The footman nodded obediently and departed.
Lady Bell raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Are you not in the least bit curious about why your brother keeps calling?”
“I know why he keeps calling. He needs money, and he wants you to acknowledge his harridan of a wife. It does not matter that Antoinette is married to a once-proud title. Everyone knows she is a French actress with a vile temper. I’ll not return your hospitality by recognizing the toady.”
Lady Bell had just filled her teacup again when the footman reappeared. Jocelyn took the card with annoyance, thinking she needed a big dog to chase off Harold. But this time, after reading the card, she smiled.
“Mr. Montague is at the door,” she said. “Are we at home to him?”
Not looking entirely satisfied with the result of their conversation, Lady Bell nodded. “You can do better. But if you insist on this one, then I must insist on asking the solicitors to find some way of tying up your funds so he cannot use them to get himself killed at war. Do not think in terms of a husband you will never see.”
Jocelyn swallowed hard and nodded. The lady was much wiser in the ways of the world than she was, and Jocelyn respected her decision. Nevertheless, she hadn’t given full deliberation to actually living with Mr. Montague and his black humors. They had spoken of a marriage of convenience, after all. And she didn’t know how the lady could prevent him from buying colors and marching off to the Continent. He would never agree to less. “I understand, my lady.”
The instant Mr. Montague walked into the parlor, she forgot everything she and Lady Bell had just discussed.
Her gentleman caller was not only clean shaven—he’d also had his hair cut. The silver streak was nearly hidden in thick black locks that waved enticingly around his ears, begging for feminine fingers to run through them. A single curl had fallen across Mr. Montague’s noble brow, drawing her gaze to his intense gray eyes. Oddly, his fierce look seemed to focus on her to the exclusion of all else, including the dainty, more sophisticated Lady Bell.
Jocelyn hoped that was because he admired the care she’d taken with her appearance and not because he wanted to annihilate her. She thrilled a little at the possibility that his efforts might be for her benefit. From Mr. Montague, that would be a genuine show of respect.
She did so adore square shoulders! His filled out the tailored cut of his blue superfine to perfection. His stiffly starched neckcloth looked as if Beau Brummel had arranged it for him. Not a spot of street dirt marred the mirror shine of his Hessians. He showed all the preparation of a man about to engage in battle.
And in his arms he carried not a bouquet, but a kitten with a bandaged paw.
Jocelyn didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the realization that she’d been outmaneuvered by a master strategist. He knew exactly what would please her most, the devil. Perhaps she did not hate him after all.
“Mr. Montague, how good to see you again. Wherever did you find this poor creature?”
“The cat belongs to a friend of mine. It . . . er . . . he had a bit of a run-in with a noisy . . . um . . . bird, and I felt responsible. I thought you, having some experience with birds, might know if there is danger of infection?”
He was exceedingly bad at lying.
Behind them, Lady Bell laughed. Mr. Montague instantly diverted his attention to their hostess, made a belated bow, and offered all the correct greetings. Jocelyn snuggled the kitten in her arms and wondered if she’d ever before noticed how a man smelled. Today, Mr. Montague had the most enticing woodsy odor. . . . Really, if she could just ignore his obstinacy and admire his physical attributes, she could be very happy.
Apparently during the exchange of pleasantries Jocelyn was ignoring while she and the kitten purred at each other, Lady Bell agreed to allow Mr. Montague to take Jocelyn for a walk in the park. When Montague raised an expectant eyebrow, Jocelyn woke up from her singular reverie and hurried to don bonnet and spencer. The kitten wasn’t likely to stay long in her arms, so she picked up her knitting basket and hoped the lid would suffice to hold the creature.
“Permit me to say you look splendid, Miss Carrington,” Mr. Montague said as they descended the graceful marble stairs of the dowager’s mansion to the street. His flattery was as stiff as if he were practicing a foreign language.
