Chapter Two
Mrs Thornton swept along the corridors at a brisk pace, her heels clicking smartly against the tiles, never once glancing back to see if Maggie kept up.
“Is it true, then—what they say about him?” Maggie ventured at last, a little breathless.
Mrs Thornton cast her a sharp look over her shoulder. “And what do they say, Miss Winter?”
“Well, I am sure you’ve heard.”
“Enlighten me,” Mrs Thornton returned, her tone as crisp as a whip-crack.
Maggie swallowed. Well, I’ve started; I’d best go on.
“I only meant that he is said to be something of a gambler. Not a spendthrift, of course, but a most formidable player.”
She was being charitable. In certain parts of London, the Duke of Burenwood’s name was met with a curse.
“The Gambling Devil,” one man had muttered, spitting to the side. “You want no dealings with that one, missy. Ruins lives, he does.”
The man in question had been a coachman offering passage, about ten miles outside of London. He had apparently withdrawn his offer when he learned where Maggie was trying to go. It shocked her, somewhat, and hinted that the man’s reputation extended far beyond London itself.
Maggie had no chance to explain further, for Mrs Thornton stopped so abruptly that she almost collided with her.
“I’ll have no truck with gossip in this house, Miss Winter,” she said sharply, her eyes glinting. “A little harmless chatter is one thing, but I will not abide slander—least of all against the duke. The man pays our wages, if that has escaped you.”
Maggie blinked, taken aback. “I… It isn’t slander.”
“Oh, no? And you know the truth of it, do you?” The housekeeper’s tone could have curdled milk. “Mind your tongue, Miss Winter, or you’ll be out of this house faster than the rest—and that would be a pity, for Miss Emma seems to have taken a liking to you.”
Without waiting for a reply, Mrs Thornton turned and strode off again, leaving Maggie wide-eyed in her wake.
I cannot recall the last time anyone scolded me so soundly, she thought wryly, and hurried after her.
They went on in silence for what felt like ten minutes, winding through stairways and corridors, until at last Mrs Thornton halted before a tall, rounded door marked ‘Study’.
Whatever sort of guardian he is, Maggie thought grimly, he clearly prefers the nursery kept well away from his own rooms.
Mrs Thornton drew herself up, gave Maggie a quick, appraising glance, sighed, and knocked.
“Enter,” came a gravelled voice from within. She opened the door but did not step inside. “Miss Winter,” she said, gesturing.
Maggie obeyed—and found herself in a large, airy chamber with high ceilings and bookshelves lining every wall. A great window poured sunlight upon a battered desk set before it. A man sat there, his figure half-silhouetted by the glare.
Maggie advanced a few paces. London had taught her what men’s studies could be like—dim, dusty, and jealously guarded from the maids’ dust-cloths. But this room was immaculate; even the bookshelves gleamed.
The door clicked shut behind her. She turned—Mrs Thornton had gone. She was alone.
Alone with the duke.
A faint scratching told her he was writing.
He must know I am here, she thought, a twinge of irritation rising. He summoned me, after all.
She cleared her throat. The pen stilled.
“Yes, Miss Winter?”
The voice was deep, a little rough—like a man recovering from a cold, or accustomed to giving orders at a shout. It startled her.
“Well, I’m here, your Grace. You sent for me.”
“And you would like me to drop what I am doing to attend you, is that it?”
A chill prickled down her spine. She reminded herself that this was her employer now, and that a good reference might one day stand between her and ruin.
“No, of course not,” she said lightly, folding her hands before her. She schooled her face into patient calm, though she longed to shift her weight. There was no chair set before the desk, only one large armchair turned towards the fire—and she did not presume it for herself.
With a sigh, the man laid down his pen and rose.
He kept rising—taller and broader than fashion allowed, his shoulders near blocking the sun.
When he stepped away from the window’s blaze—perhaps positioned there to dazzle his visitors—she saw him clearly for the first time.
The Duke of Burenwood was far younger than she had imagined.
She had pictured a severe man of forty, grey at the temples and lined about the eyes.
Instead, this one could not be thirty. His hair, thick and black, brushed his collar—far too long for Town.
