The dismissive observation stung, though she kept her expression composed. "I fear I cannot remedy my stature to better suit your expectations, Your Grace."
Something flickered in those dark eyes—surprise, perhaps, or the faintest hint of approval. He had clearly expected her to cower, to lower her gaze in proper feminine submission. Her direct response seemed to disconcert him more than tears or trembling would have.
"Indeed. And I suppose you consider yourself quite brave, coming here to face the monster of Ravenshollow?"
"I consider myself practical, Your Grace. Monsters, in my experience, exist primarily in gothic novels and the imaginations of impressionable young ladies."
His scarred mouth twisted in what might have been amusement or disdain. "How refreshingly rational of you, Miss Hartwell. I trust you shall maintain such admirable composure when we discuss the true purpose of your visit."
"I confess myself eager to hear it, Your Grace. Your correspondence was somewhat opaque on the matter."
He moved with careful precision to position himself behind a massive oak desk, maintaining a distance that spoke of long practice in managing others' reactions to his appearance. The gesture did not escape her notice, nor did the way he angled his body to minimize the view of his damaged profile.
"Your father, “he said abruptly, "wrote to me of yourcircumstances. Debts, I understand. Property seized. The usual consequence of a soldier's death.”
The casual cruelty of his words made her stiffen. “My father died serving his country, Your Grace. I would not characterize his sacrifice as usual.”
"All soldiers die serving their country, Miss Hartwell. Some simply have the good fortune to do so on a battlefield rather than in a sickbed, leaving their dependents to face the consequences of their heroism."
The bitter cynicism in his tone was clearly meant to wound, to shock her into retreat. Evangeline recognized the tactic for what it was—a test, or perhaps an attempt at self-protection. He was trying to drive her away before she discovered something he deemed too terrible to witness.
"If you summoned me here merely to disparage my father's memory, Your Grace, I shall take my leave. I may be in reduced circumstances, but I am not so desperate as to endure insults for the sake of shelter."
For a moment, something like approval flickered across his features. Then the mask of cold indifference descended once more.
"Spirited. Your father mentioned that particular trait in his letter. He seemed to consider it an asset rather than a flaw."
"And what is your opinion on the matter?"
"I have yet to decide. Spirit in a woman can be inconvenient."
"As can the lack thereof, I imagine. How tedious it must be to converse with creatures who possess no thoughts of their own."
This time his amusement was unmistakable, though quickly suppressed. "You have a sharp tongue, Miss Hartwell."
"So I have been told, Your Grace. Fortunately, I also possess the discretion to know when to employ it."
"Do you indeed? And what makes you believe this is such a time?"
She met his gaze directly, refusing to be intimidated by either his size or his scars. "Because, Your Grace, you are attempting to frighten me away without offering any explanation for why I was summoned here in the first place. I find such behaviour rather ungentlemanly."
The word hung in the air between them like a thrown gauntlet. For a moment, his control slipped, and she glimpsed something raw and dangerous in his dark eyes. Then he collected himself with visible effort.
"Ungentlemanly," he repeated softly. "How interesting that you should choose such a word. Tell me, Miss Hartwell, what do you see when you look at me?"
The question was clearly a trap, but she answered with characteristic directness. "I see a gentleman of obvious education and breeding who has suffered grievous injury in service to his country. I see someone who uses his scars as both armor and weapon, expecting others to recoil so that he need not risk genuine human connection."
His intake of breath was sharp enough to be audible. Clearly, her assessment had struck closer to the mark than he found comfortable.
"You presume to understand a great deal based on a few minutes' acquaintance."
"I presume nothing, Your Grace. I merely observe what is before me."
"And what you observe does not disturb you?"
"Should it? You are scarred, not contagious. Wounded, not wicked. Unless, of course, you have committed some heinous crime that I should know about?"
"Some would say that my very existence is crime enough."