Work that day was nothing to write home about. Not that Mr Ambrose would have granted me time off to write home about it even if it had been. I slaved all day on those balance sheets of his, and when the day drew to a close, he wanted me to take the rest home, to work through in my free time.
‘Not on your sweet life!’ I shook my head, retreating a few steps. ‘I sweat all day for you in the office! I’m not going to do it at home!’
‘It would show an admirable work ethic,’ he pointed out coolly.
‘But you wouldn’t pay me extra, would you?’
‘Of course not. That’s why it would be admirable.’
‘You can take your admirable work ethic and stuff it up your-’
And I said a word that made him send me a very frosty look.
‘Language, Mr Linton!’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Will you do the work at home or not?’
‘No, Sir. Besides, I could not, even if I wanted to. I have a situation at home.’
‘Oh?’
‘I…’
I hesitated for a moment. For some reason I didn’t want to tell him.
‘Out with it, Mr Linton!’
‘I…am engaged.’
‘Indeed?’
‘To a man!’
‘How shocking.’
‘Don’t laugh at me!’
‘Do I look like I’m laughing?’
No, of course he didn’t! Damn him!
Mr Ambrose cocked his head. ‘Off with you, then. Enjoy your time with your fiancé.’
Rikkard Ambrose really was a cold bastard. He knew how to inflict a maximum of icy dread into my day with just a few simple words.
*~*~**~*~*
Morty was in love. Really, madly in love. With me.
I hadn’t counted on how much more difficult this would make things. My previous suitors had wanted me for my family’s good reputation, or had just been after a woman with two legs, two arms and a hole for popping children out of at regular intervals. Having to deal with a man who wanted me, and me only, was another kettle of fish altogether. I didn’t know how all those romance heroines stood it! Why didn’t they start to vomit in the first chapter?
Men in love, it appears, are a whole lot more difficult to get rid of than greedy or lusty men. In the latter case, a good stomp on the foot will probably do the trick. Men like that leave you alone and go off in search of easier prey. But a man in love - he won’t notice how many times you tread on his foot. He just thinks what he’s feeling down there is displaced heartache.
I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten until I received the first letter. I was sitting with my siblings at breakfast one morning, and was in a marginally better mood than usual: in a rare exception, neither my aunt nor Morty had made an appearance. I was just digging into my gruel with unusual gusto when Leadfield limped into the room. It took him about a decade to shuffle from the door to the table, but finally he managed it and presented me with a silver tray on which lay one single, solitary letter.
‘For you, Miss.’