The Devilish Montague

by Patricia Rice

  “We have a postboy and an open carriage.” Both of which he had intended to lose, but as usual, she was diverting his plans.

  She would be his wife. It would be his duty to protect her with his life. So he supposed ravishing would be wrong. “I would never do anything to harm you,” he added gruffly, cursing his inbred honor.

  “Except throttle Percy and shoot my toe in retaliation,” she agreed, bursting his bubble with her usual perception. “You have already told me you are not a domesticated man. You do not have to pretend you are what you are not for my sake. Shall we see how the house progresses?”

  Perhaps wooing Miss Carrington involved houses and family instead of kisses and gifts. How the hell would he know? Someone really ought to write a textbook on the minds of women.

  Blake realized his seduction plans had been anticipated and outmaneuvered by a supposedly naive miss. He didn’t know how he felt about that. “We will picnic in the barnyard then, with the pigs and dogs and roosters.”

  “I like pigs and dogs and roosters,” she countered.

  “I like books and cigars and Scotch, but that doesn’t mean I’ll make you endure them.” So much for wooing. He was better at irritating.

  She tilted her head and regarded him with interest. “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to try things that you like, although I must admit, cigars sound particularly nasty.”

  “How do you do that? How do you take everything I say and turn it around so that you seem sweet and appealing, when I know you are simply skewering me?”

  For a change, she looked startled, but she recovered admirably. “You don’t wish me to be sweet and appealing?” She flapped her thick lashes at him. “Or you dislike being skewered as you skewer everyone else?”

  “Now, you intrigue me.” And she did. She looked like a flaxen ball of fluff in her ridiculous blue bonnet and nearly see-through muslin gown adorned with bits of silk flower buds. He felt as if he ought to pet her like a kitten and listen to her purr. But the kitten had claws.

  He stopped the cart in front of the carriage house and let the postboy handle the horse while he helped her down.

  “I am very adaptable.” She took his hand and stepped down to the newly mown grass. “But no one has ever called me intriguing. I think I like being mysterious, and I wager you prefer your ladies to be a bit of a puzzle you must conquer. Am I right?”

  “I have never conquered a lady,” he pointed out as he lifted the hampers from the back of the seat. Apparently Lady Belden’s cook had thought to show off her picnicking skills. A delicious aroma of meat pie drifted from her basket.

  “Your interest in me is puzzling,” Miss Carrington acknowledged. “Aside from the money, of course.”

  “Apparently I like having my toe shot just as you like being shouted at. Either that, or we make a handsome pair.”

  She laughed and tripped happily along beside him as he led her to a secluded area out of sight of the house. Admiring the overgrown brambles, she swung in happy circles in a grassy place concealed by shrubbery. Blake had to admit he enjoyed the puzzle she presented almost as much as he admired her lovely figure.

  “I have been shouted at a great deal and tend to ignore blustering threats, so I shall settle for being a handsome pair.” She untied her hat and let it fall, then tilted her head to smile provocatively at him. “I also like kissing.”

  A man could resist only so much. Setting down the hampers, Blake reached for the beauty tempting him. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew that she wanted something and this was her way of getting it. But he wanted the same, so he was happy to oblige.

  She was so slight against him that it was almost like holding a feather, until their mouths met, and passion exploded. Blake sank into the plushness of her lips and breasts and drove his hand into the lovely silver-gold tresses he’d been dying to unravel.

  She moaned and crushed closer, enthusiastically wrapping her slender arms around his neck and standing on her toes to better reach him.

  The damned woman had no idea how close he was to ravishing her, just as her hostess had warned. He deepened their kiss.

  Mr. Montague’s masculine scent of bay rum and whiskery skin aroused and tantalized, while his kisses taught Jocelyn the mysteries of desire. A shocking thrill rose in her midsection when his muscled arms lifted her and his mouth took possession.

  His tongue hungrily probing at her lips made her actually feel wanted, needed, for the first time in her life. She craved more of these heady promises of happiness.

