“Your response was natural after that—after that disgusting…that man,” Monty finished. “Did…did he hurt you?”
Harry stopped and turned to look at him, her eyes wide.
Why did the idea of someone hurting Harry fill him with such fury? The very thought of Mr. Lister even touching her made him want to turn around, storm back into the place, and rip the smirking bastard limb from limb.
Monty realized his hands were clenched, and it took no small amount of willpower to relax them. Where was this reaction coming from?
Harry smiled. “Do not concern yourself. I am rather afraid I was the one to hurt him—both his face and pride.”
Her smile was a calming draught for his soul. There was no end of relief to see she was not truly hurt, nor that affronted.
“That bastard will not be here again,” he growled. “I have seen to that.”
Harry’s smile widened as she stepped toward him. “You are heroic all of a sudden.”
Just seeing her was enough to slow his racing heartbeat—at least, it usually was. For some reason, in the moonlight, his heart was continuing to thunder.
“I will not allow anyone to hurt you,” he said simply.
She was very close. No closer than she had been before, but Monty was suddenly more aware of her, as though he had barely noticed her before. She was smiling, and his heart was doing strange things. Her pearls moved as she breathed, nestled between—between her breasts.
Monty swallowed. He had been so clear on why he had stepped out here, but now all those thoughts had gone.
“Now,” Harry breathed, “if you do not have anything else to do, Your Grace, would you like to dance?”
Monty nodded. Taking her hand and placing it on his arm, he was conscious of how warm she was despite the cool night air.
She was still warm when they entered the dance, taking their places in the set, and smiling at each other. Harry’s smile was natural, but Monty found he had to think about every movement of his face. How had he forgotten how to smile—why was this so strange?
The music began. As their hands touched, a jolt of heat shot through his arm and into his navel.
Thrown into heat, Monty stumbled as he turned, disorientated, unable to think or speak as he followed the gentleman to his left.
What was happening?
He turned and looked back at Harry, flushed from the dance, and she smiled. Monty’s stomach lurched.
“Dancing with you is much more preferable to that odious Mr. Lister,” she said with a laugh as they came together with the couple to their left, turning slowly.
Monty opened his mouth to say something witty, but all that came out was, “Dancing with you…dancing with you is…”
Before he could finish the thought, before the embarrassment of the nonsense he was saying caught up with him, the dance had moved on, and they were parted.
Harry twirled with the lady beside her, and Monty stared, transfixed, at the curve of her neck and décolletage where those pearls nestled—those fortunate pearls.
Where had that thought come from? Monty walked into someone as he tried to rid his head of the thought of that softness. How had he never noticed it before? So smooth, as though a painter had created the perfect line from neck to breast.
Monty swallowed as they came together to press palms once more, and it was then he noticed his hand was shaking.
What was Harry doing to him?
Why was it only now that his body became aware Harry was not Harry, but Lady Harriet Stanhope?
Chapter Eight
In the dim light of the morning, Harry dropped another piece of tack. This one hit her foot, and it was thanks to her sturdy riding boots that she did not have a broken toe.
“Damn,” she said.
The tack had bent, now virtually useless for tacking up Black Beauty.
Black Beauty snorted in her ear, as though the beautiful horse could tell her owner was out of sorts this morning.
Harry walked the length of the stable and placed the tack on the side, picking up a replacement and returning to her horse. Her fingers fumbled to get the mare ready for a ride.
Do not think about it, she told herself, pulling the reins over Black Beauty’s ears. There is nothing to be gained by thinking about it. Put it out of your mind, Harry. Forget it.
But it was impossible to forget the last few hours. She had crept into the house in the early hours after losing herself in the arms of Monty, dancing as she had never danced before, light as air, as though all her troubles were behind her, and he had already confessed his love.
Who could blame her? He had looked at her in that dance as though…as though she had finally been real for the first time. His gray eyes had blazed, and she had burned in their brightness.
But he had said not a word, and when she had risen for breakfast that morning and seen the newspaper…
Reaching for her riding crop, her distracted fingers dropped it into the straw. Black Beauty nuzzled her, reminding her they were supposed to go on a ride together, eventually.
Harry smiled as she picked up her riding crop and pulled a few strands of straw from it. “You do not mind a little extra straw, do you, Beauty?”
The mare, steady and composed as ever, whinnied again and stepped forward as though telling Harry she was ready, even if her human companion was not.
She led Black Beauty out of the stable and took a deep breath. A ride, that was what she needed. A chance to ignore the world.
As she was in town, she was forced to ride sidesaddle, but as Harry was such an excellent horsewoman, it provided her with no great challenge. Mounting the mare thanks to the stable block, Harry clicked her into movement, and they made their way to Hyde Park.
The quiet of the morning with no one but a few peddlers in the streets, and the growing warmth of the sun, was enough to calm Harry’s frantic heart.
Everything was better when she was riding. There was something freeing about it—even as a woman riding in this ridiculous way. It was why she had chosen Black Beauty this morning.
The mare knew exactly what she wanted.