“As do you, sir, although I begin to understand why you have worn your hair long until now,” she said, refusing to let him think her an infatuated idiot. “It is difficult to be taken seriously with a curl in the middle of one’s forehead.”
He sliced her a dark look that produced an unexpectedly shocking thrill. It could be dangerous irritating this man—but for the first time in many years, she felt safe in speaking freely instead of hiding behind insipidness.
“I was told I looked a pirate and must change my ways if I am to seek Lady Bell’s approval.” He appropriated her hand to place it on his arm so they might stroll down the street.
“You are already so certain that you have my approval?” she asked, removing her hand from his arm and digging in the basket to untie the bandage and examine the kitten’s paw.
“I’m not certain that I have mine,” he said with deplorable honesty. “I cannot for the life of me see how we will suit. I may have to keep my guns under lock and key.”
“An excellent notion,” she murmured. “Better yet, toss them out.”
That earned her another black look, but Mr. Montague was nothing if not determined.
“Nevertheless, I have been considering our discussion of marriage,” he continued, “and must state my thoughts bluntly.”
As if he ever did anything else! Jocelyn bit back her smile. Honesty was a fairly new experience for her. Most of her older siblings and certainly her father had never practiced it. Mama and Richard lived in their own worlds and wouldn’t know how to lie, but neither did they communicate much.
He rested his broad hand at the small of her back and steered her through the gates of the little-used neighborhood park. Jocelyn had only a moment to bask in the protective masculine gesture before Mr. Montague assisted her to a bench in a secluded area behind some shrubbery, setting the kitten carrier in the next seat instead of taking the place himself. While she opened the lid, he crossed his hands behind his back and began to pace, for all the world like a general in his field tent. Jocelyn admired the view while pretending to study the kitten’s minor scratch.
“I am nearly thirty years of age, fairly set in my ways, and have a household of my own that doesn’t require a woman’s touch. And I like it that way.”
“You live in a pigsty with no valet, surrounded by books, and prefer to spend your evenings at cards and cigars instead of tamely squiring ladies to fetes and musicales,” she interpreted. “Did anyone mention that I have three older half sisters and have lived in the households of my brothers-in-law these past years? Not that my father was much neater. I am well past romantic dreams of gallant knights in shining armor.”
Mr. Montague nodded at her assessment of masculine behavior. Jocelyn hoped he did so with approval.
“I have my studies, but I understand you need the company of society, and the house will be a great deal of trouble. You will need servants, a companion,” he continued.
He did not know the real problem facing them. With a home for Richard at stake, she was sure she could make everything right, given enough time—but first, how could she assure herself that he could accept Richard’s habits? If she explained her brother’s deficiencies, would she lose her only chance to obtain the home he so desperately needed?
She didn’t want a husband who despised her for her deceit. Dare she risk being honest? She needed to know more of Mr. Montague first. “My brother and I grew up in Chelsea. Do you have any notion where in Chelsea the house might be?”
He grimaced and rubbed the back of his newly shorn nape. “I don’t wish to ruin our pleasant interlude with unpleasant truths.”
“That, sir, requires an explanation.” She n
arrowed her eyes, watching with a nervous knot in her stomach. Was it a hovel and he was afraid to say so?
As if seeing her fear, he hurriedly corrected the impression he’d given. “I am told it is an excellent house in an excellent location or I would never have considered bringing a bride there. I suspect you would know its condition better than I. My father says it is Carrington House. I did not know if you were aware that your brother had . . . sold it.”
Carrington House! Her home. Richard’s home. The one Horrid Harold had thrown them out of six years ago. She wasn’t daydreaming, but he’d really and truly sold their home? To the Montagues? Jocelyn could not quite take in this appalling, wonderful discovery.
To hide her shock, she concentrated on knotting a length of knitting yarn around the kitten’s collar. How was she to react to the news that Blake Montague held the key to her happiness?
He took the seat beside her. He wasn’t a bulky man so much as lofty and radiating strength. His greater size intimidated, especially after such a stunning surprise. She was accustomed to reacting to shock and disaster with vapid innocence, but her reaction this time was too confused for pretense. Fluttering fans couldn’t hide it.
