Always the Best Friend (Never the Bride Book 4)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  She took a deep breath. “Well, if that is the only criteria for a bride, we are in the wrong place.”

  Monty blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Look around you, Monty,” Harry said with a wry smile. “All of these young ladies evidently enjoy outdoor pursuits. Walking and riding, yet all these activities ruin complexions. We should be going to the salons. That is the place you will find your bride. After all, it is where women conscious of their appearance and their position in society go to be seen.”

  Monty was not fooled. He could see the sadness in Harry’s green eyes and brittle smile. They had never talked about romance, about marriage, or future spouses before. His views had shocked her, and to his own surprise, he felt crushed by her disappointment.

  Harry’s opinion mattered to him, more than anyone’s. He needed her support. He needed her to like whoever his bride would be.

  Monty reached out and took Harry’s hand. She looked with some surprise, and even more so when he kissed it.

  “Thank you,” he said warmly. “Thank you for helping me with this. I know ’tis strange, and I cannot tell you what it means to me to have you by my side.”

  The heat of the day clearly was overpowering Harry, her cheeks pinking as she said, “What are friends for?”

  Chapter Seven

  Monty knew the evening was going to be painful. How could it not be? Standing there, gawping at young ladies as though picking one from a catalog?

  “You will have to dance with her,” Harry said, casting an eye at the starry-eyed chit hovering awkwardly beyond their party.

  Monty sighed, his sandy hair falling over his eyes. “I am not fourteen any longer, Harry, you cannot order me about like a footman.”

  Harry elbowed him. “I absolutely can, and I absolutely will.” Readjusting her pearl necklace, which had become tangled in the exuberance of her nudge, she continued, “Why else did you come here tonight, Monty? Did you think you could attend Almack’s in the Season and not dance with anyone?”

  She cast a quick eye around the splendor of Almack’s. Monty saw no fewer than five young ladies eyeing him up. One of them had her mouth open.

  Monty took another gulp of punch. It was all rather depressing. As couples were paired for the dance about to begin, sharp eyes watched who stood up together. Rumors began here, and many a rumor would lead to marriage. Many a rumor could lead to a ruined reputation. But all he had to do was dance.

  “As many eligible ladies as possible,” she reminded him in an undertone. “That is what you said, and you asked me to hold you to it.”

  “I did not expect you to actually do it,” scowled Monty.

  He was not truly affronted. After all, she had enabled him to attend Almack’s this very evening, and early in the Season, too. Her vouchers afforded him the opportunity to meet with what she called ‘his type of woman,’ which he took to mean beautiful, and she seemed to mean overdressed.

  Monty stifled a laugh as a ridiculously wigged woman walked past him slowly, wiggling her hips and almost falling over in the process. Well, Harry was not entirely wrong. There were some strange women in the ton this year, and some of them were nothing like his type.

  “When at Almack’s, and in desperate need of a wife, you will dance with any lady who will have you,” muttered Harry with a smile plastered across her face for the ever-watchful eyes of gossips.

  Monty pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. “’Tis nine o’clock, would you credit it?”

  “And like Cinderella,” said Harry, beaming, “you are going to stay until midnight. Come now, ’tis hardly a hardship to stand up with some of these young ladies—they all fit your one criterion for wifehood!”

  His focus on beauty that had so shocked and affronted Harry.

  He had never thought about it before. Beauty was to be admired, was to be sought. Why would you seek ugliness, after all?

  And there was no shortage of beauty here. The musicians had struck up, and the dancers were moving in gentle rhythm, mamas around the edges, desperate to see who their darling daughters had snared for this one.

  Monty sighed again.

  “Dance with all of them? That sounds like an awful lot of hard work,” he muttered. “Would it not be easier to roll the dice?”

  Harry laughed, and Monty took her in properly for the first time that evening. Did…did she look different somehow? Her chestnut hair was piled up in the latest fashion, but he had seen that before. The pearls were her mother’s, and she always wore them to society balls like this one.

