Simpson dipped his chin slightly. “My lady is too kind.”
She was being nothing of the sort. She was using Lucas’s tender feelings against him. Telling him in clear terms that should he harm Simpson in any way, he would be harming her. And that was something he would not do.
“I would never dream of hurting Mr. Simpson,” he said. “I am here to help him coordinate some very large footmen who will see that nothing untoward happens to my lady. And that is something that your brother, your husband, myself, and Mr. Simpson all feel is of value. Is that not true, Simpson?”
The butler blushed a little as he turned rheumy eyes to Diana. “I do find that—at my age—having a few extra strong footmen about makes my tasks easier. And you did just yesterday suggest that I should take a bit more rest when I can.”
Excellent. That put the butler firmly in his camp. Now Diana would give in gracefully.
“Mr. Simpson,” she snapped. “We can handle things quite well—”
“But as you said,” Simpson interrupted, “I should rest more. And I fear your brother would take insult if we refused his generous aid.”
Diana stared at her butler for a long moment. When she spoke, it was quietly and with a queen’s command. “I am the mistress here, am I not?”
“Indubitably,” Simpson answered.
“I control who is allowed in my house and who is not.”
It wasn’t phrased as a question, but Simpson answered, nonetheless. “Of course, my lady.”
“Then I say—”
Lucas spoke up before she could make a declaration she would regret. “How many bruises did Mr. Geoffrey Hough leave on your skin?”
Diana’s head snapped up, and she spoke low and angry. “You go too far.”
He hadn’t gone far enough. “What has he threatened to do to you? Does he stop at a simple beating? Or does he insinuate far worse?”
He saw a flash of fear in her eyes, but she quickly covered it. That told him all he needed to know about the vile things her stepson had said to her. He let the moment hang not so he could draw breath but to control the surge of rage boiling through his body.
“Empty threats,” she said. “He would not dare carry them out.”
None of that was true. Geoffrey would indeed carry out his threats, and her very pale skin told him she suspected she was being naïve. Which meant he had to force her to admit her vulnerability, not only for her own sake but for everyone else’s.
“If something were to happen to you,” he asked, “what would become of the servants here? Of your husband? Will your stepson treat them well? Or will he corner the maids in the library? He has certainly done depraved things at the Lyon’s Den. How will you keep Simpson safe from an empty bottle thrown at his head? Geoffrey put a three-inch gash in Egeus’s forehead seven months ago at the Den. That is why Egeus was the first to volunteer for his duties here.” He straightened to his full height. “Refuse my aid if you must, but who will protect your servants? Pride is not reserved just for feckless heirs. I understand that even a mistress of her own home can suffer from the same affliction.”
She stiffened at the insult. “It is not pride that makes me want you gone.”
He arched his brows in challenge. “No? Then why?”
Her next words cut deeper than anything else she could have said. “Because I do not know you, sir. And I am not accustomed to allowing men I do not know into my home, no matter what promises they or my brother make.”
That hurt. Never—not even when they were teenagers—had she spoken to anyone with that imperious tone. It clogged his throat with surprising pain, but he still got his words out.
“You do know me,” he said.
She sucked in a breath. “No—”
“You know that I failed you once, Diana. Which is why I will not fail you again. I swear it.”
She shook her head, and her eyes shone brightly. “I put no faith in the promises of men.”
Simpson straightened in shock. “My lady!”
“Diana, you are being illogical—”
“Enough!” she snapped as she slashed her hand through the air. He watched her gather her dignity in the way she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. She looked at Simpson first, and his cheeks burned red at her hard regard.
“My lady—” he began, pain in his tone.
“You want him here?” she asked.
He swallowed and nodded. “I think it best.”
She did not look at Lucas. “Then you will be sure that I never cross paths with him inside this house. Fill my home to the rafters with his large men, but I will not set eyes on Mr. Lucifer again.” She coated his name with disdain. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Then she swept between them, her skirts nearly trapping his ankles as she moved through, only to release him with the force of a whip letting go. She had every right to hate him. Twelve years ago, he had failed her. But in all his daydreams of how they might meet again, never had he expected this. That the very sight of him would fill her with fury.
Except it hadn’t at first. Her eyes had softened and… And she had tried to boot him from her home. And while he was thinking about that, Simpson blew out a slow breath.
“It shouldn’t be too difficult to keep you two apart. If your men—”
“I’m afraid I’m about to disappoint her ladyship again.”
“What?”
“I have no intention of staying apart from her.” He hadn’t even realized he meant the words until he’d spoken them. So much had changed for them both in twelve years. And yet, the drive to be by her side hadn’t lessened one jot. He’d suppressed it for twelve long years, but now, after seeing her again, he could not abandon her again. Not even if she brought in the royal guard to throw him into the street.
“I have promised to protect her, Simpson. That means I will be at her side every minute of every day until that blighter is gone from England.”
Simpson was quiet for a long moment, then he pursed his lips. “She won’t like that, my lord. And though she might not look like much, she can fight in unexpected ways.”
In that respect, they were well and truly matched.
Chapter Four
Damn, damn, damn! The words sounded in Diana’s thoughts with every step she took away from her downstairs desk. Twelve years—twelve years!—she had worked night and day to gain respect from the people around her. She’d been a child when she’d taken over the reins of the household, and the staff had run roughshod over her. Her husband had been oblivious to the sleights handed her by everyone from the lowest maid and up through every single one of Oscar’s older and crueler children.
She hadn’t known how to manage anything, but by God, she’d learned. It had been the mother of her dearest school friend who had taught her that respect came from two things: money and a cool head. She had to gain control of the household finances and wield that money with calm, level-headed authority. No histrionics, no whining. Simple, implacable rules.
It sounded so easy, but learning to do it had been the most exacting lesson of her life. Her mother had taught her to wheedle and simper her way into what she wanted. But that only worked on society men. She’d stood firm against her husband when he complained that she’d upset the house by sacking the insolent housekeeper. She’d used the very same words with him that she had a few moments ago. “I am the mistress, am I not?” and “I control who comes and goes in my own household, do I not?”