Despite Mr. Montague’s attempt to conceal the ugly truth, she had little doubt of how her home had traded hands. Harold was a bad gambler and had never liked Chelsea. He would have been glad to exchange a large expensive house to cover his gambling debts. She should have realized it sooner. She took a deep breath and plunged into the unknown waters of honesty.
“You do understand that my entire purpose in considering your proposal is to obtain a home for my younger brother?” she asked. “And that the conservatory will become an aviary?” The conservatory! Richard would be ecstatic. She could scarcely catch her breath from the excitement filling her.
Mr. Montague didn’t hesitate. “I hardly consider an aviary or your brother a problem. My family, on the other hand, will live on our doorstep if we let them. They will be far more nuisance than birds.”
Jocelyn thought she might weep with relief. Perhaps he did not know of Richard’s peculiarities, but he could not say he hadn’t been warned that she meant for him to live with her. It wasn’t as if she were capable of explaining what doctors could not. And Richard would fare so much better on familiar grounds!
Would he allow her mother to join them? Considering his opinion of his own family, she would not press the point just yet. “I enjoy Lady Montague and your sister. They are more loving and considerate than my own family.” Well, than Harold’s side, leastways.
“Does this mean you are seriously considering the proposal I haven’t made yet?” Mr. Montague raised expressive eyebrows, and a dimple appeared briefly as he fought a reluctant smile.
Jocelyn thought maybe the birds in the trees were singing just for them, and she felt strangely breathless and lighthearted. Carrington House! How could she possibly say no? “Yes, I believe I am. Considering, that is. A few more meetings and I’m sure we will come to terms that might satisfy us both,” she said with what she hoped was businesslike pragmatism.
“I’m sure we can, Miss Carrington,” he said, glancing at her lips. “And since there is no one about, perhaps we can start now.”
His smile turned wicked as he leaned down to place his mouth firmly across hers.
9
Blake hadn’t meant to kiss Miss Carrington. He had developed a logical plan of action that involved proving he wasn’t a violent man, followed by telling her that should they marry, they would each maintain their independence. He would keep his rooms in the city while she nested in rural solitude until such time as he could go off to the Continent. It was the only rational proposition he could offer, after all, since neither of them had a real interest in marriage.
But his infernal fascination with champagne blond curls and violet-blue eyes was his undoing. Her eyes had lit like a child’s at hearing she could have Carrington House, and she had looked so delectable discussing marriage as if they were equals that he hadn’t been able to resist reminding her that he was a man and she was a woman.
A very, very large mistake.
Now that he’d sampled her glorious mouth and the eager press of her luscious lips against his, it was difficult to stop. Rather like eating one of Gunter’s ices. Blake hadn’t known he was starving until he’d had a taste. He dived into the sweetness she offered and didn’t want to halt until the dish was empty. Had there not been a basket and a kitten between them, he would have completely lost his head and reached for her—because the silly twit wasn’t stopping him.
Unlike Gunter’s ices, her kiss was warm and heated his blood clear down to his toes. Blake tried to turn her passion into a negative quality, but instead, he desperately desired to hold her closer and enjoy the pleasure of the firm, rounded breasts not inches from his grasp....
He took a deep breath and pulled back since this dish was not one he meant to devour yet.
Miss Carrington stared up at him as if he’d just gifted her with the world’s treasures.
And he, male imbecile that he was, all but crowed in satisfaction that he’d placed that expression of rapture on the face of the lovely, flirtatious Miss Carrington. He blamed the pleasure coursing through him on the novelty of kissing a lady. It in no way changed the matter at hand—which was Miss Carrington’s dowry and his need to acquire it.
“I believe I am supposed to apologize for my inappropriate behavior, but I fear if we are to get along, you will have to learn that I’m not the civil sort of gentleman to which you may be accustomed,” he said stiffly.
