Page 43 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
“Would you care to explain,” Luke said, “why it is that you are not helping your sister?”
Imogen made a pretty moue and dropped a hand to her waist. “I couldn’t possibly. The babe—”
“Is not an excuse to force your sister to wait upon you hand and foot. You have two good hands. I suggest you put them to use.” The heels of his boots reported sharply upon the floor, and there was a new austerity to his features; a sternness which suggested that argument would be unwise. “Lizzie works herself to the bone already to ensure that you are fed and clothed. A little assistance is theleastof what you owe to her.”
A sour expression chased across Imogen’s face, a mottled flush of fury darkening her cheeks. She opened her mouth, and Lizzie braced herself for what would certainly be a litany of complaints, of recriminations—
“I wouldn’t advise it,” Luke said softly, as if he had known precisely what to expect. “You’re behaving like a spoiled, selfish child, Imogen, and I would advise Lizzie to leave you to fend for yourself if I thought she would heed me.”
Imogen’s chair shrieked a protest across the floor as she shoved it back. “How—howdareyou!” she cried, and with one furious motion she cast the dregs of her tea at Luke, the liquid soaking the precious fabric of his dark wool coat.
If not for the flour coating her fingers, Lizzie would have buried her face in her hands in humiliation. “Imogen—”
Luke waved one hand, silencing her, and then tugged at the sleeves of his coat, stripping it off his arms. He thrust the wet fabric at Imogen. “Congratulations. You’ve just volunteered to wash this.”
“I won’t!”
“You damned wellwill,” Luke growled. “And what’s more, I’ll expect you to assist with the preparations of every meal, the cleaning, and anything else that might need to be done around here. Is that understood? You arenotgoing to sit on your delicate bloody arse while your sister does every bit of work.” He rounded on Lizzie. “Is there aught else that might require laundering?”
“Lizzie!” Imogen whined, stomping her foot. “You can’t let him treat me like this!”
A little frisson of indignation sparked within her chest. “Like what?”
“Like aservant! I’m not alaundress!”
An incredulous laugh rose into her throat. “I do the washing thrice weekly, Imogen. What does that make me?” While Imogen changed gowns at the drop of a hat, casting off her clothing straight onto the floor and always expecting it to reappear within her wardrobe, washed and pressed. “Doing laundryoncewon’t kill you. The washing soda is in the stillroom.”
Imogen’s mouth dropped open in horror. “You—youwretchedsister!” she cast out caustically. “I hate you!”
“Don’t test my patience,” Luke said.
“When Cecil comes for me—”
“Cecil,” Luke said, in a clipped tone, “lives far beyond his means. It’s a matter of time before his creditors are nipping at his heels, and he needs to marry well. A woman with a dowry.” He shook the damp coat in the clutch of his hand, a clear suggestion that if she were wise, she would take it. “He’ll marry you either way, because I will insist upon it. But your life will be more comfortable if youhavea dowry, Imogen, and I’m not inclined to provide much of one for a spoiled child who abuses the love of a sister to her own advantage. Do we understand each other?”
Resentfully, Imogen batted his hand away. “I won’t be treated like a servant!”
“But it’s nothing to you to treat your sister as one,” Luke persisted. “Do you know she rises at dawn to prepare your breakfast? Do you even care that she has spent nearly a decade ofherlife raising you?” He turned his head toward Lizzie. “When was the last time Imogen washed or mended her own clothes?” he inquired.
And to her embarrassment, Lizzie could not draw an instance from her memory.
“Washed a dish?”
She shrugged.
“Prepared a meal?”
Still nothing. Defensively, she said, “We had servants. For a time.”
“And when you had to let them go,” he said softly, “who was it that took over their duties?”
Lizzie dropped her gaze to the dough beneath her hands.
“As I thought.”
A long silence stretched out. At last, Imogen made a rough sound in her throat. “Give me the damned coat,” she said, and snatched it from Luke’s fingers. Twin spots of color burned in her cheeks, and she ducked her head as she fled the room, her shoulders hunched.
Lizzie let out a gusty sigh. “Probably she’ll ruin your coat. I’m not certain she knowshowto do the washing.”
