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Humbleness came hard to her. She could not value it; too many unkind people had tried to force it on her in her youth. They had expected her to be ashamed, and so she had vowed never to be so.
    Nevertheless, a curtsy did no harm. “I am honored, Your Grace,” she said as she rose.
    He stared at her a moment longer. Then, with a soft noise of contempt, he swung his attention to Jones. “I have told you,” he said, “that you may manage the staffas you like. However.” His voice hardened. “If I am forced to wait, the next time I ring that bell—”
    “That was my doing,” Olivia said quickly—for Jones had whimpered, and she could not let him face the consequences that rightly belonged to her.
    Marwick said to Jones, “You will tell the girl not to interrupt me.”
    The girl! She stiffened. She was his housekeeper, a position well worthy of his respect. Not that she imagined a man who threw bottles would recognize that.
    “Yes, indeed.” Jones shot her a panicked look. “Mrs. Johnson, if you will wait in the hall?”
    She would, gladly. She was already turning away. But—no, in fact, she had something to say. She pivoted back. “I am no girl,” she told Marwick. Bully. Brute! He had tried to wreck his brother’s marriage to a good woman, for no reason. He terrified his servants. His estates were probably falling to pieces thanks to his inattention. And he called her a girl ? What was he, but a sulking, spoiled boy? “Admittedly, I am young—and a good thing, for an elderly woman might not have survived the shock of having a bottle thrown at her.”
    Marwick looked at her a moment. And then, suddenly, he was crossing the room in long strides—and Jones, the coward, was dashing into the safety of the sitting room.
    She shrank back. But her feet would not let her retreat, clinging stubbornly to pride even as Marwick towered over her. Her heart, on the other hand, was a coward; it slammed against her breastbone in search of an escape.
    “I beg,” he said softly, “your pardon, girl. And now, I advise you to go downstairs and pack your things. You are sacked.”
    As simply as that? No. She did not dare glance over her shoulder to find out if Jones had heard the news. “That would be foolish, Your Grace.” The sound of her voice, so fierce, gave her fresh courage. “Your staff is running wild. They need a strong hand to put them to rights.”
    “Get. Out.”
    A wild idea came to her, borne of desperation. Lowering her voice, she said, “I should hate to be forced to tell the newspapers that I was attacked by my employer, and then thrown out on my ear for complaining of it.”
    He stepped back as though to see her better. But as he studied her, his perfect face held an absolute lack of expression. “Was that a threat?” he asked. He did not sound particularly interested.
    His monotone was somehow more terrifying than a bellow. She felt a bolt of primal alarm, the same that saved her from runaway carriages, uncovered drains, and lunatics on the street. Run, it said. For your life.
    She took a breath. She knew enough of him from Elizabeth Chudderley—particularly about his reaction to his wife’s letters—to know that he feared public notoriety. Elizabeth had said that he dreaded above all things that the letters would be made public. It stood to reason, then, that he would not like the incident with the bottle to be made public, either, for it certainly would make him notorious.
    “It is not precisely a threat, Your Grace”—for she would never carry through on it; such attention would not suit her, either—“only a suggestion that you might prefer to deal fairly with me. Your household requires direction.”
    He stepped toward her again, and this time her feetresponded sensibly, carrying her backward until she hit the wall.
    “How curious,” he said. He propped an elbow against the wall above her, leaning into it, looming over her, while with his other hand he grabbed her jaw, lifting it the