Free Betina Krahn by The Unlikely Angel

and justice. The unlucky few who somehow became yoked to such ideals were doomed to disillusionment and despair.
    Unbidden, her face invaded his mind once more—earnest, determined, and so insufferably righteous. So the brazen chit intended to give him a lesson in ideals, did she? Well, not before life gave her a lesson or two in the grim reality of the human condition. A vengeful pulse of satisfaction went through his veins at the thought that he was going to be there—front and center—to see it happen.
    What was it Uncle William said? Part of his charge was to save “Mad Madeline” from her own magnanimous impulses?
    He smiled.
    Like hell.

4

    When the sun came up over the village of St. Crispin a fortnight later, Madeline watched it as she had every morning for the past two weeks—from her second floor bedroom in the superintendent’s house that nestled beside her factory. She cradled a cup of tea between her hands and savored occasional sips as she stood by the window, surveying the wakening village.
    This was her favorite time of day and her favorite way to spend it: overlooking the modest stone houses lining the cobbled lane and the rectangular patch of green at the heart of the village. In that first golden light of morning the limestone of the buildings glowed as if gilded and the grass and trees appeared like a deep teal velvet. Each morning she absorbed the sight and stored it in her heart, feeling like the richest woman alive. Each morning it renewed her determination to make a success of her factory and of the garments that would free women to live fuller, more productive lives.
    “Another drop of tea, Madeline?” a voiceasked from behind her. She started out of her thoughts and turned to find her stout, round-faced housekeeper standing by the writing table where her breakfast tray sat.
    “No, thank you, Davvy. I need to get to the office early this morning. The first shipment from Manchester is due anytime, and I have two more families arriving today.”
    “And
him.
” Mrs. Davenport folded her hands at her waist and leveled a narrow look at Madeline. “You do seem to keep forgetting that
he
is arriving today.”
    “How could I possibly forget?” Madeline set her cup back in its saucer on the table. “You haven’t ceased mentioning it since his wretched letter arrived.”
    “Only because you have refused to mention it since the letter arrived.” Davenport studied her as she paused to peer at herself in the mirror of the dressing table. “We should have made arrangements.”
    “I have made arrangements … of a sort,” she said, tucking an unruly lock of hair back into the ribboned net around her simple chignon.
    “What do you mean ‘of a sort’?” Davenport frowned and folded her arms over her ample bosom. “This is no time for any of your stubbornness, Maddy Duncan. We should be gracious and hospitable—prepare a welcoming dinner at the very least.” When Madeline didn’t agree straightaway, a glint appeared in the housekeeper’s eye. “Your aunt Livvy, bless her, always said the route to a man’s goodwill was through his stomach.”
    Madeline halted in the midst of reaching for the long blue smock that hung on the open wardrobe door. She knew full well what Davenport was up to in invoking Aunt Olivia’s name, but was somehow unable to dismiss it. “No, Aunt Olivia always said the route to a man’s goodwill was generally through his prejudices.
You’re
the one who always insisted that men think with their stomachs.”
    Davenport gave a harumph of annoyance. “Well, at least think about it.”
    Out the door and hurrying down the narrow footpath leading from the house to the factory, Madeline took a deep breath of country air and did think about it … or, more accurately, about
him
.
    Her last glimpse of Lord Mandeville was as he stood in the justice’s chambers, livid with outrage at the affront she had just dealt him. If she hadn’t forgotten, it wasn’t likely he