The temptation to ride astride was growing, but there was no knowing who may see her, spot her being so indecorous. And after what she had read in this morning’s paper, the absolute last thing she needed was to be accused of further impropriety.
Harry swallowed, slowing their pace. It would be another hour until Monty was meeting her, and she needed time to calm her nerves.
Nerves? When had she ever been nervous about seeing Monty?
But her treacherous heart skipped a beat at the memory of his request. It had been his idea, the last thing he had said to her, in a rather breathless voice, as they had left Almack’s for their separate carriages.
“Hyde Park,” he had said, eyes wide. “Nine o’clock tomorrow—will you meet me there? Bring a horse.”
“Nine o’clock?” She had snorted with laughter. “Monty, ’tis nearly two in the morning! You really think you will be able to stand in that time, let alone ride?”
But he had not laughed. He had smiled, one of those knowing smiles, which had always irritated her when they were children and were now unbearably attractive.
Her stomach had contracted. Why was it he looked even more handsome when he was being unreasonable? How could the two possibly be connected?
So instead, she had replied seriously, “Nothing will keep me from the appointment.”
His laughter had squeezed her heartstrings, but she had spoken the truth. There was no reason in the world why she would miss this meeting.
It had been years since she had seen Monty this frequently—in fact, Harry could barely remember the time when he had been so regularly present. His time at Cambridge and then on the continent with Josiah had meant years apart.
She could remember crying piteously when she had discovered it would be Josiah, and only Josiah, who would accompany him on their tour. For a fleeting moment, she had believed they would invi
te her. It was not impossible, after all, for a sister to go with them.
Black Beauty neighed, and Harry was brought to her senses. They had been stationary for several minutes, and the mare was restless. Harry urged her forward into a trot and allowed herself to slip back into her thoughts.
They were painful. After a year apart, Monty had returned from their trip all tousled haired and with more freckles than when he had left, and her heart had broken for him all over again.
If anything, the way she felt about him had only increased in his absence, but he seemed unaware she had even been waiting for him.
“Hello there!”
A voice rang out in the growing morning sun, and Harry smiled. That voice had been such a huge part of her life for so long—and soon it would be the voice of someone else’s husband. Harry gasped at the agony of the thought, and her suffering must have shown on her face because when Monty pulled up beside her on Pegasus, he frowned.
“Harry? Should have known you would be early—is anything the matter? Not thinking of the dratted Mr. Lister, are you?”
Harry swallowed and felt the uncomfortable boning of her corset. To think she could be anything, say anything, do anything, and it would never be enough to catch Monty’s eye as a woman. She simply was not beautiful enough.
“No, not Mr. Lister,” she managed as their horses fell into step. “I was…”
Her gaze moved to the saddlebag, where a particular newspaper clipping was burning a hole. She could not mention it. She would wait and see if he had read it, too.
“I have not actually given Mr. Lister another thought,” Harry said honestly. “Just enjoying the morning air.”
A splendidly dressed woman in a riding hat of the latest fashion passed them, inclining her head. Harry returned the courtesy and glanced back as Miss Tilbury passed.
“How does she do it?”
Monty glanced at the young woman. “Do what?”
Harry had not realized she had spoken aloud. “Miss Tilbury, I mean. How does she hold her head up high, after…I mean, if the rumors are true.”
Monty shrugged. “Miss Tilbury fears no man, and no gossip, Harry. I had dinner with the Earl of Marnmouth just a few weeks ago, and he told me himself. He is tired of Miss Tilbury, and her position as mistress will not last forever.”
Harry’s cheeks darkened. They had not discussed Miss Tilbury before, and it felt scandalous to be speaking of the Earl of Marnmouth’s mistress so calmly on a Thursday morning in Hyde Park.
“But what will she do?” she asked.
“What every mistress does, I suppose,” Monty said quietly. “Look for a new protector—and a woman like that is unlikely to struggle. She truly is a beauty.”
Harry’s stomach clenched. “Yes, she is.”
Had she managed to take enough of the bitterness she felt out of that sentence? Perhaps not. It was infuriating beyond belief to have him confirm that beauty, and that beauty alone would be enough to sway him.
Perhaps Miss Tilbury would find protection with Monty. The thought seared through her mind, and Harry hated it, but she was not foolish enough to think it had not been considered by him already. He was a practical man if Josiah’s hints were anything to go by.
But the thought of Monty with anyone else, making love to anyone else, it was—
“Harry, are you still there?”
Harry jumped and turned to look at Monty, who was smiling.
“There is something different about you,” he said quietly. “I cannot put my finger on it. What is it?”
They had reached a turn in the path, and as Harry pulled at Black Beauty’s reins, her conscience prickled.
Perhaps it was best not to say anything. What good could it do, after all?
But the words she had read that morning were burned into her memory. Reaching into the saddlebag and pulling out the scrap of newspaper, Harry took a deep breath and held it out.
“Read it.”
Monty was such an accomplished rider, he barely had to think about shifting his weight as he reached over to take the paper from her hand. Their fingers touched, and Harry was silently grateful she was wearing her thickest riding gloves.
