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that were an exact replica of his own.  He reached out as if he might touch Michael, but at the last instant, he thought better of it and dropped his hand to his side.
    "What is your name?" he asked Michael.
    "Michael Scott.  And what is yours?" Michael asked in return.
    "Jackson."  Undone by the introduction, Mr. Scott had to clear his throat before he could continue.  "Jackson Scott."
    "Are you my uncle?  Mr. Porter told us you were, but Grace claimed you weren’t at home when we visited."  Michael frowned up at Grace.  "Why would you lie, Grace?  He must be my uncle, don’t you think?"
    Mr. Scott’s brows rose as he tried to figure out how to respond to the question.  If he answered yes, that he was Michael’s uncle, he was admitting Edward’s paternity, which he wasn’t prepared to acknowledge.
    Instead, he stood and whirled on Grace. 
    "We need to talk," he muttered.
    "I believe you said everything that needed to be said in your parlor."
    "Miss Bennett, you and I have scarcely begun to communicate."
    He led her away from Eleanor and Michael, pulling her down the lane and around the bend where they would be shielded by the trees. 
    "Do you treat all females so discourteously?" she fumed.  "Or is it just me?"
    "It’s just you."
    "I have no idea why you’d deem it appropriate to manhandle me."
    "If I’d asked politely, would you have come with me?"
    "No."
    "I rest my case.  You deserve to be abused."
    "You are a swine, a dog, a ruffian, a—"
    "Miss Bennett?"
    "What?"
    "Be silent."
    He stopped and jerked Grace around to face him.  The abrupt movement happened too quickly, and without warning, the entire front of her body was pressed to his. 
    The contact was so thrilling that, for a fleeting second, she froze, held rapt by sensation.  He felt it, too, and was extremely disconcerted.  He scowled down at her as if he couldn’t recall who she was or why they were together on the lane.
    Then she remembered herself and leapt away.
    A memory flashed—of his harem of loose women—and her cheeks flushed bright red.  He was a man who fondled naked trollops as a hobby, who consorted with undressed doxies in the middle of the day.
    She was embarrassed to her core.
    "Why have you traveled to Milton?" he demanded.
    "Why would you suppose?" 
    "What is it you’re requesting?  Is it money?"
    "No, it’s not money."
    "What then?  What will it take to make you go away?"
    "Nothing.  We’ll depart at once.  Now that I’ve met you, there is absolutely no reason to linger.  Goodbye."
    She spun to stomp off, but he grabbed her again.  Her furious glare could have lit him on fire. 
    "Do you ever behave in a way that’s not rude and offensive?" she seethed.
    "Do you ever curb that barbed tongue of yours?"
    "I’m a very friendly person," she spat, "when I’m in friendly company."
    "And I’m a very civil person when I’m dealing with rational people."
    "Ha!  I’ve spent two minutes with you, and I’m questioning my sanity.  If I appear befuddled, it’s because you’ve driven me mad with your ridiculous posturing."
    "You’re not leaving with that boy."
    "His name is Michael," she snapped, refusing to let him pretend he didn’t know.
    "Fine.  You and Michael— and your sister?"
    "Yes, my sister."
    "We’re all going to Milton Abbey."
    "As I believe I previously mentioned, you are in no position to boss me."
    "I’m not ordering you.  I’m…asking you to come."
    The word asking stuck in his throat, as if he never made polite appeals, and she was sure he never did.  He told people to jump and they said, how high?
    But she’d never been submissive, and she wasn’t about to start with him.
    It was on the tip of her tongue to scold him, to bicker and fight and insult, but suddenly, she was overcome by the worst wave of despondency.  The sky seemed to press down, the weight of the world on her weary shoulders.
    She was floundering and out of options.  She’d pinned her hopes on the Scotts of