“The difference between us is that I do not mind, and it is evident that you do.” He leaned on his cane, dragging one leg behind him as he made his way around the chair he’d stood behind and sat down heavily on it.
I narrowed my eyes. “Only because the world judges my sex more severely.”
He set the cane across his lap and steepled his hands. “A fair point.”
I looked at him in surprise, not quite believing his easy agreement. I unfurled the sheet music and set it back down on the bench beside me.
“Do not let me keep you from your music. Talent such as yours should not be neglected.”
My hands curled into fists at my sides. “Sir—Your Grace—do not mock me.”
One of his brows pulled down. “Far better to be mocked than pitied.”
Though I was uncertain I agreed with such a statement, it tugged at me, and I understood how deeply he felt it to be true. I regarded him closely. “Is that why you dismissed me last night—because you thought I pitied you?”
He frowned. “You mistake yourself if you believe I wasted even a moment wondering how you felt about me.”
My softened feelings for him vanished, replaced once again by a hot anger. The man was insufferable. I shook my head. “I do not believe you. You are so consumed with feeling sorry for yourself that you are certain everyone else must be as well.”
His jaw slackened, and I felt a trace of satisfaction for having thrown him off balance just once, the way he seemed to do so constantly to me.
He sat forward, tightening the grip on his cane. “If you insist on being so candid, then be so now. Did you not feel pity for me last night? I have become intimately acquainted with the expression these past few years.” His gaze bored into me, demanding an answer.
My heart pounded wildly under the scorching power of his gaze. “If you must know, then yes, I felt some pity for you.”
The curiosity that had lit his eyes a moment before disappeared. “Even you.” He sounded almost disappointed.
“But it was not in the way you think,” I continued. “I felt pity that a man with all of your power, wealth, and education should throw it all away because of some outward mar on your person. I hardly know you, but it’s obvious you’ve become a brooding recluse, your only entertainment finding ways to mock and scorn those who do not share your fate.” I shook my head, unable to stop. “I’ll not make the mistake of wasting such feeling on you again, for you do not deserve it. Your mother was right. You are a petulant child—one who deserves a good switching.”
I did not even look at him as I snatched up my gloves, swept by the chair where he sat, and walked out the door.
Chapter Four
I sat on the edge of my bed, hands shaking, waiting for the summons that was sure to come. A short missive. A dismissal. An invitation to pack my bags and take my leave, my aunt and cousins along with me. Aunt Agnes would be furious.
I bit my tongue, penance for the wicked words I’d allowed to escape just minutes before. Though I could not regret them, I regretted that my temper had gotten the best of me. I shook my head. After years under Aunt Agnes’s smothering control, it was hard for me to believe myself capable of such an outburst. What was it about that man that loosened my tongue and made my emotions swirl?
The room held no noticeable chill, but I hugged myself, feeling cold. A fire burned in the hearth, its flames licking the remnants of the dying logs. I traced one of the tufted gold diamonds that adorned my coverlet in an attempt to distract myself, but my paltry efforts proved unsuccessful. My conversation—or rather, quarrel—with the duke played over and over in my mind. I felt trapped by it, for no matter which way I examined it, it seemed there was nothing I might have said to keep the upper hand. The man had a way of maintaining the utmost composure, a cool control that unsettled me.
An eternity ticked by. The bells chimed from the northwest tower, marking the hour and urging everyone to finish dressing for dinner. When I could bear it no longer, I took to pacing. My letter to Harry would have to wait another day, for I was in no state to write, let alone give him any sort of encouragement.
I wrung my hands together anxiously. Was there any way I might undo the damage I had done? A few minutes later a knock sounded at the door, and Betsy entered, heading straight for the large wardrobe that graced the corner of the room.
“Your aunt took longer than expected; we must hurry.” Her tone was more subdued than usual. “What shall you wear tonight, miss?” she asked, sparing me a quick glance. Her cheeks were stained with tears. It was enough to jolt me from my worry.
“Betsy—”
“How about the pale-gray silk? And I thought to try your hair in a new fashion, something Lady Ellen’s maid showed me.” She spoke quickly, her words tumbling over one another.
“Betsy, wait. What is the matter?”
She turned away and shook her head.
I closed the distance between us, then laid a soft hand on her shoulder. “Betsy, did Aunt Agnes . . . ?” I took a step to the side and saw the imprint of Aunt Agnes’s hand on Betsy’s cheek. Seeing the red welt, I felt the ghost of my aunt’s palm on my own cheek from times past. “Oh, Betsy, I’m sorry.”
She sidestepped my concern. “Let’s get you dressed, miss. If you’re not ready in time, things will only be worse for me.”
I nodded dumbly, the mark on her face enough to remind me why I was right to fear Aunt Agnes’s wrath. Betsy helped me out of my dress and then slipped the new one over my head, fastening the back. The distant part of my brain admired her quick handiwork and steady manner, even after the abuse she’d endured at my aunt’s hand.
She motioned for me to sit at the vanity, where she began to arrange my hair. All I could think as she combed and twisted and pinned was that I would be made to pay for our dismissal. Though I couldn’t think of how, with Harry away at Harrow, Aunt Agnes would find a way to use him to punish me.
“Thank you, Betsy. And I’m sorry—”
“Hurry now, miss. Lady Everdale will be waiting.” After helping me with my gloves, Betsy practically shoved me out the door.
Aunt Agnes’s stern face greeted me. Her dark-brown hair, lightened by the first whispers of gray, sat high atop her head, making her seem even more daunting than usual. She hid her age well, keeping with the fashions of much younger women, but wrinkles had begun to appear about her mouth, probably from the look of vexation she so often aimed at me. “And are you quite recovered from your headache, Juliet?” she asked, her voice as composed as ever. It was only from years of practice that I had learned to discern the underlying inflection that indicated her displeasure.