Page 26

What did his lordship know about Mr. Rutland that would cause the arrogant toad to acquiesce with such alacrity?

Lord Ceddes raked a licentious gaze over Purity. He opened his mouth, but she blurted, “I quit.”

She jerked her chin upward in proud defiance. She might not have been born into a high station, but that didn’t mean she would meekly tolerate abuse or disdain.

What was another couple of weeks anyway?

She could have her possessions forwarded to wherever she landed after this debacle.

Straightening his neckcloth, Ceddes gave a snide laugh. “Good luck finding a new position.”

“She already has one as governess to my daughter at twice the wages, should she wish to accept,” Mr. Rutland said.

Purity nearly choked on surprise at the casually uttered taradiddle. He needn’t go that far to be rid of the viscount. Didn’t he know the man would spread that tale about before he left? Then she and Mr. Rutland would find themselves embroiled in another muddle.

Better to tell the truth than try to extricate oneself from the web of deceit afterward.

“I’ll just bet she does.” Lord Ceddes’ vulgar innuendo didn’t go unnoticed.

Mr. Rutland’s eyebrows crashed together as he towered over the smaller man.

“Should I hear a single whisper tarnishing Miss Mayfield’s good name or reputation, I shall presume it originated with you, you mewling piece of human excrement.” Each word was low and lethal. “You shan’t like the consequences. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Perfectly.” With a superior sneer, his lordship took his leave, wobbling down the corridor before stumbling down the stairs.

Closing her eyes, Purity sagged against the wall. Her legs shook so mightily she wasn’t positive she could remain upright much longer.

Mouth still dry from her earlier fright, she swallowed.

“Thank you, Mr. Rutland.”

Why no one had come to investigate the commotion, she could not imagine. Probably because the entire vile encounter had been conducted in low tones and whispers. And because not all of the guests had arrived yet, some of the bedchambers remained unoccupied.

Purity sent up a silent prayer of thanks for small favors.

She felt the heat of Mr. Rutland’s body and smelled his cologne before he gently asked, “Are you hurt?”

Only my pride and dignity.

She shook her head, and to her utter chagrin, a solitary, fat crystalline droplet trickled down her cheek. Mortified at the waterworks about to commence—Purity was not a weeper—she tucked her chin to her chest. Presenting her back, she surreptitiously wiped the corner of her eye with her bent forefinger as she rested her forehead against the wall.

Tears oozed from between her squeezed-shut eyelids, and her body trembled with the effort to suppress her sobs.

Mr. Rutland tenderly grasped her shoulders and turned her toward him. “Shh. Don’t cry. It’s all right. He’s gone.”

“I…I’m sorry.” Purity swiped ineffectually at her wet cheeks, failing to stanch the salty flow of hot tears.

He made a distressed sound.

“I cannot stand to see a woman cry. Not even Bernadine.” He gathered her into his arms, and Purity buried her face against the rugged wall of his chest.

At his tender touch, a sensation much like warm velvet enveloped her. Soothing yet sensual too, and wholly disturbing in its intensity. Despite her weeping, she breathed in his essence: sandalwood soap, starch, and his musky-woodsy cologne.

Clean and crisp—not heavy and cloying.

A fop Mr. Rutland was not.

At last, the reservoir of Purity’s tears ran dry, and she lifted her head but kept her gaze averted. “Please forgive me. I’ve dampened your coat.”