He had thought he was being chivalrous. He had thought he was showing an interest. But she was right. He had walked into her cage just to look at the bars.
Your grace, I am ruined with shame. Agatha stammered, pulling his attention back. She was trembling. She is unstable.
Her mind, the poverty has broken her wits. Please, you must believe me. This is not how Okehaven operates. We are a respectable family.
Victor looked at the older woman. He saw the cruelty baked into the lines of her face. He saw the way she looked at her niece, not as family, but as a burden. A scapegoat.
Mrs. Hawley, Victor said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. The aristocratic drawl vanished, replaced by the tone that made politicians sweat. I suggest you choose your next words with extreme care. Agatha blinked, stepping back.
Your grace? You speak of respectability while you let your niece repair fencing in a rainstorm without gloves. You speak of shame while you humiliate her in front of a stranger. Miss Penrose is the only person in this house who possesses an ounce of dignity.
He didn't wait for her to respond. He turned on his heel and walked out of the drawing room, his heavy boots echoing on the bare floorboards of the hall. He wanted to find Florence. He wanted to explain.
Explain what? That he found her fascinating? That her misery had somehow cured his boredom? No.
That would only confirm her accusation. He let himself out the front door, untied his horse, and mounted. The ride back to the Harrington Hall estate was a blur of cold wind and bitter self-reproach. He was a duke.
He possessed the power to change lives with a flick of his wrist. But Florence Penrose didn't want his money, and she certainly didn't want his pity. For the first time in his adult life, Victor Cavendish had no idea what to do. Back at Okehaven, the storm had finally broken.
Florence sat on the edge of her narrow bed, listening to Agatha's screaming echo up the stairwell. The older woman was tearing through the lower floor, throwing books, overturning chairs. Eventually, the footsteps came up the stairs. The door to Florence's room slammed open, hitting the wall with a crack.
Agatha stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, her face a mask of pure hatred. "You are done," Agatha hissed, her voice vibrating. "I have housed you. I have fed you. I have tolerated your miserable, ungrateful existence for eight years, hoping against hope that some blind, desperate fool might take you off my hands."
Florence didn't look up. She kept her eyes on the frayed hem of her quilt. "I am sorry you felt the investment yielded poor returns, Aunt."
"Don't you dare mock me." Agatha stepped into the room, raising her cane. For a second, Florence thought she was going to strike her. She didn't. She slammed the cane into the floor.
"You insulted the Duke of Westmoreland. You called him a tourist. He left the house in a rage. Do you understand what you have done?"
"He will speak to Lord Harrington. We will be cut from what little society we have left. The butcher will stop our credit."
"The butcher stopped our credit two weeks ago, Aunt," Florence pointed out, her voice devoid of emotion. "And the duke will forget we exist by tomorrow morning."
"I will not take that chance." Agatha leaned in, her pale eyes wide and feverish. "You are leaving." Florence finally looked up. A cold prickle of genuine fear traced its way up her spine.
"Leaving?"
"My cousin, Mrs. Higgins, wrote to me a month ago. She lives in York. She is bedridden, blind, and requires a companion to empty her chamber pot and read to her. I threw the letter in the fire because I would not subject a dog to that woman's house." Agatha smiled, a thin, cruel stretching of lips.
"But I saved the direction. You will pack your trunk. There is a mail coach that passes through the village at midnight. You will be on it."
"York?" Florence stood up. The fear was spreading now, turning the blood in her veins to ice. York was hundreds of miles away. A one-way ticket to servitude in a stranger's house. It was a death sentence for her spirit.
"You cannot turn me out in the middle of the night."
"Watch me," Agatha spat. "You have until 11:00 to pack your miserable rags. The gardener's boy will take your trunk to the inn in the wheelbarrow."
"If you are not out of this house by midnight, I will have the constable remove you for trespassing. You are no longer my niece. You are nothing." Agatha turned and walked out, pulling the door shut behind her.
The lock clicked. Florence stood in the center of the freezing room. The silence rushed back in, ringing in her ears. She walked over to the small, cracked mirror resting on her washstand.
She looked at her reflection. She looked at the square jaw Agatha hated, the dark hair, the tired eyes. No gentleman will want you. Agatha finally won.
The math had zeroed out. Florence had nothing left to calculate. Mechanically, completely numb, she walked to her small wardrobe and pulled out her battered leather trunk. The clock in Lord Harrington's library chimed 11.