shook himself. His son. He’d come for his son.
‘Come in, Miss Hill.’ He straightened and hoped he would not sway.
She approached him, a wary smile on her face. ‘Forgive my delay, sir. We finished the planting and a great deal of cleaning up was required.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Because you allowed the children to wallow in dirt.’
Her chin rose. ‘Getting dirty is all a part of planting, my lord.’
He closed the distance between them, coming so close the scent of her soap filled his nostrils. ‘I know all about planting, Miss Hill.’
His first ten years of life had taught him.
She stepped back. ‘Yes, well, perhaps then you can explain to me why planting peas and radishes in the kitchen garden made you so angry.’
She was questioning him? She needed to answer to him. ‘Heed me, Miss Hill.’ He glared at her. ‘My son, my—children, are to be reared as a gentleman and lady, not as common serfs.’
She did not back down. ‘It was a botany lesson.’
He held her gaze. ‘It was demeaning.’
She looked incredulous. ‘I do not think planting a garden and watching the plants grow could even remotely be demeaning.’
He slashed his hand through the air. ‘My son does not need to know how to dig holes in order to become a gentleman.’
She countered, ‘But as marquess some day, does he not need to know what effort goes into the crops his lands produce? What labour? What science? That was the intent of the lesson, my lord.’
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