Chapter Seven
Mordecai hailed a hackney, told the jarvey to take them to the Earnoch Hotel, and climbed into the carriage after Miss Wrotham. He sat alongside her on the shabby seat. Dictatorial? Tyrannical? The accusations stung. How could she compare him to her father? He wanted to set her free, not cage her.
Frustration stewed in his chest. He forced his muscles to relax. He was used to people saying things that hurt; he’d trained himself to keep an impassive face when the barbs struck home, to not show any reaction except perhaps mild amusement. And yet today he’d shouted. Shouted and raged and waved his hands and generally behaved like a great lummox. A great dictatorial lummox.
He closed his eyes in a wince. It’s tiredness, he told himself. Tiredness was why she’d managed to make
