She didn’t fit in with Aunt Charity and her circle—that was what it amounted to. Any more than she’d fit in with a duke and his circle.
So there was no point in allowing herself to be intimidated by the luxurious surroundings, or the titles his family bore. Any more than she’d allowed herself to be beaten down by Aunt Charity’s pious homilies. She’d soon learned that no matter how hard she tried to fit in, she’d never measure up. Because of who her parents were. And so she’d stopped trying.
And she wasn’t going to start tying herself up in knots trying to fit in here, either. She was done with being intimidated. Gregory had no right to make her feel foolish, or guilty, or out of her depth. If dukes didn’t want people to assume they were ordinary men, then they had no business going around under false identities.
They had no right making out they were heroes, either. Why, if there had been any rescuing going on, she’d done her fair share. Who’d had the idea of singing for food money so that he hadn’t needed to pawn his watch, which was probably a priceless family heirloom? And whose quick thinking had saved him from being hauled up before the local magistrate by Mr Grumpy Farmer?
The moment Milly finished rinsing her hair she surged out of the tub on a wave of indignation. She hadn’t been able to rebel very successfully against Aunt Charity because she’d only been a girl. But she was a woman now. And over the last couple of days she’d discovered that she was well able to overcome whatever fate threw in her path.
And that included deceitful dukes!
‘Hand me that towel,’ she said imperiously to Milly. ‘And bring me those clothes.’
She was not going to let him hide her away up here as though she was something to be ashamed of.
‘Where are you going?’ cried Milly when she walked to the door and flung it open the moment she was dressed.
‘I need to have a few words with G...His Grace,’ she said, since she had no wish to offend the servants by referring to their lord and master by the name he’d given her. After all, her quarrel was with him, not them.
‘Oh, no, my lady, you cannot disturb His Grace just now,’ said Milly in horror. ‘He will be in his bath. He had Sam and me fetch the water for yours first, so he’s bound to be a few minutes behind. And what with Sam having no experience as a valet, even if His Grace is out of his bath I shouldn’t think he’ll be ready to receive anyone.’
‘I don’t care,’ she said, clenching her fists. After all, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen it all before, was it?
Though admittedly not wet.
A rather scandalous vision popped into her head of all those rippling muscles with soapsuds sliding slowly over them.
‘Oh, please, my lady,’ wailed Milly, bursting the vision, and with it all the soapsuds. ‘Don’t go out yet!’
Prudence whirled round to see Milly wringing her hands.
‘I don’t want no one to see you with your hair like that.’
As Milly pointed to her head Prudence realised she still had a towel wrapped round her wet hair.
‘They’ll all say I can’t get you presentable,’ Milly continued. ‘Let alone I haven’t treated your blisters yet. They’ll say I ain’t up to the job. And then I won’t be your maid no more. And I did so long to be your maid. And go to London and dress you for balls and such.’
Prudence wasn’t ever going to go to London—not as the Duchess of Halstead anyway. The very idea was preposterous. She’d thought she was going to be marrying the rather hard-up and ordinary Mr Willingale—a man who made his living somehow by righting wrongs and sticking up for the underdog. Not a duke who went about the countryside in disguise as a means to alleviate his boredom. For he’d admitted he’d been leading a dull life, hadn’t he?
But she did thank heaven that Milly had had the courage to speak her mind. If she’d gone barging into the Duke’s room while she was so angry with him that she’d forgotten she had her hair wrapped in a towel she would have definitely embarrassed herself. Oh, yes, she could just see him lounging back in his tub, looking down his imperious nose at her, while she stood over him screeching her complaints.
‘That’s a good point, Milly,’ she acknowledged. ‘Thank you.’ And she meant it. It was going to be much better to marshal her arguments so that she could break off their betrothal in a dignified manner. ‘You had better dry and style my hair so that I shall look my best when I next speak to His Grace.’
‘I shall run and fetch a comb and some scissors,’ said Milly with evident relief. ‘I won’t be but a twinkling.’