by Evie Dunmore
“What dress are you going to wear for the Christmas dinner?” Catriona asked.
“The light blue damask.” It was the finest one she had been given, but she had worn it before, here at Claremont. It had to do.
“I heard that Lady Lingham and the duke . . . have an arrangement,” Catriona said.
Oh.
The blush tinging Catriona’s cheeks left little doubt over the nature of that arrangement.
Why should this surprise her? Men of Montgomery’s standing usually had a mistress tucked away somewhere. But an arrangement with a social equal?
She kept her voice neutral. “What is she like, the countess?”
“She’s his neighbor. Older, and widowed,” Catriona said. “She might have influence over him, so perhaps we should target ladies like her with our campaign.”
“That’s a grand idea,” Annabelle muttered. She shifted on her chair, her skin itching uncomfortably underneath her walking dress. “You know, that blue gown looks ghastly on me.”
Catriona looked confused. “It does?”
“Yes. The color doesn’t suit me and it adds bulk in the wrong places.”
“Can you add a ribbon?” Catriona tried.
“I could, but it would be like adding a ribbon to a train wreck.”
“You’re not normally prone to exaggerations,” Catriona said slowly. “Is something the matter?”
“No,” Annabelle said, tapping her pen on the letter and splattering ink. “I’ve just remembered that I’m not that old, and I don’t recall the last time I have worn a pretty dress.”
A lifetime ago, she used to have taste, an interest in braiding ribbons into her hair and matching her earbobs to her eyes. She hadn’t taken any joy in that since that summer with William; her looks were an empty promise at best, a liability at worst. And now . . . now she was almost writhing with the need to burst out of this drab gray shell she had cultivated for so long.
But she couldn’t. Right now, she was exactly as she had to be to move forward on a respectable, independent path.
She could, however, stay away from Montgomery. Yesterday in the greenhouse, he had wanted to kiss her. She knew the look he had got on his face by the terrarium, the fixed stare, the singular male intent. Such intensity was usually followed by a grab for her person and a slap to the man’s face. But Montgomery hadn’t made a grab for her. Even more shocking, she was fairly certain she wouldn’t have slapped him. No, she had gone back for more of his company this morning. It hadn’t helped to learn that he kept his moth-eaten horses, as if a generous, caring heart were beating in his hard chest . . .
She’d find ways to avoid him until the Christmas dinner; no more breakfasting with him, no more letters and walks and intimate talks. What had she been thinking?
* * *
The journey to Lady Lingham’s Christmas dinner was awkward. Perhaps for efficiency reasons, Montgomery had all four of them travel in the same carriage—himself, Peregrin, Aunty Greenfield, and her. Aunty kept sagging against her as she slipped in and out of her nap, and the two men opposite looked terribly stern, which was owed only in part to their sharp dark twin topcoats. They seemed right cross with each other, staring determinedly into nothingness, a look that suited Montgomery but not Peregrin. She had spent a lot of hours with the young lord in the past few days, first to avoid the duke, but soon because Peregrin turned out to be exceptionally friendly, quick-witted company. Higher powers are forcing me to revise Plato’s Republic during my Christmas break, he had confessed. Would you happen to know anything about that particular book? Tutoring him had been so delightful, it had—briefly—distracted her from her ludicrous attraction to Montgomery.
The attraction was now firmly back in place, yes, she was beyond denying it: she was hopelessly preoccupied with the grim-faced aristocrat across the footwell. Even now, despite his coldly bored expression, his nearness warmed her body like a bonfire right to her core.
She forced her eyes away from him to study her hands in her lap. Still, she saw him, like the glow of a fire spilling into her field of vision. Good lord. Perhaps dining with his arrangement would douse the flare of infatuation.
Her stomach gave a queasy twist when Lingham Hall came into view. Admittedly, the house itself was lovely, a conveniently sized manor with a smooth Georgian sandstone façade. Leafless vines ranked around the pillared entrance, where the butler was already waiting.