  But there was something different. She glowed somehow. All those imperfections—the freckles on one cheek, her crooked smile. They were beautiful tonight. Something had changed, but he could not put his finger on what.

  “Inspection over? Do I have a spot of mud on my face?”

  Heat rushed through him, and Monty took an unconscious step toward her. “No.”

  Her smile broadened. “Well, rolling dice could work, but then you would be taking a literal gamble on your future happiness, Monty. Is that a bet you are willing to lose?”

  His gaze caught hers, and as if burned, he was forced to turn away.

  It had been a mistake to come to Almack’s this evening—but then, Harry had reminded him the type of woman he was looking for was likely to be here.

  Smoke filled the dancing hall slowly, pouring from the card room, from which loud roars also emanated, but not enough to drown out the music bringing couples weaving in and out of each other, clasping hands, and then releasing them in a flurry of opportunities to touch and be touched.

  “Is that a bet you are willing to lose?”

  “No,” he said heavily. “The lady I choose to take to my side and my bed must be perfect—not a perfect woman, mark you, but perfect for me and for the Duchy of Devonshire.”

  Harry was smiling, and it was a knowing smile. “When you find her, you will know.”

  “Who knew marriage was such a complicated business?” He had spoken in a whisper, a frustration made vocal, but Harry had caught it, and she laughed.

  “Complicated for you?” She shook her head, candlelight shimmering on the pearls placed delicately in her hair. “Monty, you gentlemen have all of the fun of it and all the choice. Whereas we ladies stand around, waiting for someone to choose us.”

  It was unusual for Harry to speak so of marriage. Monty’s eyes raked over her guarded expression.

  He had never heard her speak of any particular preference of gentleman. To be sure, there was no need to marry, no riches to find, no status to secure. She was a lady in her own right, with her own income, and a brother who would treat her well for the rest of her life.

  But now he came to think about it… Harry was a lady. It was a strange thing to consider, but over the years, he never truly thought about it. Did she want to marry? Did she have any favorites, one favorite perhaps who was the intended man behind that statement—was there a gentleman she had her eyes on who had so far failed to notice her?

  “Harry,” he said quietly, “you…you would tell me, wouldn’t you, if there was a gentleman who you…”

  Her eyes, previously drifting across the dancing couples, snapped back to him. Monty almost flinched at their ferocity.

  “…preferred,” he said awkwardly. “I mean, I could always…always have a word if you—”

  “Montague Cavendish,” Harry said fiercely, “if I ever need to share my emotional attachments, trust me, you will be the first to know.”

  Monty nodded. For the first time in his life, he was not entirely sure he had understood Harry, and it troubled him.

  Going up to university had not broken the connection between them, and neither had his grand tour across Europe with her brother, Josiah. But this…this was different. He would marry, and there would be another woman in his life as important as Harry.

  Perhaps even more important.

  “Well then,” he said, his eyes catching sight of a passing acquaintance, “as you a
re admitting yourself to be without choice, let me make one for you.”

  Grabbing her hand and placing it in his arm, Monty pulled Harry toward the gentleman he had spotted, ignoring her whispered and increasing protestations.

  “Mr. Lister!” Monty called out to a tall, thin gentleman standing alone. “It has been too long.”

  Why, it was probably—three months? four months?—since he and Mr. Lister had been introduced to each other in a game of cards.

  Mr. Lister looked as astonished now as he did then to be spoken to by a gentleman of Monty’s standing, but he recovered quickly and bowed low.

  Monty returned the bow and saw Harry gave the smallest acceptable curtsey. His best friend knew just how to irritate people.

  “Y-Your Grace,” Mr. Lister spluttered, “what an honor it is!”

  He bowed again. It was probably his first time here in Almack’s, Monty realized, and guessed he was a tad overwhelmed by it all.

  Monty could remember his first time at Almack’s, a heady eighteen-year-old, easily dazzled by the splendor and beauty before him. He had stolen his first kiss from a Miss Hereford, if he remembered correctly, but had not ended the night with just one.