  She dug her fingers into his coat and allowed him to pry her lips apart. She was glad for his support when his tongue touched hers. The sizzling thrill caused her to doubt her ability to stand on her own. His broad hands grasped her more tightly. He was to be her husband. With the freedom to do this every day—

  She gasped when her betrothed abruptly set her feet back on the ground. Covering her tingling lips with her hands, she watched in surprise as he grabbed the checked cloth Cook had used to cover the hamper. He flicked the cloth open, threw it across the grass, and reached for her again.

  She knew she ought to stand firm, but she was still too dizzy to think. She had wanted reassurance, and he was offering it.

  Now, she wanted more of his amazing kisses, much, much more. She’d tried to keep her teasing and taunting to a minimum, knowing he was already a smoldering fire ready to burst into flame. But she hadn’t counted on her own desires.

  She willingly tumbled to the cloth with him, loving the hardness of his pure masculinity as he leaned over to resume their explorations. Recklessly, he nibbled her ear and down her throat, until she was certain she would be consumed. His knee pinned her gown between her legs, and her hips strained upward, aching to press against him.

  Heat encompassed her breast through the thin fabric of her bodice where his fingers cupped her. His moan of pleasure aroused her own. She ached. She longed. She desperately needed more. . . .

  And she remembered marriage meant babies.

  Before her formidable betrothed could take what she so recklessly offered, Jocelyn shoved him off, rolling breathlessly out of his reach. She scrambled to her feet, shook out her skirt with trembling fingers, and tried not to look at the big man lying sprawled on the cloth, propped on his elbows while jabbing his hands into his hair with frustration.

  “I want to trust you,” she said, crouching down and hiding her blushing cheeks by poking around in the hamper. “I really do. But it would be much easier to trust after we have said vows.”

  Mr. Montague didn’t answer, and Jocelyn steeled herself for a furious male tirade. She had hoped and prayed that if she could cajole him into a reasonable mood, she would find some way of working Richard into the conversation, but that would not be practical now.

  “When it comes to women, men are never to be trusted,” he finally replied, in a pure male rumble that sent a tingle up her spine.

  “Really?” Fascinated, she set out the bottle of wine and glasses Cook had provided and dared look at him again. “Are you saying men are little better than animals? I like animals.”

  He continued to lie prone on the tablecloth while he gathered his obviously thunderous thoughts. “Thank you for that insight,” he grumbled. “Would you care to scratch behind my ears?”

  She laughed. She almost fell over laughing. It was such a relief to know that he didn’t hate her, and that he could see the lighter side of his dark nature.

  He turned on his side to watch her with an odd expression. He was all masculine strength and muscle, a large cat stretching in the sun. She averted her gaze from the powerful play of muscular thighs revealed by tight pantaloons.

  Seeing the wine, he grabbed the corkscrew and put his energy into a practical task. “I suppose if you can find amusement in our strange predicament, I can learn tolerance. Some,” he admitted reluctantly. “I am not, on the whole, a tolerant man.”

  She located the wineglasses. “I, on the other hand, am very tolerant and sim
ple. You are doing your best to confuse me and succeeding. I am not accustomed to that.”

  “You are accustomed to outwitting every man who crosses your path,” he argued, popping the cork and pouring the wine. “You may do it with artlessness and beauty, but you use your wiles deliberately. Men can fight with words and fists, but they cannot fight winsome looks.”

  He thought her beautiful? Jocelyn touched her sorry excuse for a nose and hid her smile of delight. He thought her beautiful. And that she could outwit men! Well, maybe she did that a bit. But she would not let his flattery go to her head.

  “Men fight women’s wiles all the time,” she argued. “Viscount Pig was never swayed by tears or pity. I think it may only be gallant gentlemen who are swayed by wiles. Not that I admit to having any,” she added hastily.

  “Then let us simply say you are a formidable opponent.” Mr. Montague lifted his glass to hers in salute.

