And she thought with bleak humor of how Daniel would react to such an invitation. He would be shocked and hurt and sorrowful.
The duke stopped when they reached the upper terrace, at the foot of the horseshoe steps.
“I meant what I said,” he said, one hand over hers as it rested on his arm. “I was angry at my own weakness that night, Fleur, and I used you crudely and cruelly. I have much to atone for. I would like to do you a kindness.”
“You already have,” she said. “You fed me and paid me more than I had earned, and you gave me this post.”
He said no more, but only searched her eyes with his for a long silent moment in the darkness until she felt terror welling in her again.
But she remembered the greater terror facing her inside the house and drew herself free of his grace in order to climb the steps unassisted. She hoped she would not be chained, she thought, and began to run. She hoped she would not be carried or dragged from this house the next day in chains. And she hoped …
She opened one of the doors herself without waiting for the duke to come up beside her. And she fled across the great hall and through the archway to the staircase as if all the hounds of hell were in pursuit of her.
THE DUKE OF RIDGEWAY WATCHED HER GO, HIS face impassive for the benefit of the footmen who stood in the hall.
Was it he from whom she fled? And yet, though he had felt her shudder when he touched her, she had fought her revulsion and mastered it just as she had when they had danced. Had she feared that he would suggest taking her to her room or to his?
But no, she must know that he had not had seduction on his mind, that he was deeply concerned about her.
What was the unknown terror that had sent her fleeing first from the house and then back into it?
He felt so very responsible for her, as he did for all his servants and all those under his care. But more than that with her. He was the one responsible for changing her life irrevocably, and that in a manner designed to fill her forever with horror.
He had not kissed her or held her or fondled her. He had merely seated himself and ordered her to remove her clothes, and had watched her every movement. And he had ordered her to lie down while he undressed in front of her. While the candle still burned in the wall sconce, he had pulled her into the position he wanted, the position in which he could demonstrate his mastery over her and all women, and then he had demonstrated that mastery without subtlety or gentleness.
And yet he had taken her to that inn wanting to soothe himself with feminine compassion and warmth. Her very silence and self-possession had inflamed him, angered him. He had wanted her to reach out to him as no one had reached out for more years than he could recall, and she had looked at him with steady acceptance of what she must do to earn her living.
He cursed softly and turned from the hall to rejoin his wife and their guests in the drawing room. And he found himself looking curiously at Lord Brocklehurst, who was conversing quietly and amiably with a small group. The duke joined that group.
“Yes, she is sleeping,” he assured Lady Mayberry, who asked about Pamela.
An hour passed before he found himself almost alone with Lord Brocklehurst and uncertain whether he or the other had maneuvered it so.
“You have a fine daughter, your grace,” Lord Brocklehurst said with a smile.
“Yes, indeed,” the duke replied. “She is very precious to my wife and me.”
“The prospect of marriage is appealing when one thinks of acquiring a family of such pretty children,” the other said.
“Yes, indeed,” the duke said. “You are betrothed?”
“Oh, no, no, not yet,” Lord Brocklehurst said with a laugh. “Of course, it must be a worry to have children and the responsibility of giving them all that is the best. How does one choose a worthy governess or tutor, for example? Your governess seems like a quiet young lady. She has been with you long?”
“Quite recently acquired, actually,” the duke said. “We are well satisfied with her work.”
“It must be time-consuming to check the references of such an employee,” Lord Brocklehurst said, “to make sure that one is not being deceived in any way.”
“Perhaps,” his grace said. “I employ a secretary for such a purpose. You know Miss Hamilton?”
“Oh, no, no,” the other said, “though the name is familiar. And the face too, a little, now that you mention it. I believe I know her family. Perhaps I met her once.”
“Ah,” the duke said, “Miss Dobbin is to play the pianoforte, I see. I shall draw nearer. Excuse me, Brocklehurst?”
So, he thought, crossing the room to stand behind Miss Dobbin’s stool, it was definitely Brocklehurst. And the man was being as secretive about the whole connection as Fleur had been.