Free The Hired Hero by Andrea Pickens Page A

rapier. His voice, though low, was equally sharp. “Kindly put an end to the theatrics. If you wish to continue enacting a Cheltenham tragedy, join Mrs. Siddons on the boards—I will not tolerate it any longer under my roof. I mean to know who you are, and I mean to know it now.”
    It was only at the last sentence that the volume rose drastically. But if the desired effect was to reduce the young lady seated before him to flinging herself at his feet in contrition and immediately confessing her identity, he had sadly miscalculated his own oratorical skills.
    Caroline’s head hunched down towards her shoulders and her face took on an expression that one of the brasher young grooms at Roxbury had characterized as “mulish.”
    There was nothing but silence.
    Davenport’s gaze continued to wash over her, the blue of his eyes darkening to a scudding gray. His fingers began drumming on the  scarred wood. When it became evident that words were not forthcoming, he rose and slowly walked to stand beside her chair. Caroline was not lacking in stature herself, but from where she was seated, the earl seemed to tower over her, his broad shoulders and powerful torso only reinforcing the appearance of holding the upper hand. She imagined that was the intention.
    The nerve of the man, to think he could bully her with his ultimatums!
     She resolutely refused to look up at him. Instead, she locked her gaze on the first item on his desk that caught her eye. As she focused in on it, she found that for the second time that morning she had to strangle the urge to laugh. It was a book. On the breeding of sheep.
    “Well?” It came out as a baritone rumble.
    “It is you, sir, who may stop the histrionics. They do not intimidate me. I will not tell you my name. It is of no concern to you in any case.”
     Outrage flared in Davenport’s breast. “When I am forced to drag some half dead chit out of the mud, have her nursed back to health at an expense I can ill afford, only to have her steal my property...”
     Caroline had the grace to color.
    “... then it damn well is my concern. I mean to have your name, make no mistake about it.”  His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I should just haul you into the village—it seems there I should learn who you are soon enough.”
    Caroline shot up from her chair. “The only mistake I have made is landing on the doorstep of a profligate wastrel who has squandered his last farthing on drinking and gaming and...and other pursuits, no doubt, instead of taking care of his responsibilities, like a true gentleman. Why, it seems you are insensible to even the most basic decencies of your class, like helping a lady in distress, you—you odious man!”
    Davenport’s patience, already dangerously frayed, snapped. For weeks he had borne the shrill demands of countless creditors, the suspicious looks of his tenants, the whispered innuendos of his neighbors. More nights that he cared to remember he had struggled with the ledger books, fighting against despair to come up with a way to restore his estate and family name to respectability. She spoke of common decencies—what of Helen! To be so cavalierly accused by a chit barely out of the schoolroom, with no acquaintance of him except through rumor, was too much to bear, especially when she owed him her very life. How dare she speak to him like that?
    His hand came up in the air.
    Caroline flinched, more at the look in his eyes than from the threat of physical violence. They were flooded with anger, but there was some more. In their depths was expression of intense pain.
    Davenport caught himself. Is that how it began, he wondered. A simple loss of temper that suddenly moves from thought to deed.  The bruises on the face before him, though lightened, were still very much in evidence, ugly, raw reminders of somebody else’s anger. He thought of Helen’s face, how similar the damage looked. Except her eyes did not spark with spirit anymore as this young lady’s