that was because she hadn’t eaten anything since last evening.

“You were seen leaving Lieutenant Masterson’s bedchamber,” Ronan stated quietly, his tone almost soothing.

What?

How could he possibly know that?

Cammie Sumner.

Oh, the horrid, despicable, jealous, mean-spirited vindictive wretch.

If she were present, Mercy might very well be tempted to slap her smug face.

Very, very hard.

Forget the “turn the other cheek” rot. There were times when a person needed to take a stand and call evil for what it was. And Cammie Sumner was a spawn of Satan.

This aristocratic churl already believed the worst of her. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t cow her. Mercy would not grovel and insist he’d been misinformed.

It would make no difference, in any event, she felt sure.

She’d wager her virtue Lord Ronan Brockman had made his mind up about her before he’d ever seen or spoken to her.

Mercy raised a derisive eyebrow as if to say, “So what if I was?”

“On numerous occasions, I might add,” his lordship clarified in a neutral tone. His stern gaze was anything but. Condemnation and indictment glittered in that searing dark honey-brown gaze.

He’d passed judgment and found her guilty based on a jealous chit’s spiteful tattle. Was this the kind of man Bellamy and Arabelle would be raised by? One who didn’t bother to learn facts but listened to contrived on dit?

Mercy fisted her hands to keep from launching herself at him and either wrapping them around his thick neck or clocking him in his too-perfect aristocratic nose. His continued lazy contemplation—that dashed sarcastic smile and single dark brow shied upward—only fanned her fury. Never before in her life had Mercy felt such scorching rage or the violent urge to attack someone.

In the very brief time she’d known Ronan, she’d come to an undeniable and finite conclusion. She did not like the man. That he should be assigned the care of Arabelle and Bellamy seemed the quintessence of a cruel jest.

“Have you nothing to say in your defense?” his lordship queried, a jot less sarcastically but terse nonetheless.