His suit was dark green, slightly faded, stretched across a chest that needed no padding.
His cravat was tied in a simple knot, unadorned by a pin.
London’s dandies would have sniffed—but perhaps envied his figure.
Not that I ought to notice such things, she told herself sternly. Yet with shoulders like those, who could help it?
“You are Miss Margaret Winter, then,” he said, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe. His lips compressed, as though at some disappointment.
His tone was so cold that she almost shrank. But those days of shrinking were behind her. She straightened instead and met his eye with composure.
“I am, your Grace.”
He blinked, perhaps surprised that she did not look away. She debated whether she ought to; it was already too late. To drop her gaze now would seem weakness.
He could not be more than thirty, she thought again, taking in the strong, symmetrical features—almost classical in their lines.
His eyes were a strange, stormy blue, like the sea under thunderclouds.
In London, women would have called him handsome, had he only trimmed his hair, bought a proper coat, and frowned a little less.
“You are a long way from London, Miss Winter,” he said abruptly.
“Yes.”
He raised his brows, waiting for elaboration, and when she offered none, the silence grew taut, broken only by the steady tick of the mantel clock.
Two can play at that game, she thought hotly. What business is it of his why I am here? I am ready to work—that should suffice.
At last, he said, “You are very bold, Miss Winter.”
“I—”
“That was not a question. Let me be plain. Three governesses have left this house within the past two months. Three. Their failing, it seems, was an inability to endure my household’s requirements.
I expect discipline, order, and honesty.
I did not think those demands excessive, but evidently I was mistaken.
Tell me—am I mistaken with you also? Are you afraid, Miss Winter? ”
She swallowed and kept her gaze steady. He is trying to frighten me, she thought. Trying to drive me off. But why?
“I am not the least bit afraid,” she said evenly, lifting her chin. “I have managed difficult households before.”
He arched a brow. “You equate discipline with difficulty? An odd notion for a governess.”
“Not at all, your Grace. Perhaps I speak out of turn, but I did not think Miss Emma a child in need of great discipline.”
His brow furrowed. “You have met my niece already?”
“Yes—Mrs Thornton took me there directly upon my arrival.”
Something flickered across his face—displeasure, perhaps? Had the formidable housekeeper overstepped her bounds? Impossible.
Abruptly, he turned away, striding to his desk. He sat heavily, once more half-hidden in sunlight.
“You may go, Miss Winter,” he said curtly. “My niece requires firm discipline and a proper education. By that I mean mathematics, geography, history, the sciences—no idle nonsense. I will not have her walking about with a book balanced on her head and calling it education.”
“I shouldn’t dream of it, your Grace,” she returned smoothly. “Though balancing a book upon one’s head is excellent for posture.”
He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“But never fear,” she added blithely. “I shall make her read the book first.”
He stared at her, clearly uncertain what to make of her.
“Do we have an understanding or not, Miss Winter?” he demanded at last. “If not, you may take yourself off this very day.”
That was a sharp reminder of how precarious her position truly was. If she were turned away, there was nowhere else to go.
So she smiled, dipping a curtsey—perhaps a touch too graceful for a governess, but the expression of bewilderment on his face almost made it worth the risk.
“I shall, of course, follow your instructions, your Grace,” she said coolly. “As to discipline, I have always found that children respond better to understanding.”
He leaned back in his seat, already engrossed in the papers on his desk. “Do you? Well, follow the rules and you may think as you please.”
With an absent wave, he dismissed her.
Maggie, stifling indignation, turned to the door, opened it, and hesitated. It was foolish to seek the last word—but she could not help herself.
“As one who grew up motherless, your Grace,” she said softly, “I know how a child feels who has lost such love. One carries the weight of that absence every day.”
The duke inhaled sharply, his head snapping up. For an instant, she saw his face—startled, stricken—before she closed the door.
Outside, the corridor was empty. Mrs Thornton was nowhere in sight. Maggie picked a direction at random and walked as fast as she could.
Fool, she scolded herself. You’ve likely ruined everything before you have even begun.
Too late now. She forced her thoughts away from the stern duke and tried instead to concentrate on not getting lost.
It appeared she would fail at both.