The Devilish Montague

by Patricia Rice

  Nick snorted. “An ability to dip one’s wick at will also leads to happiness, not that a monk like you would appreciate that.”

  Blake would certainly appreciate it if the malleable wax he dipped his wick into was the beautiful Miss Carrington, but he knew there was nothing remotely waxlike about Ladybyrd. “The pleasures of the flesh dilute one’s concentration,” Blake argued. “You’re a fine example of that. I swear, you have a different female each week. You cannot even concentrate on one or two.”

  “There are so many stars in the sky to admire, how can I choose just one? Come along, crosspatch, let us plan a strategy for pacifying the lovely Miss C and wooing her into your bed and her money into your coffers.”

  “Do not lecture us on what Wellesley should do when he returns to the Continent,” Sir Barton begged. “We’d rather hear how you mean to tame Ladybyrd.” An impoverished baronet from the Lake Country, Barton had been in search of a wealthy wife for the past year or more.

  “If I told you how it was done, then you would all be after her.” Surrounded by other bachelors at the buffet table, Blake leaned against a Grecian column and ground his teeth at the overfamiliar appellation used for his intended. He would prefer that only he had the right to call her by that name.

  “Montague yells at Miss C,” Nick explained, nibbling on a pâté-covered wafer.

  Only because Atherton was his friend did Blake refrain from shoving the meaty wafer into his face. Besides, he was too bruised to move.

  “You yell at her?” Sir Barton asked with interest. “And this works?”

  “Don’t recommend it with other ladies,” Nick warned. “It only seems to work with Miss C.”

  Since Nick was the expert at winning ladies, several of the idiots nodded at his wisdom and slipped away from the buffet table the instant Miss Carrington entered the parlor. There was one reason for making the announcement of their betrothal public, Blake thought grimly. It would drive away the boneheaded gallants flocking around the woman he intended to make his own.

  He’d at least like to have Miss Carrington speaking to him before he did so.

  He cleaned his plate—the only proper meal he’d had all day. He would need his strength shortly. Nick’s manipulations were so obvious, a five-year-old could have discerned them.

  “They’re off to yell at your betrothed,” Atherton offered genially.

  “So that I may rescue her? Quite thoughtful of you, I’m sure.” Blake handed his plate to a passing servant. Still taking support from the column, he twitched his shoulders in the confining coat. He supposed he had shouted at Miss Carrington more than once, but how else was one to converse with the woman? That didn’t mean he wished anyone else to shout at her.

  “Miss Carrington, I insist that you accompany me in this duet,” Barton demanded loudly in the next room, grasping her elbow and tugging her in a domineering manner that Blake rather painfully remembered employing with her himself.

  He didn’t relish being the leader of a dog pack, but he could not in good conscience allow Miss Carrington to be nipped at by puppies. With a wince, he pushed himself off the wall. If he had any more accidents, they’d be carrying him to the altar on a stretcher.

  “Pardon me, sir, have you quite taken leave of your senses?” Jocelyn’s laughing voice carried across the room, and heads turned. Society thrived on drama. “I don’t sing.”

  “Of course you sing, Miss Carrington,” one of the older ladies called out. “You used to do so when you were out and about with your papa. You were ever so precocious.”

  Blake refrained from rolling his eyes as he crossed the room. From what little he’d gathered about the eccentric Carringtons, this was not the incentive to encourage the lady.

  Miss Carrington looked up at Blake’s approach and bestowed a smile on him that could have frozen candle flames. “Have you come to order me to sing, too?”

  She flirted with that damned fan as if she hadn’t a care in the world, but he’d learned her smiles were deceptive. If there was a gun about, Barton was in danger of losing a toe.

  “Do I look like a nodcock?” Blake asked, raising a disapproving eyebrow before turning to Barton. “I believe Frances would enjoy playing your duet.”

  Disregarding Barton’s offended look, Blake offered his arm to the lady. “A stroll around the room, or am I still in your bad graces?”