The moment they entered the foyer, a tall, slim woman in her early forties strode toward them, her heels click-clacking confidently on the marble floor.
“Montgomery,” she exclaimed softly. Her slender hand lingered on his arm just a fraction too long.
Annabelle could not blame her. Montgomery’s straight shoulders filled the black evening jacket perfectly, and the pale gray of his waistcoat made his eyes gleam like polished silver. He was a picture of masculine elegance that would compel any woman who was entitled to do so to steal second touches.
“And you must be Miss Archer.” The countess’s expression was mildly curious. “Poor thing, how ghastly to be taken ill at such a merry time.”
Lady Lingham had that look that her father used to describe as “long of face and large of tooth,” a look that was considered appealing chiefly because it spoke of centuries of wealth and good breeding. She had also mastered the art of effortless elegance—her sleek gray gown clung to her lithe figure in all the right places and the knot of blond hair atop her head looked deceptively simple. A maid could spend an hour on creating such a knot. It would never work with Annabelle’s mass of wavy hair.
When they entered the sitting room, a dozen pairs of eyes shifted to the duke like metal to a magnet. Lady Lingham detached herself from his arm as people began drifting toward them, and then she alarmed Annabelle by taking her elbow as if they were old confidantes. “Take a turn around the room with me, Miss Archer.”
Warily, Annabelle fell into step beside her. They were of similar height, but the countess was fine boned like a bird, the touch of her gloved hand hardly registering on her arm. Delicate lines rayed from the corners of her cool blue eyes. Intelligent eyes. Montgomery had not picked a simpering miss for his arrangement, and she wasn’t sure whether she found this good or bad.
“Thank you for inviting me tonight, my lady,” she said.
Lady Lingham’s eyes twinkled. “The pleasure is mine. The neighborhood was abuzz about you.” She gave a little laugh. “Oh, no need to look startled. Of course there will be gossip, and all of it too ludicrous to be borne. My lady’s maid was adamant that Montgomery was seen with you up on his horse, riding across the fields like a knight in shining armor with his princess.”
What?
“Goodness,” she managed.
“Precisely,” Lady Lingham said, shaking her head, “so do not fret. Everyone knows Montgomery would never contemplate such a display. He tells me you are from a clergy family?”
“Yes, my lady.” What else had Montgomery told the countess about her?
“How charming,” Lady Lingham said, “and so I have just the table partner for you.”
They had reached a slight, dark-haired man who stood by himself next to a large potted plant.
“Miss Archer, meet Peter Humphrys, the curate on my estate.”
Peter Humphrys’s blush was instant and fierce when he bowed far too low. “What a pleasure, Miss Archer,” he exclaimed. “This splendid evening has just become even more splendid.” He promptly followed them around the room for the remaining introductions to Lady Lingham’s other neighbors.
There was the Earl of Marsden, a heavyset older nobleman with florid cheeks who looked straight through her. His wife kept touching her bony fingers to the egg-sized ruby pendant that looked too heavy for her thin neck. A Viscount Easton, who had brought his adolescent son and daughter, and an elderly couple, the Richmonds, whose two daughters gave An
nabelle’s blue dress a sweeping glance of pity.
Matters did not improve in the dining hall. She was seated at the nether end of the table across from the young Easton siblings. Montgomery was at the other end, the guest of honor to Lady Lingham’s right. His blond hair flashed in the periphery of Annabelle’s vision whenever he attentively leaned closer to the countess.
Peter Humphrys lifted the metal cup next to his wineglass to his nose and inhaled. “Mint julep,” he announced, and happily smacked his lips. “Careful, miss. This cocktail contains a hearty dash of bourbon.”
She picked up her cup. It was cold to the touch and the contents smelled like peppermint.