  “Montague Cavendish, you let me go!” Harry hissed, but Monty ignored her. It was time for Harry to get a taste of her own medicine and feel obliged to dance with someone.

  “Have you met Lady Harriet Stanhope, Mr. Lister?”

  A smirk crept over Mr. Lister’s face as he beheld Harry. “No, I have not yet had the pleasure.”

  Something in the way Mr. Lister spoke made Monty hesitate. He had only met the man for an evening, that was true—but he did not recall him being so…

  Well, slimy was the word he could think of to encapsulate the way he was looking at Harry.

  But then again, Mr. Lister had been deep in his cups the one time they had properly conversed before—about the horses if he remembered correctly. Hardly a fair representation of any gentleman. Mr. Lister would surely improve upon further acquaintance.

  “Lady Harriet Stanhope,” Monty said, finding Harry’s full name strange on his tongue, “may I present to you Mr. Charles Lister. Mr. Lister, I have the honor of introducing you to Lady Harriet Stanhope, of the family Chester.”

  Harry inclined her head the slightest amount and opened her mouth to speak—but Monty was too quick.

  “Mr. Lister, Lady Harriet would like to danc-arghhh!”

  He had spoken archly, and then in agony as Harry forced the ball of her foot on his toes. But it was too late.

  Mr. Lister’s smile broadened, revealing yellow teeth. “Lady Harriet, it would be my honor to escort you onto the floor.”

  He reached out his hand. Harry looked at it, and then at Monty. Her face was impassive, but her eyes were narrowed, and Monty almost laughed aloud at the furious battle obviously taking place within her.

  It would be entirely bad form if she were to refuse Mr. Lister, but she would evidently like to do nothing more.

  Harry turned her face to Mr. Lister and smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Lister.”

  She removed her hand from Monty’s arm to take Mr. Lister’s proffered one, and Monty found a strange emptiness at his side as she stepped away. Then they were gone, and he was standing alone.

  He laughed to see Harry rigidly following Mr. Lister to find their place in the set, but he did not laugh for long. The joke was not as good as her presence, and regret filled him as he stood alone at Almack’s.

  Then Monty stiffened. Alone at Almack’s. Without a lady by his side, he was immediately considered fair game by every other single lady of good fortune in the place.

  Three ladies separately turned to watch him, smiles creeping over their faces. Two of them started meandering toward him. If he had not been watching them carefully, he would not have considered their movements purposeful, but it was not hard to spot when you noticed.

  And they had noticed each other. Each increased their pace, each attempting to pretend they had not done so, both determined to reach him first.

  Monty groaned under his breath. Each of the two ladies was pretty, there was no doubt about it, but the fact they were running toward him did not bode well for their personalities.

  Honestly. Who was that desperate for a duke?

  Pretending he had not noticed them, Monty walked away and around the dancers, keeping his eyes on Harry.

  Plenty of people were desperate for a duke, or any husband of good name and fortune, he thought dully. After all, was he not of the same ilk? Desperate for a bride.

  He almost walked into an elderly gentleman, and bowing to apologize, took his eyes away from the dancers, and from Harry.

  For any other gentleman, his would be the perfect situation. He could stop, talk to both women, and choose his favorite. The whole thing could be over in a week or so, with a special license, and the dukedom would be secured.

  So why did the thought of it make him feel so empty, so incomplete? As though there was something missing, something he had forgotten?

  A resounding slap filled the air, and the musicians and dancers stopped. Silence filled the room, a silence heavy with shock.

  Monty’s head jerked upward as his sixth sense jarred. How he knew Harry was involved, he could not tell. He just did. His heart raced; his feet itched to move rapidly to her side.

  But as his eyes focused on the center of the trouble, it was not Harry who needed protection. It was Mr. Lister.

  He stood there, cheeks flaming red but with a white mark in the shape of a palm and four fingers. It appeared a delicate hand had walloped him.