  “You did not shoot Sir Barton, so you are momentarily reprieved. I’m sure you will find some other means of annoying me before the evening’s end.” She took his arm while Blake’s sister and Sir Barton began bleating a popular refrain to the accompaniment of the poor pianoforte.

  Promenading senselessly about the room as etiquette required, having no conversation to make with Miss Carrington, Blake attempted to occupy himself with the puzzle of the “accidents” that had left him bruised and aching. Had he annoyed his acquaintances so much that they’d go to such extremes as murder to save them from his company?

  Of course, he could scarcely think clearly while Miss Carrington’s delicate floral scent wafted around him and her skirts brushed against his legs, reminding him of what he could have if he minded his manners. Her kiss had burned a hole straight through his skull, and he feared if he didn’t bed her soon, his gray matter would seep out the cracks—a rather humbling development.

  “Then let us shorten the evening by my annoying you now and coming straight to the point,” Blake said in resignation. “My family will not forgive me if I do not do the proper thing and have the banns called. Would you rather marry me or see me cast from the nest?”

  The glance she gave him contained the mysteries of the universe. Against his better judgment, she fascinated him. Another woman would have already hit him over the head with the nearest hard object.

  “It is interesting that your family’s opinion concerns you only when you do not have to speak with them,” she said. “You were extremely rude earlier today. Is that how you mean to treat me should we marry? With the contempt of familiarity?”

  Blake thought he might have fared better had she used an inanimate object with which to beat him. He winced and finally admitted the embarrassing situation. “My mother is superstitious and lives in dire fear that I will die before thirty. Frances and my father do not wish to be in London at this time of year, but my mother will not leave until she’s satisfied that I’ll stay alive. It is more than embarrassing to be followed about by one’s mother.”

  “Die before thirty?” Miss Carrington repeated with appalled curiosity.

  Blake swiped at his temple, lifting the darker curls to reveal the silver streak underneath. “A family curse that comes to everyone with this streak in his hair. It is superstitious nonsense, naturally.”

  Although Blake’s favorite uncle, who also bore the silver streak, was swept away in a flood at the age of twenty, victim of a bursting dam. Still, freak accidents were just that, accidents.

  “My father is not so much concerned with superstition as the fact that my brothers have yet to produce heirs,” he continued, more sensibly. “Hence, my parents’ desire to marry me off. I have little patience with their stifling attentions. Do not hover over me, and I will worship the ground you walk on.”

  She laughed. He had been serious, but he enjoyed the full-throated music of her laughter. At least she was not a woman who scolded and nagged. At least, he hoped not, because every person in the room was watching them and gossip would fly by morning. He was unaccustomed to being the subject of speculation.

  “I can assure you, sir, that hovering is the very last thing I will do. But I’d rather you worshipped me than the ground. No one has ever worshipped me before, unless you count Richard.”

  Blake halted their progress in a dim corner, where he could stare down at her in surprise. “Surely you jest. You were meant for adoration.”

  An adoration he couldn’t provide. Damn, but she deserved better, he realized, much to his great dismay. He ought to shove a more deserving fellow in her direction, b
ut he was selfish enough to refuse to let her go. So much for believing he was sacrificing himself for a noble cause.

  Her eyes widened in startlement at his declaration. She raised one of her expressive hands, started to speak, then shook her curls, as if unable to find words.

  Puzzled, he studied her. As far as he was aware, the lady never lacked for words. How had he surprised her? By saying she was adorable? She had to know that she was everything appealing . . . most of the time.

  She shook her head again and a pale curl danced with her earrings. Recovering from her momentary uncertainty, she replied, “You must meet my family someday to understand. We do not do adoration well. If you require worship, be sure that we will not suit.”

  Relief swept through him, and he almost got down on one knee right there. “Then you are the woman of my dreams, Miss Carrington. Let me make the announcement.”

  “You must speak with Lady Belden first. And perhaps my solicitor?”

  “In the morning, then?”

  She stared up at him with a concern that matched his own, but her gloved hand was warm and vulnerable and wrapped trustingly in his.

