Fury flared. William sprang up, seized the ruffled shirt, slung the man back into a wooden post. His head thudded against the wood.
“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Lord Livingstone’s gasp was hot against William’s face, scented with peppermint comfits, a nauseating smell. His eyes were cool, amused, challenging.
Every muscle in William’s body itched to unleash the anger. To fight back and satisfy his pride, to gain justice for the mistreatment.
But he freed the man’s shirt. He took three steps back, held the infuriating gaze, and braced his feet apart. “Do not touch me again.”
A harrumph, as if the threat meant nothing. “See to my horse.” He departed, whipping the riding crop in the air until he’d disappeared out the stable doors.
William touched a hand to his left cheek. A stripe stung from his earlobe to halfway across his face, but the greater pain seared in the hollow of his gut.
The last of his pride had just been ripped out of him.
He was not certain he could ever get it back.
“You are unhappy.”
“No.”
“Does not even the ball excite you?” Alone with Isabella in the drawing room, Father reached for his teacup from the tray. “The invitations have all been sent. We are but ten days away from the event.”
The ball meant nothing to her. Before, it would have. Why not now?
Father’s eyes seemed to implore the same question. He sank deeper into his chair, sighed, and twirled the silver spoon in his tea. “Inconsequently, I forgot to mention a matter to you.”
“Oh?”
“I am releasing young William from his position.”
Her teacup crashed to its saucer the same time her heart faltered. “What? Why?”
“It has been reported to me that despite his warning, he has again shown impudence to my guest. I cannot permit such a thing.”
“But Father, he was likely provoked—”
“Lord Livingstone is a gentleman of breeding. He would have no gain in tormenting a servant.” Father sipped his tea. “Besides, I rather wondered if a situation of this nature might arise. A man raised as William Kensley cannot adjust to a life of servitude, and I cannot afford to accommodate him until he does.”
“I think we owe him our patience.”
“I think we owe him nothing.”
The aftertaste of tea soured in her mouth. A sense of panic swelled inside her. “This cannot be right.”
“Dear—”
“You are doing this on account of Lord Livingstone’s insinuations.”
Father’s brows rose. “I see you have not yet outgrown your eavesdropping. But allow me to ease your mind. I put no credit to Lord Livingstone’s aimless suspicions, as he is a man quite in love and must be forgiven a bit of jealousy. I, for one, know you far better than that. Do you really fathom I could thinkmydaughter capable of affection for a servant?”
She took another sip of her tea, anything to distract her hands, her mind, her eyes. Because if Father looked closely enough, he would know. He would read the guilty evidence in her face. “Excuse me. I believe I shall go and practice the piano-forte.”
Father beamed, proud and happy.
He would not be either if he knew that Lord Livingstone’s suspicions were true.
She waited as long as she could.
She told herself a hundred times she should not leave her chamber, or slip into her cloak, or hurry downstairs in the darkness.