As his eyes moved, reading the clipping, Harry could feel her cheeks heating up.
It was a mistake, and she should pull it from his hands and prevent him from reading it. Now he knew what had been written, and she could never take that knowledge back. She should have pretended she had never seen it.
But the words Mrs. Bryant had written about Monty… About them.
“I do not see the problem.”
“You did not read it,” Harry said.
“I did.” Monty nodded. “I just do not see it as a problem.”
Surely, he could not be that foolish, nor that ignorant! Harry tried to calm her breathing as she pulled the newspaper clipping from his hand and looked at it again.
“Listen carefully,” Harry said sternly. She cleared her throat, grateful there were no others riding or walking near them. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice as she read aloud, “It may interest several of our readers to know that at Almack’s last night, there was not just one altercation but two.”
Harry glanced at Monty, but his face was impassive, focused on the path before them.
She licked her lips and continued. “After the elegant and ever-fashionable Lady Harriet Stanhope, so recently a bridesmaid at her brother’s wedding, the Earl of Chester, was introduced to a gentleman our correspondent assures us was Mr. Lister, there were none present who could have imagined the violence that would erupt from the mild-mannered lady.”
“They do not know you too well,” interrupted Monty with a grin. “Mild-mannered, I ask you!”
Harry punched Monty gently on the arm. “After dispatching the unfortunate Mr. Lister with a smack to the face that was most indecorous and unbecoming of a young lady of note, the aforesaid Lady Harriet disappeared from view—whereupon one of society’s favorite bachelors—”
“I assume that means me.”
“—Montague Cavendish, the Duke of Devonshire,” Harry frowned at the second interruption, “surprised the company by rescinding Mr. Lister’s vouchers to Almack’s, a wholly untoward action, which was commented on by Lady Romeril as the action of a nitwit.”
Monty laughed. “I always said Lady Romeril was good value for money!”
Harry wanted to laugh with him, but her heart was racing. Now they came to the crux of it.
“After retreating to the terrace, the Duke returned with Lady Harriet on his arm, and they proceeded to join the set for the next country dance.” Harry shook her head. “None who were present could possibly deny the…the sparks flying between the two friends, who are unlikely to remain friends for much longer. Their eyes told enough of the story, which a license will soon tell in full.”
She looked expectantly at Monty, who was staring completely nonplussed.
“License will soon tell in full,” Harry repeated. “Oh, goodness, Monty, you cannot be that dense, surely?”
Monty waved his hand. “Harry, if I could translate the witticisms of gossips, I would be a rich man, but I cannot. Beyond Mr. Lister’s arrogance, all I heard was that we danced together.”
Harry could feel not only her cheeks but her neck and décolletage burning.
“Monty,” she said carefully, “what it means—I mean, what it suggests is we…that we are courting, and likely to apply for a special license to…to be wed.”
There. She had said it. She lowered her eyes, and when she gained the bravery to lift them again, her companion was unsmiling.
“What? Because we looked at each other, we must be in love?”
Hearing him say the words was absolute agony to her, but there was nothing she could do. She had brought this upon herself.
Trying desperately to laugh, Harry said, “Well, obviously Mrs. Bryant was there and saw us, and everyone knows you are looking for a bride. Monty, the news is all over town.”
&nbs
p; He glared. “I danced with you because I wanted to.”
It looked like he was going to say more, but he fell silent, his eyes moving from her to the path. Harry tried to swallow and found her throat was completely dry.
“Monty, why did you not dance with anyone else last night?”
It had been the question she had tried to answer as she fell asleep, and she had got no closer to a sensible answer. The country dance with her, and a Scotch reel later on in the evening, also with her—and every time their hands had touched, her whole body had felt on fire.
Had he felt it, too? She had thought he had. He had not danced with another young lady that evening.
“I did not want to,” he replied shortly.
She immediately quelled the hope rising in her. It was nothing, surely. She must not look for meaning where there was none.
“Everyone will see this,” she said instead, waving the newspaper clipping in her hand. “Everyone will think…think we are…that you intend…”
Why was her treacherous mouth unable to say anything coherent? Why did she have to lose control of herself now?
Monty grinned and winked. “And here we are, going on a romantic ride together?”
Harry snorted, trying unsuccessfully to force down the flutters in her heart. He had always been a joker, even when they had been children.
“Of course we are,” she said with a knowing smile, as though the joke was on the rest of the world and not on her. “Here we are, hoping to whisper sweet nothings to each other!”
A gentle tug on the reins was all that was needed to stop Black Beauty. Harry was not entirely sure whether her shaking hand was steady enough to place the newspaper back into her saddlebag.
Monty pulled at his reins and brought Pegasus to a stop beside her. He was watching her, and for a wild moment, she was convinced his gaze had fallen to her breasts. But why would he? He barely remembered she was a woman most of the time.
Sitting upright, she found Monty was far closer than she had realized, Pegasus touching Black Beauty’s side.
A bright smile on her face, she said, “Well, if we are truly courting, we probably have something of high interest to say to one another.”
Always the Best Friend (Never the Bride Book 4) Page 7
