Always the Best Friend (Never the Bride Book 4)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  But something had changed between them, he knew it. He could no longer look at her and see just Harry, the best rider of the gang. He couldn’t see Harry, his best friend, who knew exactly how he had cheated in that last Cambridge exam.

  Now he saw Harry, the woman.

  It took less than five minutes to find his breeches and another two to find a shirt, but for some reason, his cravat simply did not want to behave. Though he loathed doing it, Monty reached out for the bell, and within a minute, his valet arrived.

  “The cravat again, Your Grace?”

  Monty sighed and threw down his hands. “The blasted thing is never symmetrical, Perkins. What is your secret? Some sort of magical rites of which I am no initiate?”

  Perkins raised an eyebrow.

  “’Tis patience, I am afraid, Your Grace,” said Perkins quietly, stepping forward and raising his hands to the untidy cravat. “Naught but patience will get you the perfect cravat, and you are always in a hurry.”

  “There is always so much to do.”

  Perkins nodded. “Indeed, Your Grace.”

  It felt like an age before Perkins was finished, but when Monty glanced at his reflection in the looking glass, he did at least look half presentable.

  “May I suggest the—” Perkins began, but Monty was not listening.

  “Whichever waistcoat you think will suit, Perkins, as long as it is the nearest.”

  The servant sighed, and Monty gave him a good-natured grin. It was a well-known secret that he had hoped Monty would provide him with the opportunity to go against Beau Brummell’s valet.

  Every gentleman’s outfit was dissected with just as much glee as the ladies’ by the ton’s gossips, after all, and with Brummell revealing stunning cravat knot after stunning cravat knot, Monty knew Perkins had long hoped for the opportunity to turn out the Duke of Devonshire in quite an astounding manner.

  Alas, to no avail. Monty was not the sort of gentleman to be paraded and was not patient enough for Perkins to attempt new designs of cravat knots.

  Once finished dressing, Monty threw open the door and raced down the stairs.

  Fortunately, he slowed as he reached the bottom, or he would have careered straight into Mrs. Loughton.

  “Your Grace,” she said, pursing her lips. “What do you think you are doing?”

  Monty straightened. Perhaps it was the residual effects of being raised by an iron-willed nursemaid, but despite his height, noble birth, and frankly, inability to be cowed by most men, it took a woman with just that sort of sharp tone to make him feel six years old again.

  “Doing, Mrs. Loughton?” he said innocently. “Why, merely walking down—”

  “You were not walking, you were running,” she snapped. Mrs. Loughton had only been his housekeeper for a few months, but already her rule had not been smooth. “You know how I feel about running, Your Grace. ’Tis unseemly for the Duke of Devonshire to—”

  “Where is Harry?”

  Monty had not meant the question to be blurted out so directly, and he saw with dismay Mrs. Loughton was not going to take kindly to being interrupted.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said stiffly, “but I do not know any of your acquaintances named Harry.”

  Monty stared in amazement. She had met Harry countless times, had let her into the house more than once.

  Mrs. Loughton raised an eyebrow, and dawning comprehension washed over Monty in a sticky rush of embarrassment.

  He sighed. “Lady Harriet Stanhope.”

  Mrs. Loughton said delicately, “How should I know, Your Grace? Lady Harriet would certainly not be here at this early hour. She will be in her own home, in her bedchamber, no doubt, awaiting her breakfast. It would be most improper if she were to be found here, in your home.”

  Her steely gray eyes met his, and Monty’s face fell.

  Mrs. Loughton knew. She knew Harry had been here in the night, perhaps knew exactly what they had enjoyed together in his bedchamber.

  She did not approve, and he was not surprised. He would not have approved of Harry spending the night with another gentleman—and before the thought could even be completed, a rush of wild anger rushed through him.

  The thought of Harry with another man, it was disgusting. It was abominable. He would not allow it.

  “Harry—Lady Harriet came early this morning to…to borrow a book.”

  It was not the most elegant or believable of lies, and Mrs. Loughton knew it.

