Sins of a Wicked Duke (The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls #1)(4)

The top of his head did not even reach her chin. It would be a relatively simple matter to plant her fist in his pug-nosed face and knock him down. As much as her father had lectured her on controlling her temper and abiding the ill treatment of her betters, he had also taught her it was acceptable to draw a line when risk to her person loomed imminent.

Drawing a steadying breath, she cautioned herself that it had not come to that.Yet . And she must prevent such a situation from arising. Otherwise she would be at the mercy of the agency again. Specifically Mrs. Harrison. The image of that proprietress rose in her mind, her sour face and buglike, unblinking eyes not the least bit merciful. She would not refer Fallon if she were sacked again. No matter the excuse.

Dignity and forbearance. Dignity and forbearance.

Like all those years at Penwich when she had bit her tongue and born Master Brocklehurst’s switch to her back. For whatever imagined infraction. She would bear more. Shecould . With as much charm and humility as she could manage, she pasted a smile on her face. “Lovely as that sounds, sir, I must decline.”

“Ah, you must not.”Hiccup . “As your employer, I insist.” His slight chest swelled with importance. “I command it. I told all my friends about you—my fiery-haired Boadicea.” His fingers flexed on her arm, his grip softening into a caress.

“Boadicea?” She winced.

“Yes. She was a Celtic queen who fought off the Romans—”

“I know who she is,” she inserted pertly, then bit her tongue.Dignity and forbearance .

“Indeed.”Hiccup . “Then you recall she was a giant of a woman with flaming hair. It is said she rode bare-breasted into battle.” His gaze dropped to her chest almost on level with his eyes.

Her cheeks smoldered. That particular bit had been left out of her history lessons.

He trailed his hand down her arm, his fingers reaching her tightly fisted hand. “If I don’t return to the parlor with you, they will think I’ve invented you.”Hiccup . “We can’t have that. Now. Do as you’re bade and come along with Reggie.” He winked. “I promise you shall have agrand time.” From the way he licked his fleshy lips, Fallon guessed he expected he would have a grand time, too—withher .

Da had warned her of men’s lascivious natures—especially when it came to women they considered beneath them.Easy pickings . Aside of her own father, the years since had concreted her feelings on that score. The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls had boasted a few girls who were less than virtuous. And yet Fallon had never faulted them. They bartered what they possessed for what the school failed to provide—food, clothes…affection.

Post or no post, she had no intention of stepping into a parlor full of inebriated men scarcely out of leading strings.

“I work for your mother. Not you, Mr. Jamison.”

Something tightened in his face, reminding her of a spoiled boy denied a treat. He flicked a hand in the air. “And who do you think shall inherit? Once I reach majority, all this shall belong to me.” His gaze roved over her. “That includes you and every other servant in this house. If you wish to keep your post, you would do well to remember that.”

Her fingers tightened around the strings of her reticule. It took every ounce of willpower to not swing it at the insolent pup. If she remained one moment longer, she would strike him where he stood.

“Forgive me, sir, but I forgot I have something I must do.”



With that rather inane comment, she gave a fierce tug and freed herself from his grasp. Lips tight, she spun on her heel, perversely satisfied at her final glimpse of his startled face. Likely a servant had never denied him anything before.

“Where are you going?” he sputtered behind her.

She didn’t reply. Hopefully she could disappear into the night and tomorrow this whole encounter would be but a dim memory for the sot. A few times around the square and she would return, well after he had returned to his friends in the parlor.

She hurried out the servants’ door into the frigid night, her heels clicking over the cobbled path that circled the house. Passing through the gate, she forged ahead, heedless that it clanked loudly behind her. Her breath puffed before her in frothy clouds.

The sudden echo of the gate clanging open and shut again scraped the air. She froze and shot a look over her shoulder into the murky night.It couldn’t be .He couldn’t be . She quickened her pace.

“You there! Girl! Wait.”

Heat licked her cheeks.Girl! Really! She possessed a name. And she happened to be older than he, the little toad.

“Stop, I say!” He was tenacious. A bulldog with a bone. She pretended not to hear him and turned down a street leading from the square, onto sidewalks lined with darkened shops. Feet pounded behind her. For a brief moment, she contemplated breaking into a full run but decided against it. A tad dramatic, and she was a pragmatist at heart. A pragmatist who needed her post come morning.

Sighing, she stopped and turned to face him, legs braced a bit apart. “Mr. Jamison,” she began as he came to a halt breathlessly before her, his face red from exertion…and something else. Something that sent a trickle of unease down her spine. “Go home, sir. Return to your friends. I remembered I have an errand to—”

“At this hour?” he panted. “Nonsense. You’re trying to escape me. Most impertinent.”