Chapter 10 #2
He was still dressed in his riding attire, his dark hair slightly windswept and his boots gleaming with a polish that spoke to his valet's meticulous attention to detail.
Yet it was not his sartorial elegance that commanded attention, but rather the predatory stillness of his posture and the glittering fury in his dark eyes as he took in the scene before him.
"Mr. Whitmore," he said with silky courtesy that fooled no one. "How unexpected to find you calling upon Miss Greystone."
Whitmore's face paled slightly at the duke's unexpected appearance, though he attempted to maintain his composure with visible effort.
"Your Grace. I was merely paying my respects to Miss Greystone, as any gentleman might do."
"Were you indeed?" Devon moved into the room with that predatory grace that never failed to make Arabella's pulse quicken, positioning himself slightly behind her chair in a gesture that was unmistakably protective. "How very... thoughtful of you."
The pause before the word 'thoughtful' invested it with such menace that Whitmore took an involuntary step backward, clearly recognizing that he had somehow wandered into dangerous territory.
"I trust," Devon continued with the same deadly courtesy, "that Miss Greystone has been made to feel... comfortable during your visit?"
"Perfectly comfortable, Your Grace," Arabella interjected quickly, sensing that the situation was rapidly spiraling beyond her control. "Mr. Whitmore was just taking his leave."
"Was he?" Devon's gaze never left Whitmore's increasingly uncomfortable face. "How unfortunate that his visit must be cut short. I do so hope he was able to accomplish whatever purpose brought him here."
The subtle emphasis on the word 'purpose' made it clear that Devon had overheard at least part of their conversation, and Whitmore's flush deepened with obvious embarrassment and anger.
"I believe I accomplished what I came to do," he said stiffly, though his gaze flickered between Devon and Arabella with obvious unease. "Miss Greystone has been made aware of my sentiments."
"Has she indeed?" Devon's smile was sharp as a blade. "And her response to those sentiments was, I trust, all that you had hoped?"
The question was clearly rhetorical, and Whitmore's expression grew increasingly pinched as he recognized that he was being dismissed with the sort of calculated politeness that was more insulting than outright hostility.
"Miss Greystone requires time to consider my proposal," he said with wounded dignity. "I am prepared to be patient whilst she comes to appreciate the advantages of my suit."
"How very magnanimous of you," Devon observed with acid sweetness. "Though I fear you may find your patience tested somewhat longer than anticipated. Miss Greystone's position in this household is both secure and valued and she has little need to seek... alternative arrangements."
The territorial statement made Arabella's breath catch in her throat, whilst Whitmore's face darkened with obvious anger at this public dismissal of his prospects.
"Miss Greystone is a lady of gentle breeding who deserves better than to serve as a glorified governess, regardless of how... valued her services might be," he said with deliberate insolence. "Any gentleman of true sensitivity would recognise that her current circumstances are beneath her station."
Devon's entire posture changed at this veiled insult, his hands moving to clasp behind his back in a gesture that Arabella recognized as a sign of barely controlled violence.
"Indeed?" he asked with dangerous quiet. "And what circumstances would you consider more appropriate for a lady of Miss Greystone's qualities?"
"Marriage to a gentleman who can offer her respectability and security," Whitmore replied with the sort of foolish boldness that suggested he had completely failed to recognize the extent of Devon's displeasure.
"A proper home where her talents would be appreciated without the taint of.
.. speculation that inevitably surrounds her current position. "
"Speculation?" Devon repeated, his voice dropping to that silky tone that made Arabella's pulse quicken with alarm. "What manner of speculation might that be, Mr. Whitmore?"
Even Whitmore was not foolish enough to voice his crude suspicions directly in Devon's presence, though his meaning was clear enough to anyone with the wit to understand it.
"Merely the sort of gossip that inevitably arises when a beautiful woman finds herself in such close proximity to a gentleman of... considerable experience with the fairer sex."
The euphemistic reference to Devon's reputation sent a chill through the room, and Arabella found herself holding her breath as she waited for his response to such calculated provocation.
"I see," Devon said with deceptive calm. "And you believe that marriage to you would silence such gossip?"
