curled in self-derision. "Why should I have been any different?"
She knew it was stupid when she said it, but she had to. "Because people don't do that anymore."
"Nonsense, my dear, of course they do. You've been in society enough to know how ridiculous you sound. How young." He chuckled, a laugh rusty with disuse. "In some ways, at least, you haven't changed."
I have. She wanted to insist he acknowledge how much she had changed. But in this matter, at least, she still believed what he did not. "For a twenty-one-year-old man to agree to train and educate a thirteen-year-old girl for no other reason than to have a wife at hand when he chooses to wed— that is obscene."
He was still smiling, if you could call that arduous bend of the lips a smile.
"You must admit," he said, "that most marriages are forged of some ingredient other than mutual affection. Greed, usually, but occasionally expediency."
"Expediency would have been your motivation," she accused.
He tossed the accusation right back. "Yours, also. I doubt you would have enjoyed being thrown out in the street when your mother died."
"You and your grandmother were not the kind of people to pitch me out." Whatever Dougald and Mrs. Pippard had been or done, she knew that for certain. "But even if you were, I would have found a position somewhere doing something."
"You were always so convinced of your infallibility."
"Of my infallibility?" She was startled. "I don't think so. Of my competence, yes."
"Think about it. Think about it now, using what you've learned of the world. The best you could have done was become a maid, probably in the kitchen. You were pretty and refined. You wouldn't have been like the other maids, so they would have made fun of you. The men would have been after you. All the men, from the footmen to the master and his sons." His hard tone and rough-gravel voice could only come from a man repelled by the thought of such concupiscence. He pressed her for admission. "I saved you from all that."
"You're right, of course." She owned up to it freely. "So I thank you. But what you have never understood is that my gratitude to you for the education and the finishing school could have been repaid by the sweat of my brow, not with my body."
He stared at her body now, then flicked a glance at her expression of fierce intent. "You have never forgiven me for taking your virtue from you."
She hated that he talked about the day she had worked so hard to forget. "I was so young, Dougald, and you swept me away with your sweet words and your attentions." Your kisses.
"You had found out about the arrangement, and you were leaving me." His voice lowered to a whisper. "On the train. Remember the train…"
They were rumbling along, headed for Sankey viaduct, and she tilted the bottle of wine once more, tasting the flavors of grape and oak, thinking that Dougald hadn't had very much of it, she'd been so intent on filling her belly. But looking him over now, watching him munch his apple, she didn't think he appeared to be thirsty. In fact, he didn't appear to be missing anything; he was a good-looking man, tall, dark and handsome, and if a girl dreamed of a man, he would be the ideal man to dream of. But he was too old for her— what was he, twenty-six? And so damn complacent and self-assured. It was frustrating, that a man with so much presence, a man who could sweep any woman off her feet, should choose a girl that he did not have to exert himself with. Such a shame; it was probably a sign of some spiritual deficiency on his part.
"What kind of spiritual deficiency?" his warm, deep voice asked.
Hannah blinked. Had she spoken aloud? My heavens, she had had too much wine.
"Probably a little too much wine," he agreed. "What kind of spiritual deficiency do I suffer from?"
"Wanting to… marry someone without taking the energy to court her." His steady green gaze mesmerized her. "Why would you abandon the thrill of the chase?"
"I chased you, didn't I?"
She knew it was stupid when she said it, but she had to. "Because people don't do that anymore."
"Nonsense, my dear, of course they do. You've been in society enough to know how ridiculous you sound. How young." He chuckled, a laugh rusty with disuse. "In some ways, at least, you haven't changed."
I have. She wanted to insist he acknowledge how much she had changed. But in this matter, at least, she still believed what he did not. "For a twenty-one-year-old man to agree to train and educate a thirteen-year-old girl for no other reason than to have a wife at hand when he chooses to wed— that is obscene."
He was still smiling, if you could call that arduous bend of the lips a smile.
"You must admit," he said, "that most marriages are forged of some ingredient other than mutual affection. Greed, usually, but occasionally expediency."
"Expediency would have been your motivation," she accused.
He tossed the accusation right back. "Yours, also. I doubt you would have enjoyed being thrown out in the street when your mother died."
"You and your grandmother were not the kind of people to pitch me out." Whatever Dougald and Mrs. Pippard had been or done, she knew that for certain. "But even if you were, I would have found a position somewhere doing something."
"You were always so convinced of your infallibility."
"Of my infallibility?" She was startled. "I don't think so. Of my competence, yes."
"Think about it. Think about it now, using what you've learned of the world. The best you could have done was become a maid, probably in the kitchen. You were pretty and refined. You wouldn't have been like the other maids, so they would have made fun of you. The men would have been after you. All the men, from the footmen to the master and his sons." His hard tone and rough-gravel voice could only come from a man repelled by the thought of such concupiscence. He pressed her for admission. "I saved you from all that."
"You're right, of course." She owned up to it freely. "So I thank you. But what you have never understood is that my gratitude to you for the education and the finishing school could have been repaid by the sweat of my brow, not with my body."
He stared at her body now, then flicked a glance at her expression of fierce intent. "You have never forgiven me for taking your virtue from you."
She hated that he talked about the day she had worked so hard to forget. "I was so young, Dougald, and you swept me away with your sweet words and your attentions." Your kisses.
"You had found out about the arrangement, and you were leaving me." His voice lowered to a whisper. "On the train. Remember the train…"
They were rumbling along, headed for Sankey viaduct, and she tilted the bottle of wine once more, tasting the flavors of grape and oak, thinking that Dougald hadn't had very much of it, she'd been so intent on filling her belly. But looking him over now, watching him munch his apple, she didn't think he appeared to be thirsty. In fact, he didn't appear to be missing anything; he was a good-looking man, tall, dark and handsome, and if a girl dreamed of a man, he would be the ideal man to dream of. But he was too old for her— what was he, twenty-six? And so damn complacent and self-assured. It was frustrating, that a man with so much presence, a man who could sweep any woman off her feet, should choose a girl that he did not have to exert himself with. Such a shame; it was probably a sign of some spiritual deficiency on his part.
"What kind of spiritual deficiency?" his warm, deep voice asked.
Hannah blinked. Had she spoken aloud? My heavens, she had had too much wine.
"Probably a little too much wine," he agreed. "What kind of spiritual deficiency do I suffer from?"
"Wanting to… marry someone without taking the energy to court her." His steady green gaze mesmerized her. "Why would you abandon the thrill of the chase?"
"I chased you, didn't I?"
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