  Fascinated by his perception of her, she finally dared to settle on the ground when he gestured for her to sit opposite where he lay.

  “I fear I was spoiled by my father’s political salons. I acted as his hostess because my mother would not, but I was only a child. So I curtsied greetings and sang if my father asked it. I was not allowed to speak, but I learned a great deal from listening,” she explained, now that they had reached what she hoped was a higher level of understanding.

  “Politics,” he said in disbelief, as if she’d suggested running nude and strewing feathers through the queen’s chambers. “I cannot imagine your interest.”

  Well, she supposed understanding went only so far.

  She tried not to stare too hard at broad shoulders bulging in tight superfine as he rested on one arm, but it was hard to drag her gaze away. She had a vague understanding that normal wedding nights involved sharing a bed and more than kisses. She tried to envision him without his clothes, and her cheeks heated.

  It was very difficult staying affixed to her decision to tell him about Richard and the money.

  “You are an enticing opponent,” he said with amusement when he saw her rosy cheeks. “Food?” he suggested. “I believe I smell a meat pie.”

  Yes, that’s what she meant to do! Entice him with Cook’s savory offerings until he was in a good humor and willing to listen. Glad to be offered the opportunity to return to good sense again, she began spreading the wealth from the hamper across the cloth.

  “I suppose it is too soon to return Percy to the conservatory?” she asked.

  Instead of flirting, they really needed to be talking, but she wasn’t much accustomed to serious discussion. When her wiles didn’t work, she usually did what she wanted and let the shouting fly over her head. Which inevitably led to those disasters that plagued her path. Really, she ought to learn a better method, but if she was too honest, she was terrified Mr. Montague would call off the wedding.

  He nodded while chewing his pie, then took a sip of wine to wash it down. “If nothing else, the bird’s curses could chase off the pigs.”

  Jocelyn hid her delight that talking had actually got her one thing that she wanted. She pinched a crust off her pie and flung it to a noisy sparrow. “Shall I send one of Lady Belden’s footmen to retrieve Percy?”

  And then the servant could bring the parrot and Richard to Chelsea. She would have one small part of her family safe and happy.

  “You have to ask?” Mr. Montague said dryly. “The creature raises a racket every time I leave the room.”

  “I know, but I thank you for not making him into parrot pie. You’ll be amazed at how well Percy adapts once he has a home. Why on earth did the duke ever acquire him? I wonder.”

  “I’ve never exchanged more than a few words with His Grace, so I can’t say,” Blake said with a dismissive wave of his wineglass.

  She moved on to the next idle question floating across her mind. “Would you really have shot Mr. Ogilvie in a duel if he hadn’t chased after Percy?”

  Watching the sparrow bob about, she flung bread crusts, and a squirrel peered from beneath a blackberry bramble, his tail quirking.

  “Duels don’t necessitate killing.” Mr. Montague shrugged and sat up to inspect the dishes she’d set out. “I only meant to terrify Ogilvie and shoot the bird to impress the ladies.”

  “A little hint,” Jocelyn said dryly. “Women most generally do not appreciate violence.”

  “Men hunt,” he declared. “We are nothing if we cannot provide for and protect our families. I cannot promise I won’t shoot birds, because I do. Partridges are particularly tasty.”

  “Fair enough. I can’t promise I won’t scare the birds from your guns if I have the opportunity,” she replied pertly, hiding her trepidation. They truly did hold opposing viewpoints.

  That their marriage might be the worst disaster she’d ever willingly entered into loomed ever more certain. Perhaps she did not need to tell Blake of Richard just yet, not until the vows were said and there was no backing out.

  17

  Jocelyn watched anxiously out the window of Lady Belden’s carriage as it pulled up to Carrington House on Friday. Blake had gladly surrendered his house key and Percy to the footman she’d sent to fetch them. He did not have to know that the servant did not go straight to Chelsea with the items, but back to her. She couldn’t possibly send Richard out here with only servants to introduce him to his new/old home.

