I Insulted The Rude Guest Ruining My Father’s Dinner — Then I Learned He Held The Deed To Our Home
Part 2
He flipped the book shut with a heavy thud, the dust dancing in the gray light of the library.
Brian leaned back, steepling his fingers, and declared our estate entirely bankrupt.
He methodically laid out our bleeding finances, noting the collapsing tenant cottages and the mill that hadn’t turned a profit in years.
Craig finally exploded, the alcohol fueling a sudden, brittle courage as he argued about London investors.
Brian softly corrected him, stating that he only bought our debt because the land bordered his southern estate and he wanted the water rights.
My father deflated, all the bluster rushing out of him in a single, ragged exhale.
He collapsed into a wingback chair by the dead fire, putting his head in his hands like a broken man.
Brian didn’t look at my father with triumph.
He turned to me, demanding to see the physical property rather than the fairy tales written in the ledger.
He ordered me to get my coat.
The wind off the moors felt like shattered glass against my skin as I walked half a pace behind the duke.
My boots sank two inches into the thick, freezing mud with every step, the cold seeping through the cracked leather.
Brian moved through the muck with infuriating ease, treating me not as a lady, but as an employee lagging behind.
We reached a cluster of tenant cottages that looked like dark, jagged scabs clinging to the side of the hill.
Dan emerged from a low, crooked doorway, his eyes darting from Brian’s expensive boots to my face.
Brian ignored the stench of damp earth and unwashed bodies, running a large gloved hand over the exposed wattle and daub of the exterior wall.
It crumbled under his touch.
He coldly ordered Dan to move his family into the old stone sheepfold on the eastern ridge before the rotting roof collapsed on them.
Dan bristled, refusing to take orders from strangers.
Brian didn’t wait for an answer, bluntly stating he could leave his hearth or die under it.
The anger that had been simmering inside me all morning finally boiled over.
I hurried to catch up with Brian, hissing that he had no right to speak to them that way.
He stopped so suddenly I nearly collided with his broad back.
He demanded to know if I thought a warm tone made me a savior when my father had sold the wood meant for their roof.
I shouted that I did what I could to hold the rotting estate together.
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, asking why I stayed to let my father drag me into the mud.
My hand lashed out before I could stop myself.
The slap cracked sharply against the cold air, my palm striking his cheek with a vicious sting.
A completely stunned quiet fell over the space.
I backed up a step, panic flooding my veins.
He didn’t flinch, slowly turning his face back to mine with a faint red mark blooming across his pale skin.
He commanded me not to apologize, calling it the only honest thing I had done all morning.
The sky suddenly opened up, freezing rain instantly soaking through my thin wool coat.
Brian grabbed my elbow with iron grip, hauling me toward an old line keeper’s hut.
He shoved me inside, the small space smelling powerfully of wet dust and decaying leaves.
My teeth began to chatter violently.
He unbuttoned his heavy wool coat and threw it over my shoulders, the lingering heat of his body trapping me in its warmth.
He stared at me in the dim light, finally stating that he was foreclosing on the estate.
Tears spilled over my freezing cheeks as I realized it was truly over.
Then he reached out, his thumb shockingly gentle as he wiped away a tear.
He offered me a position as his agent, someone ruthless enough to stretch a pound and stubborn enough to slap a duke.
I stared at him, my mind struggling to process the scandalous proposition of a gentlewoman working as an estate agent.
How do you work for the man who just legally stole your home?