She smiled, and Blake noticed that Miss Carrington’s lower lip was a trifle plumper than her upper, just right for nibbling....
He rubbed his nape, glared up at the tree branches, and thought of the Union Jack and the code paper crackling in his pocket.
“That’s fair enough. I’m not the civil sort of lady you seem to be expecting,” Miss Carrington said pertly, standing up before he could help her from the seat. “How is Percy?” she asked, changing the subject.
Her cheeks were pink, so she was not quite so nonchalant as she pretended. Had he been anyone else, Blake would have thought her blush charming, but he did not have the patience to suffer the indignities of courtship. He was frustrated with himself for having taken things this far so quickly. He took the kitten’s basket and tried not to glance down at the nicely plump breasts he’d wanted to squeeze.
How the devil did one bring up the subject of consummating a marriage of convenience? Did she even know what that meant? Should he even be considering it?
Yes, he most certainly should. Why should he accept leg shackles without some recompense? Besides, it would be hell attempting to ignore temptation. So much for logic and reason. He had the dread notion that consummation came with ties that bound too tightly, but it was not a topic suitable for discussion with a maiden lady. The choice must be his.
“Percy sings like a sailor and, inexplicably, is still being showered with attention and lavished with all the treats he can consume. His language is not fit for a household of children, however.” There, now he sounded like his usual self.
Except now the word children floated between them. Marriage meant children. He couldn’t afford them, wasn’t even certain he liked them. He had never considered procreating. He had an older married brother who would inherit his father’s title and estate, and another brother to be the spare heir. Did he dare hope Miss Carrington wished to raise only birds?
She flushed slightly, then glanced at him through her long lashes. “Where exactly did you leave Percy?”
“He is safe on Danecroft’s estate, where no one can easily encounter him.”
“Thank you.” She squeezed his arm, apparently oblivious of the undercurrents he’d been conjuring in his head. “I know I owe you a debt of gratitude. Lady Bell is likely to send me home if I add Percy to the household.”
“You are fortunate that I may be the only candidate for your hand who do
es not care if you fill his house with animals,” he said dryly, relieved that the conversation had turned from the intimacies of courtship to safer avenues.
She frowned, and he feared he’d stepped over some invisible line. He had never been one to chase the ladies and so did not know where those lines were drawn. He really needed to learn the strategy of courtship if he were to succeed in this campaign.
“Marriage is a very odd sort of adjustment, is it not?” was all she said.
Which, of course, agreed with his own thinking. “As long as we enter into it sensibly, with no illusions, we should succeed at it.”
As he guided Miss Carrington onto the street through the park gates, a woman’s shriek split the air. The reckless rattle of wooden wheels against cobblestones and the shouts of passersby swung Blake to the left. A runaway horse and driverless open carriage were racing directly toward them.
Blake shoved the kitten basket into Miss Carrington’s hand and pushed her to safety behind the park’s wrought iron fence. She dragged at his coat sleeve, crying for him to follow. The horse was nearly upon them, screaming in terror at the carriage rocking behind it.
Blake knew his limitations. On a game leg, he could not hope to leap into the carriage seat and grab the reins. But neither could he leave hapless pedestrians in peril. After prying Miss Carrington’s grip from his sleeve, he hurried back to the street and grabbed for the harness as the horse bore down on him. The abrupt pull on the leather startled the animal into rearing. Blake avoided the hooves by mere inches but gained the reins, and applied all his strength to hauling the terrified animal to a halt.
Shouts and screams echoed up and down the normally quiet avenue of elegant mansions while he fought the bucking mare. What the devil had got into horses around him these days?
To his utter dismay, while his arms were in danger of being ripped from their sockets, Miss Carrington lost her common sense and raced from the haven where he’d left her. Leaving behind the kitten basket, she dodged into the street to retrieve a bunch of carrots fallen from a farm cart. She came within inches of the panicked mare’s nose, waving the treat temptingly.
The Devilish Montague Page 8
