"Then some are fools, and their opinions need not concernus."
He stared at her as though she had sprouted wings and begun to fly about the room. Clearly, her matter-of-fact acceptance of his appearance was not the reaction he had anticipated or, perhaps, desired.
"Your father," he said after a long pause, "saved my worthless life at the war."
"So Mr. Blackwood informed me. I should like to hear the particulars, if you would be so good as to relate them."
"Would you indeed? Very well." He moved to the windows, gazing out at the moor through a gap in the curtains. "When the French artillery found our position, I was buried beneath a collapsed wall with half my company. Your father dug me out with his bare hands while shot and shell fell around us like hail."
"That sounds rather like him. He never could abandon a creature in distress, whether it be a wounded bird or a lost soldier."
"He carried me three miles to the field hospital, Miss Hartwell. Three miles through enemy territory, with French cavalry hunting survivors and my blood painting a trail for them to follow."
"And nearly faced court martial for his trouble, if the documents I found among his papers are accurate."
The Duke's shoulders stiffened, and when he turned back to her, his expression was darker than a winter storm. "Your father risked everything to save a man who was not worth saving. He should have left me to die with dignity rather than preserving me for this mockery of existence."
"How remarkably self-pitying of you, Your Grace."
The words escaped before she could recall them, hanging in the air like a challenge flung down between armies. The Duke's face went absolutely still, and for a moment she feared she had pushed too far, too fast.
"I beg your pardon?" His voice was deadly quiet.
"You heard me correctly, I believe. You speak of my father's heroism as though it were some cruel jest played upon you by fate. Yet here you stand in your magnificent library, surrounded by luxury most can only dream of, possessed of one of the oldest titles in England. If this is your idea of a mockery, I confess myself curious about your definition of success."
"You think wealth and title are sufficient compensation for..." He gestured toward his scarred face with bitter emphasis.
"I think you are alive when thousands of better men lie buried in the soil. I think you have the opportunity to honour their sacrifice by living worthily, by using your position and resources to some meaningful purpose. Instead, you lurk in this mausoleum feeling sorry for yourself while your tenants suffer and your estate crumbles around you."
The silence that followed her outburst was so complete that she could hear the rain pattering against the windows and the soft hiss of the fire in the grate. The Duke stared at her with an expression of such astonishment that she began to wonder if anyone had dared speak so plainly to him since his return from war.
"You have considerable nerve, Miss Hartwell."
"I have considerable honesty, Your Grace. I thought you might appreciate the novelty."
"What I appreciate," he said, moving closer with that careful, controlled gait, "is impertinence in its proper place. Which is not in my library, directed at my person."
"Then perhaps you should not have summoned me here under false pretenses. You spoke of matters of mutual interest, yet all I have heard thus far is a litany of your grievances against Providence."
"False pretenses?" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "What would you say, Miss Hartwell, if I told you thatyour father's dying request was that I take you as my wife?"
The words hit her like a physical blow, stealing her breath and sending her stumbling backward against a chair. Of all the possibilities she had considered, marriage had not been among them. The very idea seemed too absurd, too impossible to credit.
"I would say," she managed when she found her voice again, "that such a request would be presumptuous in the extreme, even from a dying man."
"Would you indeed? And if I told you that your alternatives are to accept such a proposal or find yourself on the London streets within the week?"
The brutal honesty of the statement sent ice through her veins. She had known her situation was desperate, but to hear it stated so baldly, so cruelly, made her realize just how completely she was at his mercy.
"I would say that you are no gentleman to threaten a lady in such a manner."
"I am no gentleman at all, Miss Hartwell. I thought I had made that abundantly clear."
"On the contrary, Your Grace. You are very much a gentleman, which makes your current behaviour all the more disappointing."
He laughed then; a sound utterly devoid of humor. "Disappointing? My dear Miss Hartwell, I fear you have not yet grasped the reality of your situation. You are alone in the world, penniless, and entirely dependent upon my charity. Disappointment is a luxury you can ill afford."
"And yet I find myself experiencing it nonetheless. How inconvenient."