  “To borrow a book.”

  Monty swallowed. Did other dukes have to stand in hallways and argue with their housekeepers? He wanted to see Harry, damn it, and this woman’s idle nonsense was keeping him from her.

  “Yes,” he snapped. “You know how Har—Lady Harriet arises early most mornings, and she wanted to borrow a book. A book on breeding—horse breeding!”

  He did not have time for this. He must see Harry.

  “You would not tell anyone, Mrs. Loughton, that Lady Harriet had been over here borrowing a book, would you?” he said carefully, keeping his voice level but allowing a little sharpness to enter it. “People may get the wrong idea, and there would be consequences then. For all of us.”

  Mrs. Loughton hesitated and nodded. “Of course, Your Grace. ’Tis no crime to borrow a book.”

  Monty’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Excellent.”

  “All I ask is that you share books in public from now on,” added Mrs. Loughton, a knowing look on her face. “During decent hours.”

  Monty grinned. “Of course, Mrs. Loughton. In fact, I will go and find her and tell her.”

  Dodging around Mrs. Loughton as though she may attempt to lasso him if he were not careful, he had managed to reach the front door before Mrs. Loughton’s words stopped him.

  “Your Grace?”

  Monty turned around, ready to answer a question about ordering enough meat or discussing the dwindling contents of the wine cellar. He must have some things sent over from Sadovy Hall, his country estate. He could not allow his London residence to be so depleted.

  Mrs. Loughton was smiling. “All the books on horse breeding are in the library, Your Grace, and as chance would have it, I dusted them this morning. They were all there, present and correct.”

  Monty grinned and allowed his charm to ooze out of his pores. “I did not say I loaned her the book, did I?”

  A quick knock next door revealed Harry was not there. The footman who blearily opened the door said the lady of the house had returned to Chalding.

  Monty had not considered this, but it was but fifteen miles. What were fifteen miles to a man full of vigor and life?

  It took no time at all to saddle Pegasus, and after a long ride, he was knocking on the door of Chalding, heart racing, unable to understand nor explain why he was so thrilled to be here.

  Fleetwood opened the door. “Your Grace, this is a surprise.”

  The elderly butler had seen Monty grow up and had few qualms about welcoming him in.

  “The Duke of Devonshire, my lady,” the servant announced.

  Harry dropped her cup of tea, which was mercifully two inches above its saucer.

  Monty grinned as he took in the otherwise sedate breakfast scene—a table laid for one in the most ornate manner, as you would expect at the seat of the Earl of Chester.

  “Good morning, Harry,” he said with a smile. “I hope you do not mind me…dropping in.”

  His voice slowed as he saw the calm and unruffled look on Harry’s face. She looked so distant, as though he was not there.

  “Oh, it is you,” she said coolly. “Well, Fleetwood, draw up another place, I am sure His Grace is hungry.”

  “Very good, my lady,” murmured the butler.

  Harry lowered her gaze to the newspaper, which was on the table beside her plate. She read in silence.

  Monty stood awkwardly while the elderly butler moved around the room, finding all the accouterments required for a breakfast setting.

  Normally, he would not wait on cer
emony and sit without being invited. But for some reason, that felt wrong.

  Even worse, it was impossible not to stare at Harry—not just look at her, but stare. He drank her in as though desperate for relief, every inch of her as he remembered, although sadly, with far more clothes on.

  And she was no longer Harry. She was Harry, his best friend, to be sure. But she was also Harry, his lover.

  All he could think about, as she turned the page of her newspaper with an elegant finger, was what those fingers had done hours before. Heat spread across his cheeks. How had it taken him so long to realize just how beautiful she was?

  Harry looked up from her newspaper. “Do sit, Devonshire, you are making the place look untidy.”

  Monty’s jaw dropped open. Devonshire? She only called him that on formal occasions, when Monty simply wouldn’t suit.

  Devonshire?