"I believe that marriage to any respectable gentleman would remove Miss Greystone from circumstances that can only damage her reputation further," Whitmore replied with growing confidence, apparently mistaking Devon's quiet tone for acquiescence.
"How very noble of you," Devon observed. "Though I confess myself curious about one point. Have you actually secured Miss Greystone's agreement to this... rescue you propose to effect?"
Whitmore's gaze shifted uncomfortably between them. "Miss Greystone requires time to fully appreciate the advantages of my offer. I am confident that rational consideration will lead her to the correct decision."
"Rational consideration," Devon repeated thoughtfully. "How very confident of you. Though I wonder if you have given equal consideration to Miss Greystone's own preferences in the matter?"
"Her preferences?" Whitmore's tone suggested that such considerations were entirely secondary to the practical benefits of his proposal. "Naturally, any lady would prefer security and respectability to uncertainty."
"Would she indeed?" Devon's smile grew positively feral. "How fascinating that you should assume such knowledge of feminine preferences. Tell me, Mr. Whitmore, what experience do you possess in divining the desires of ladies of Miss Greystone's particular qualities?"
The question was clearly a trap, and Whitmore's face flushed with obvious discomfort as he recognized that any answer would likely incriminate him further.
"I merely meant that any rational person would prefer security to dependence," he said stiffly.
"Ah, but Miss Greystone is not dependent," Devon corrected with silky precision. "She is employed, in a position that makes full use of her considerable talents and provides her with both independence and respectability. Hardly the desperate circumstances that would require... rescue."
"Employment as a companion is hardly equivalent to the security of marriage," Whitmore protested.
"Is it not?" Devon moved closer to Arabella's chair, his proximity making her acutely aware of the sandalwood and bergamot scent that seemed to cling to his skin.
"Miss Greystone receives generous compensation for her services, occupies chambers befitting her station, and is treated with the respect due to her breeding and accomplishments.
In what way does this constitute hardship requiring relief? "
The defense of her position sent warmth flooding through Arabella's chest, though she remained silent, recognizing that this had become a battle between the two men and her interference would only complicate matters.
"Surely you cannot compare the temporary nature of employment with the permanent security of marriage," Whitmore argued with growing desperation. "What happens to Miss Greystone when Lady Livia no longer requires her services? What provision has been made for her future?"
"Miss Greystone's future is secure for as long as she chooses to remain in this household," Devon replied with quiet authority. "Her position here is permanent, should she wish it to be so."
The unexpected declaration made Arabella's heart skip several beats, whilst Whitmore's expression grew thunderous with frustrated anger.
"And what of her natural desires for a home and family of her own?" he demanded. "What man of honour would deny a lady such fundamental feminine aspirations?"
"What man of honour would assume that every lady shares identical aspirations?" Devon countered smoothly. "Perhaps you might consider asking Miss Greystone herself what she desires, rather than presuming to know her mind better than she does."
All eyes turned to Arabella, who found herself the uncomfortable center of attention in what had become an increasingly charged confrontation.
She could feel Devon's presence behind her like a physical force, whilst Whitmore's expectant gaze suggested he was still confident of her eventual capitulation.
"I desire," she said with quiet dignity, "to be valued for my mind as well as my person. To be treated as a rational being capable of making my own decisions about my future. To be respected for my accomplishments rather than pitied for my circumstances."
"And you believe you will find such respect in your current position?" Whitmore asked with obvious skepticism.
"I know I will," Arabella replied with quiet conviction, not daring to look back at Devon despite her acute awareness of his presence. "His Grace has never treated me as anything less than a valued member of his household, deserving of courtesy and consideration."
"How very... gratifying," Whitmore said with barely concealed sarcasm. "Though I wonder how long such consideration will last once the novelty of your unique situation begins to pale."
The crude implication that she was merely a temporary diversion made Devon's hands clench into fists behind his back, though his voice remained deadly calm when he spoke.
"I think, Mr. Whitmore, that you have quite overstayed your welcome. Miss Greystone has made her position clear, and I see no purpose in prolonging this discussion."