  Standing by his side was Harry, fury on her face, her glare directed firmly at Mr. Lister.

  Something unknown roared through Monty’s body like a furnace. He pushed through the crowd, and all his thoughts were on Harry. He had to get to her. Nothing could stop him from reaching her.

  Something must have happened. Harry had a fiery temper, but she would not do anything without provocation.

  Was she hurt? Had she been insulted?

  As he drew closer to her, Monty caught something of what she was saying.

  “—never do that again, or it will be the last thing you do, Mr. Lister.”

  “Harry,” gasped Monty.

  Harry ignored him. Giving Mr. Lister a withering look and holding her head up high, she turned on her heels and strode away from them.

  The crowd parted to let her through, eyes staring in shock.

  Mr. Lister laughed awkwardly and grinned at Monty. “Your friend seems a little out of sorts this evening. My god, if she were not a lady, I’d take my whip to her. Teach her a few manners!”

  Monty glared at the wretched man. “What did you do?”

  The grin on Mr. Lister’s face did not disappear, obviously unable to read the fury in every line on Monty’s face.

  “Do?” His smirk widened. “I did not do anything. The movement of the dance brought us…aha…closer than Lady Harriet was perhaps expecting.”

  Several of the ladies standing around them turned away in disgust at Mr. Lister’s words. They all knew what that meant, and even a few of the gentlemen scowled.

  But the disgust of those around him was nothing compared to how Monty was feeling.

  Every man hoped to get closer to the lady he had his eye on in the dance, there was no point denying it—but it was at the lady’s discretion, and never to be taken advantage of.

  So, Mr. Lister touched Harry inappropriately—he could blame the dance all he wanted, but there was no reason he had to be that close to her in the steps, and Harry would not have reacted unless he had crossed the line.

  He had touched her. Touched her without her consent in public—Harry!

  “If you ever touch Lady Harriet again,” Monty growled, “during a dance or at any other time, you will be very sorry indeed.”

  Mr. Lister had clearly not paid attention to his tone, for he said in a dissembling voice, “Oh, pish, Devonshire, she can take care of herself c
learly!”

  “Yes,” snapped Monty. “But that does not mean she has to. And if you do not mind, Mr. Lister, I will have your voucher.”

  His words echoed in the silence around them. The muttering stopped as ladies and gentlemen stared at the two of them.

  “My…my voucher?”

  “I know Lady Romeril will like to reconsider your admittance to Almack’s,” Monty said quietly, “if that is the way you treat a lady. The voucher, sir.”

  Mr. Lister swallowed. Monty could read that slimy expression anywhere.

  He had met plenty of gentlemen in his time who thought they were owed something by the ladies around them—worse, that they could take what they wanted from them.

  But Mr. Lister was not in a boxing ring now, nor in a card table where a fight with fists would be expected beyond a certain time of the night.

  No, he was in Almack’s, and the eyes of society were upon him.

  Pulling his voucher from his waistcoat, he threw it on the floor. “I did not wish to return, in any event.”

  A footman in Almack’s livery had appeared at Monty’s shoulder. “Would you like me to escort the gentleman to the door, Your Grace?”

  Mr. Lister’s small eyes darted to the door and then back to Monty.

  Monty smiled grimly. “I see no gentleman. Please remove the rubbish.”

  Without waiting to see Mr. Lister’s face, Monty turned and strode across the room to where he knew Harry would be.

  The terrace doors were open, and as he stepped through them, fresh air hit his lungs—a welcome relief from the stuffy heat of the room. Harry was pacing up and down the terrace, muttering under her breath. Just as he knew she would be.

  A smile washed over his face as he took a step away from the heat of his fury and toward her, and something painful contracted around his heart. It was only for a moment, and it was gone as quickly as it came.

  Opening his mouth to speak, he was interrupted immediately.

  “I know what you are about to say, so do not even bother saying it,” Harry snapped. “I know it is ridiculous to be upset, and I suppose the whole ton has watched me come out here.”