  “If all goes well with Lady Bell and the solicitor in the morning, Mr. Montague, then yes, I suppose we might make the announcement.”

  By tomorrow, the noose would be firmly fastened around his neck. Blake tugged at the knot of his neckcloth and resisted dragging her somewhere private to reassure himself this was what he wanted.

  “You honor me, Miss Carrington,” was all he managed to say.

  13

  Mr. Montague thought she deserved adoration! Jocelyn was not at all certain how to take that declaration from a man she’d thought honest but whom she knew wanted her money.

  She tugged nervously at the ribbon of her pocket and wished she could pace Lady Bell’s study as her intended was doing. His father’s solicitors and Lady Bell’s were poring over the settlement papers, harrumphing, and whispering to their clerks.

  She didn’t want to be here at all, except she had no father to conduct the negotiations, and Viscount Pig would fly before she let him represent her interests. She’d persuaded Lady Bell’s solicitor to carry out the diabolical exchange Harold had demanded for Richard’s guardianship. She was almost penniless again, but Richard was safe. She’d made certain of that. The responsibility was both terrifying and satisfying.

  She would owe her new husband a great deal when he discovered what she’d done. She hoped she could find some way to make up for her deception.

  Living from one calamity to another made planning difficult. She’d spent her childhood hiding Richard from Harold’s abuse, lost her father at seventeen, been thrown out of her beloved home not long after, and spent these last six years trying to prevent Richard’s occasionally hysterical behavior from getting them flung from their half sisters’ homes. Without great success. Her impulsive acts, like the bird-snatching, often had far-reaching, unintended consequences. Who would have thought stealing Percy would lead to marriage?

  Sitting in the window seat, she glanced at the street below. Since receiving Richard’s cryptic note, she was heeding her instinct for trouble. Ogilvie might even now be stalking her, looking for his parrot. The house in Chelsea could be on fire. Her mother could arrive on the doorstep with Richard in tow. Her life was such that it made sense to plan for disaster and disruption.

  In comparison, deciding to marry seemed an exercise in serenity.

  “This is outrageous!” Lady Bell’s man uttered in rage, shaking one of the papers at his counterpart across the table. “This says the house reverts to Baron Montague should his son die within the next year. Miss Carrington cannot place all her funds in the hands of her husband, only to have the roof snatched from her head if he’s inconveniently run over by a carriage!”

  Jocelyn raised her eyebrows questioningly to Mr. Montague. At the solicitor’s outburst, he stopped his pacing to glance at her with what appeared to be concern. She knew the lawyers would not heed her, but she was interested in her intended’s explanation of the outburst. Madly enough, she was learning to trust his cynicism.

  “I warned you of my family’s manipulations,” he said for her ears alone. “I was afraid there would be a catch to my father’s generosity. This is my parents’ attempt to prevent me from going to war.” He squeezed her hand in reassurance.

  Returning to his pacing, he spoke to the table of lawyers. “Perhaps a clause might be entered that the property revert to my child if I suffer a sudden, injudicious demise,” he suggested.

  He was being sarcastic again. Apparently, his parents were playing the superstition card and hoped she might keep their son from dying before thirty. Would his father accept an heir in return for his expensive property?

  An heir. She’d never once considered children. She needed to start considering them. She suffered an urge to run far, far away. She’d thought this was to be a marriage of convenience, but his family, naturally, had different ideas.

  “Then perhaps the lady’s funds should be kept in her family as well,” Lady Bell’s attorney responded matter-of-factly. “I suggest she be allowed complete control of her income until such time as the house is legally hers.”

  Smart man. That would prevent Mr. Montague from learning she had no funds until the beginning of the year. Better yet, if he did not go to war, she was less likely to lose the house due to his injudicious demise.

  The attorneys returned to muttering among themselves, but Mr. Montague set aside his copy of the papers to loom over the seat where she was perched.

  “You are worried,” he stated flatly. “Second thoughts?”

  “I’m on my hundredth and one thought by now. Remind me why I am doing this?”

  “Because your parrot is teaching Fitz’s innocent children how to curse?” he suggested. “I thought it was because you would like to return to your home.”