  “You and Percy will be in charge until I can move in,” she told her brother as the carriage halted and he reached for the door.

  She knew better than to expect Richard to compliment the house’s newly polished front entrance and trimmed lawn. Still, she was a trifle disappointed when he simply said, “Harold cannot have Percy. He is ours.”

  He leaped out before the steps could be lowered. He was already halfway up the front walk, carrying a whistling Percy, before the postboy could help Jocelyn down.

  Having Blake treat her like she was a spun confection all yesterday had been rather intoxicating. She had to remember that this was her life—watching out for her brother. His love and trust were all she really needed. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe Blake would appreciate her concern.

  “This is better than before,” Richard said approvingly after touring the conservatory and kitchen. “I wish I could have Africa back.”

  If Harold had sold Percy after he’d lost the house, might he have done so only recently? In which case, tracking Percy’s mate might be possible once she had the time to focus on the search.

  “I will ask around and see if we can find Africa. And the cockatiel twins.” The rare Australian birds had been ordered especially for Richard’s tenth birthday. She still cried when she remembered their special whistle as she entered a room.

  Richard nodded in agreement. He did not express emotion well, but she thought it was a happy nod. “I will start building perches,” he said.

  Jocelyn breathed a sigh of relief. Once Richard was suitably occupied, all would be well. “You must choose your bedchamber while we’re here.”

  “I have already noted appropriate hiding places,” he answered.

  Of course he had. They’d spent a great deal of their childhood hiding. Before their father’s death, their ability to sit quietly out of sight had also made them good at scouting wild birds.

  Their experience in making themselves invisible had been useful later, during their years of dodging annoyed brothers-in-law and furious older sisters. They’d lasted about two years with each sister before exasperation had set in and they’d been asked to move on to the next. They only had three sisters, so now it was Jocelyn’s turn. This time, they were staying.

  “We won’t have a cook until Monday,” she warned her brother. “You must be careful with the money I gave you. Don’t spend it all on Percy’s feed. You must buy food for yourself. There is a very nice pub up the street.”

  Richard nodded. She knew he was only half hearing her, so she hoped some of what she’d said stayed with him.

  She followe
d Richard around the conservatory as he checked out the dilapidated tables and repaired panes and examined the broken birdcage she had refused to throw out. “I’ve sent Mama a note asking her to forward your trunk,” she added. She’d also sent a note to her half sister in case Mama buried her request in a book and forgot about it. One never knew for certain what information might divert Mama from any appointed task. Many of Richard’s oddities replicated their mother’s behavior, which was why people often looked askance at Jocelyn. The Byrd-Carrington line was not precisely normal.

  “She has reached Charlemagne,” Richard said. “Will we have palm trees?”

  Jocelyn easily followed the wandering path of his thoughts. “Charlemagne, my, my. So we are of royal lineage. How amazing.” And totally useless, but tracing the family genealogy made their mother happy. “I am sure we can find palm trees to buy, but you must be the one to keep them watered. I don’t think I can afford a gardener.”

  “I can do that. My bird books?”

  “I will send for all your books. We will build shelves just for them.”

  Richard turned abruptly and squeezed her in a clumsy hug. “Thank you!”

  The times when Richard was comfortable enough to show his appreciation could be counted on one hand. Rejoicing, Jocelyn hugged him back. “I love you, Richie. I promise, we’re going to be happy here, and no one will ever take this home away from us!”

  As long as she could keep Blake alive for a year.

  18

  Monday morning, Jocelyn tugged nervously at the slip of lacy veil she wore over her hair. Entering through the church’s side door with only Lady Belden and Richard as company, she listened to the silk crepe of her short train rustling across the cold stone floors. She was well versed in what etiquette required of her, but given her lack of experience, she was not so certain about her moral choices.

  Which was why she was worrying about silk and not the man waiting for her on the other side of the transept.