“How did he come into possession of that necklace?” he asked, deciding that there was a gap in her explanation.
Ivy balked, eyeing the door. James decided that if she moved another inch, he would be justified in taking her into his arms until she regained her composure. Or he did his. “I pawned it,” she whispered.
“Before or after you signed our contract?”
She moistened her lower lip with her tongue. He realized, in the midst of lusting for her, that she had come to him out of sheer desperation and that he could have been more bloody helpful. “Why didn’t you ask me for the money? I would have been happy to give you an advance of your wages to cover whatever you needed.”
“I was afraid of what you would demand in return.”
“That isn’t fair. Have I asked you for anything yet that you did not expect?”
“Yes. You’re asking me for something right now.”
She had him there. “Anything you give me of yourself has to be given willingly.” And would be willingly and most gratefully accepted.
She raised her face. “Your Grace, you say that now, but your actions speak otherwise. Pardon me for saying this, but you are rather acting like a wolf.”
He frowned. “Would you like for me to give you an advance on your wages?”
“I shall have to be a better governess to Mary and Walker in order to deserve that, which reminds me. It’s time for history.”
“History. My favorite subject.”
She rose and skirted the chair, curtsying twice while she backed away. “Mine too, Your Grace.”
“Recent years, I meant,” he said as she slipped into the hall, the jewelry box clutched in her hand.
He felt thwarted, aroused, infatuated. Both determined he would find out about her admirer and puzzled that she mattered enough for him to bother. She had taken care of herself for five years. She needed an income, not his personal interference. And he needed—well, so much more from her than Aesop’s Fables.
* * *
Ivy didn’t know how she managed to hide her vexation from the children until her day off. She avoided their uncle, although she could have sworn he kept her under his surveillance, and it was all the fault of that presumptuous poet who had made her appear to be a deceitful woman. One with a secret admirer, no less.
She left the house as planned before breakfast and headed toward the gates where Foxx was to pick her up for the drive to Fenwick. She hurried through the mist, feeling guilty for no actual reason. It was possible that Sir Oliver had only meant to send the necklace as an act of penance. The duke’s insistence that he witness her opening the box had transformed a simple gift into an artful deed with covert motives.
Ivy had let the duke influence her.
She was afraid that, given enough time, he could influence her in any number of ways. But it had felt rather nice to have the masterful man make a fuss over her and show concern for her well-being, even if she knew what he had in mind. And she wasn’t about to agree with him, but Sir Oliver had overdone his apology.
Still, what would a poet want with an impoverished lady? Was his conscience so sensitive that he would seek out her prior activity at the pawnbroker’s shop and attempt to redress a wrong with this flamboyant gesture? Ivy simply didn’t know. And quite honestly she preferred to remain in her ignorant state.
One scoundrel of a duke was enough to deal with.
One scoundrel who sneaked up behind her in the mist with such stealth that the cry of surprise in her throat died to a gasp before he spoke in her ear. “I hope I didn’t startle you again. The children wanted to wave to you from the front steps.”
She spun around to stare up into the duke’s face. “I am merely traveling to Fenwick, Your Grace, not to France. I don’t need a farewell party.”
His grin said that her forgiveness was assumed. “I know that. But they don’t.”
And while she turned to wave at the two children who, looking utterly miserable in their nightclothes, had obviously been dragged from their beds as an excuse for the duke to—to search her carriage? “What are you looking for?” she said indignantly.
His dark eyes shone in the breaking light. “Blankets.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Blankets. Brrr. It’s cold these mornings, and as you know, my coach is designed for comfort. Do be home by six. Mary and Walker tend to work themselves into a frenzy if they’re left alone too long. They’re too much for me to manage.”
“You underestimate yourself, Your Grace.”
He smiled. “Return to us safely, Miss Fenwick. We’ve come to rely on you.”
“It has only been a week.”