  “But if I am understanding the argument, your father will not let me have the house should you die in battle over this next year.” She threaded her fingers to prevent herself from fraying her ribbon.

  “I have Wellesley’s promise of a staff position if I can buy in by Christmas. If I tell you that I’m unlikely to be at the front, will you feel less anxious?” he asked.

  Christmas. She gulped. He wouldn’t be going anywhere at Christmas. “What is the point of our marrying if I do not have a house and you end up dead?” she asked instead.

  “I do not intend to end up dead,” he pointed out, “but they are merely negotiating at the moment.”

  “It is all very cold, is it not?” she asked wistfully. “I am sorry I shot your toe. You are still limping. Is it healing yet?”

  “It was only a scratch. I bumped my knee the other night. If you are sorry we must marry, we should find a way out of our impending vows now, before it’s too late.”

  Perhaps he was right. Perhaps that was exactly what they should do.

  A sharp rap sounded on the study door, jarring Jocelyn from wondering if Mr. Montague was having second thoughts, too. Before a footman could formally announce the visitor, Harold sauntered into the room. Or perhaps waddled was more accurate.

  Jocelyn gazed heavenward and wished for a stout stick. The tedious conference had just become more perilous. What if Harold revealed to Blake that she’d spent this year’s income? She clenched her fingers into fists and donned her best insouciant mask while studying the brother she’d done her best to ignore since returning to London.

  She’d heard Harold had injured his shoulder in a duel a year or two ago, but she’d been in Norfolk at the time and did not know the details. Besides having grown fat and bald, he did seem to be favoring one side.

  “As head of the Carrington family, I should have been informed of this meeting,” the viscount announced to the startled company. “I believe I am entitled to be included in any business that affects my sister’s welfare.”

  “Half sister,” Jocelyn murmured under her breath, wondering what on earth the l
eech wanted now, after he’d already drained her coffers. “I have more than enough competent representation, but thank you, Harold, for thinking of me.” She winced at the sarcasm in her voice. The last thing she needed was to irritate the vicious wretch.

  Recognizing Quality, if not the viscount himself, the lawyers all respectfully rose from the table and looked to Lady Bell for leadership.

  “Carrington House must be settled on Jocelyn,” the viscount continued, ignoring her as usual. “She will need the aviary if she is to collect Richard’s birds.”

  Harold hated Richard’s birds. Only with extreme restraint did Jocelyn prevent her jaw from dropping in disbelief.

  “Arrangements should be made so Jocelyn’s income is not left to a barnacle like Montague, but to Richard and any offspring,” Harold announced.

  Where it might come under Harold’s guardianship as head of the family, Jocelyn realized, finally grasping the purpose of her brother’s sudden interest.

  The marchioness glanced at Jocelyn to see how she would like to handle the intruder. Mr. Montague did not wait for her suggestions. Her personal warrior stepped in front of Harold, towering a good head and shoulders above him, Jocelyn noted with satisfaction.

  “My lord, I believe you are mistaken,” Mr. Montague said with what sounded like pleasure. “Miss Carrington is of legal age, and she has the ability to hire her own solicitors and make her own decisions. You are unnecessary and unwelcome.”

  Her half brother puffed up like an enraged rooster with a crooked wing.

  She ought to inquire about the details of the duel. Harold and Mr. Montague seemed at daggers drawn already, and her intended did have those much-lamented violent tendencies. Now she would have to wonder how they knew each other.

  Jocelyn had a vague childhood memory of Harold in his adolescence, stomping about in heels, powdered wig, and a beauty patch. She’d thought him silly then. He was equally silly now, looking like a pouter pigeon in his double-breasted coat.

  She couldn’t imagine why a woman as beautiful as his wife would have looked twice at him, but the French had strange notions. He’d brought Antoinette back from that rebellious country along with a case of brandy when Jocelyn had been in the schoolroom. Their father had detested Antoinette and her cloying mannerisms, but at least she had taken an interest in Richard’s birds.