At the far end of the table, Lady Lingham’s tinkling laugh said the countess was having a fabulous time. They looked good together, she and Montgomery. Toothy or not, she was the female to his male, equally austere, refined, inscrutable; they were the Adam and Eve of the aristocracy.
Annabelle’s hesitant nip of mint julep quickly turned into a hearty sip. Icy sweetness trickled down her throat, treacherous because she couldn’t taste even a trace of liqueur. Perfect.
“Do the flora of Wiltshire differ much from what you observe in Kent?” asked Peter Humphrys.
“I’m not sure. I find they are both equally snowed under at present, Mr. Humphrys.”
He gave a startled grunt. Eyebrows rose in their direction. The Easton girl smirked. Annabelle drained her mint julep cup and gestured to a footman for a refill.
The curate leaned closer as if to impart secrets. “There is a lovely copse next to the vicarage,” he said. “In spring, I often observe the great spotted woodpecker there, the Dendrocopos major.”
She stretched her lips into a smile.
“Do you like birds, Miss Archer?” He sounded hopeful.
“I adore them. Woodpeckers especially.”
If she were a normal woman, she’d throw her cap for the clergyman. Eligible bachelors—meaning kind, employed, unencumbered by a wife—were a rare commodity. But she had indulged in a summer of passion, and it had left her changed. In the words of Sappho, Eros shook my mind, like a mountain wind falling on oak trees. She had eaten the apple; she could not return to humility. Desire had ruined Peter Humphrys for her.
Elsewhere at the table, polite and meaningless conversation took an unusual turn.
“Of course they are trying to get women the vote,” Lord Marsden said. “They know only idiots vote for them. Mark me, should women get the vote, the Liberals will never leave power.”
His wife’s thin hand crept across the table toward his sleeve on a mission to placate. Marsden ignored it. “Idiots,” he repeated.
“Careful, Tuppy,” said Lady Lingham from her end of the table, “there are quite a few perfectly witty women present tonight.”
Tuppy, Lord Marsden, waved a plump hand. “You know how I mean it, Countess.”
The women at the table exchanged discreet glances, uncertain how Lord Marsden had meant it.
“Miss Archer here studies at Oxford,” Lady Lingham said. “Now, what do you make of that?”
Annabelle’s head turned to her sharply.
The countess was smiling. Not unfriendly, a little intrigued. For an aristo, everything could be a game.
Marsden squinted at Annabelle. “Is that so.”
The faint thud of her pulse started up in her ears. “Yes, my lord.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Montgomery put down his cutlery.
“And what is the use of such a tremendous overeducation?” Marsden probed.
All other conversations had petered out and the collective attention shifted onto her, hot and exposing like a spotlight. Heat crept up her neck.
“I believe a higher education will improve me for whatever I decide to do, my lord.”
An ambivalent murmur swept the length of the table. People who had to improve their lot evidently hadn’t been blessed with a good station in life.
“And do you aspire to get the vote?” pressed the earl.
The minty drink had congealed to a lump in her throat. Lucie would never forgive her if she alienated several men of influence at once. She’d have a hard time forgiving herself if she made a fool of herself in front of one particular man.
“Yes, I think women should be given the vote.”
Marsden triumphantly glared around the table.
“Why not give everyone who actually grasps politics the vote and exclude the rest, man or woman,” Lady Lingham suggested amicably.
Marsden scoffed. “But by her very nature, a female is unable to grasp politics, or any issue of the kind.”
“By her very nature?” Lady Lingham sounded notably less amicable.
“Oh, yes.” The earl turned back to Annabelle. “Have you read the article recently published by the Marchioness of Hampshire? On the matter of the female brain?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Lady Hampshire is formidable,” Lady Marsden said.
Everyone nodded.
“Now, miss, listen closely,” Marsden said. “Lady Hampshire advises against women taking up higher education, the vote, political roles. Science has shown that the female brain is not only smaller than a man’s, it is also wound up differently.” His hands made a rolling, winding motion. “So even if you, Miss Archer, read all the same books and heard all the same speeches as a man, your brain would never produce the same sound analysis. You enter the same input into your brain, but something gets lost in its twists and turns, so you get a different output, a diminished output.”
