Mary And The Marquis. Janice Preston

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      Rothley’s dark brows drew together in a frown. ‘His father’s arrangement?’

      ‘Yes. As I said, I did sewing and some letter writing. He entrusted me with both the household and the estate accounts. I have a good head for...’ Mary registered Rothley’s expression and his tone. She was momentarily lost for words. ‘Oh!’ She hauled in an indignant breath. ‘You think...you think...!’

      Words failed her. Belatedly, she understood precisely what Rothley implied.

      ‘I do not condemn you, Mary. The father clearly had excellent taste, but I can understand the son’s reluctance to take on his father’s obligation. I see now the difficulty in obtaining further employment in the area.’

      She leapt to her feet, her cheeks burning. Rothley’s hand shot out and grasped her wrist. She twisted and pulled, but could not break free.

      ‘Wait, Mary, please. There is no need to be ashamed. You said yourself you are only travelling from necessity and that your intended destination is not from choice. I can offer you an alternative. Stay here, with me. I will take care of you.’

      He wants me as his whore. He is no better than Simon. As his grip loosened, Mary snatched her wrist free and backed out of his reach. She whirled to face him.

      ‘Just because I am a widow you gentlemen seem to believe I exist simply to slake your thirst. Well, I don’t! Do you hear me? I shall never...’

      She paused, willing her voice not to wobble. ‘I am a respectable woman and I beg leave to inform you I resent your...your...insinuation...that I might have behaved immorally with Mr Wendo— with my employer. He was a lovely gentleman and extraordinarily kind to me and my...my...Michael. I...’

      To her horror, tears blurred her vision. She had never imagined Mr Wendover’s kindness to her could be so badly misconstrued. Her breath juddered, loud in her ears. She must get out of here. She ran to the door.

      ‘Mary...wait...’

      She ignored him, slamming the door behind her.