He looked at her expectantly.
“That sounds disconcerting,” she allowed.
“Well indeed,” he said impatiently, “so why not follow Lady Hampshire’s advice? Keep yourself content in your femininity instead of confused?”
She could hardly dismiss the judgment of the formidable Lady Hampshire in front of this audience, and Marsden knew it. His eyes held glints of smugness and victory.
It must have been that, and the hearty dash of bourbon, that made her say: “Because, my lord, if the marchioness believes that the female brain is incapable of forming a sound analysis on political issues, why should anyone trust her analysis on women in politics?”
Silence filled the dining room.
Then a coughing noise erupted from Peregrin, and he quickly raised his napkin to his mouth, his eyes watering with suppressed glee.
“Why, Miss Archer,” Lord Easton said slowly, “you should take up law. You would give my old solicitor Beadle a good run for his money.”
“Hear, hear,” Richmond said, “she’s much easier on the eye than Beadle, too.”
More than a few people chuckled, and Marsden turned red in the face. “The spread of rampant liberalism is no laughing matter,” he barked.
“Rampant liberalism was not your problem here, Marsden.”
The duke had said so little all evening, the sudden sound of his voice had the effect of a thunderbolt.
All heads swiveled toward his end of the table.
Montgomery was stone faced.
Marsden looked a little uncertain. “Then what would you call it, Duke?”
Montgomery picked up his glass. “It is called logic,” he said, and raised the glass toward Annabelle in a small but unmistaken salute.
Warmth flowed through her. The look in his eyes had briefly taken her breath away, a bright amalgam of anger and . . . admiration?
Everyone else was looking at her warily now. Everyone except Lady Lingham. Her expression was pensive.
“Now there’s a toast we can all agree on,” the countess said blithely and raised her glass. “To logic.”
* * *
When the dinner finished and the party was ushered back to the sitting room, Peter was stitched to her side, explaining things about birds in wrongly pronounced Latin,
and she was almost grateful for it as it allowed her to appear in deep conversation rather than acknowledge Lord Marsden, who tried murdering her with dark stares. Neither Montgomery nor the countess was anywhere in sight.
She spotted a door to the terrace that was ajar, and the moment the sourish Richmond daughters approached the curate, she seized her chance and dove headlong into the dark.
The hum of inane chatter was immediately muffled.
Cold, clean air had never felt so good. Greedily she sucked deep breaths of it into her lungs.
And stilled.
Someone else was out here, a man, his face tilted up to the dark sky.
She recognized Peregrin’s lanky form against the torchlight before he turned.
“Miss Archer.” He politely stubbed out his cigarette.
“Lord Devereux.” She came to stand beside him and looked up at the stars. “Were you looking for something in particular up there?”
“The North Star. Did you know seamen have used it for orientation for thousands of years?”
“Yes, since the Phoenicians.”
He chuckled. “Have you by any chance missed that class at finishing school where they teach you to feign delightful ignorance in the presence of a man?”
“I’m afraid so.” She had never been near a finishing school.
“Marsden sure noticed,” Peregrin said. His gaze turned speculative. “I don’t think he’ll recover anytime soon from my brother’s very public dressing-down.”
She was eager to change the topic. “Are you looking forward to the fireworks?”
Peregrin stiffened. “I won’t be here for the party.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, and she was. He had been kind to her at Claremont, not just perfunctorily polite. Just yesterday he had taken the time to show her the first English edition of The Odyssey in Montgomery’s library, and had been thoroughly amused at her excitement. Now he seemed as downcast as in the carriage earlier.
“I’ve never seen fireworks,” she tried.
His frown deepened. “Never?” As he mulled it over, her bare arms snared his attention. “I’ll have someone fetch your coat,” he said.