  Trying to pretend he wasn’t being wrong-footed by her at every turn, Monty walked forward to take his seat—to discover that rather than placing it beside Harry, as it typically would have been, Fleetwood had placed it at the complete opposite end of the long formal table.

  “Is anything the matter, Your Grace?” Fleetwood blinked anxiously.

  Monty swallowed. He had not had a clear idea of how this meeting would go, considering he had never bedded his best friend before, but this was not it.

  “No,” he managed. “No, thank you, Fleetwood.”

  He sat, and a plate stacked with fish was put before him.

  Monty looked at Harry, still absorbed in her newspaper. “Kippers?”

  “Excellent source of nutrition, our father always told us,” said Harry without looking up from her newspaper. “That will be all, Fleetwood.”

  The butler bowed, and Monty found his whole body relaxed as the elderly servant left the room. Of course, why had he not thought of it before? There was no possibility of speaking openly while Fleetwood was here, and so Harry had been forced to treat him as normal.

  Well, more formal than normal. But still.

  As the door closed, Monty leaned back in his chair and beamed. “How are you, Harry?”

  “Quite well, thank you,” she said without looking. She raised the newspaper and disappeared behind it.

  Her voice was quiet at such a distance.

  “I saw Mrs. Loughton this morning,” he said cheerfully, raising his voice so she could hear him. “I ran straight into her, as a matter of fact. Terrifying woman.”

  “And how is she?”

  A flicker of irritation sparked through Monty. He had not expected tears of gratitude exactly, nor protestations of love, but some sort of recognition they were no longer exactly as they had been would not have been amiss.

  But this? This was cold; this was alien to him. The woman at the other end of the table wasn’t acting as his Harry would.

  As the frustration built, he burst out, “I was under the impression that we were something more to each other than mere breakfast companions!”

  He had said the wild statement for a reaction, and he got one, not the one he had hoped for.

  Harry laughed and turned a page. “How ridiculous! You are a jester, Monty. I remember making no such arrangement.”

  Disappointment, cold and bitter, washed over him. It had been a poor joke, to be sure, but it was at least worthy of eye contact!

  There was no point in staying here.

  “I have no wish to disturb your breakfast. You are clearly occupied,” he said coldly.

  His words finally made Harry put down her newspaper. She was smiling, but there was no warmth behind the smile, and Monty was disconcerted to see she was smiling just as any other woman smiled. From the lips, but not the eyes.

  “Thank you, I have rather a lot to do today. Do see yourself out.”

  Monty rose stiffly and inclined his head formally.

  And that was that. As Monty stepped out of the door and strode round to the stables, it started to rain. Water dripped off his hat and onto Perkins’s cravat.

  After everything they had shared, after the intimacy they experienced, his world would never be the same again.

  Chapter Twelve

  “And of course, I thought his lordship would ask me, but it was not to be. He looked far more interested in Miss Roberts, and she is such a lovely woman—at least, I am sure she is, though I do not know her intimately. And so, I excused myself, for it was far better they were allowed to be together, and they did dance together that evening—although not before…”

  Harry allowed Letitia’s voice to wash over her as they walked down Bond Street arm in arm. It was easy; Letitia did not need prompting, and Harry was left alone with her thoughts, as long as she nodded in the right places and looked sympathetic.

  She had sent a note to Letitia yesterday to see whether she was engaged for this morning, and had taken the coach back to town rather than ride.

  It had been hard to put her finger on exactly why she had retreated to Chalding. She had barricaded herself in that place for two whole weeks, unwilling to leave it until Fleetwood asked pointedly when she was returning to town.

  Seeing Monty had been out of the question. She had been seeing too much of him to begin with, and the gossips had enough fodder from Mrs. Bryant’s scandalous piece in the newspaper.

  But after that night…she could not face him again. Not yet.

  Letitia had been only too delighted to see her, but Harry had forgotten how preoccupied Letitia had become with the number of gentlemen with whom she wanted to dance…and never did.

  “—but he was already engaged for that dance,” Letitia said in a wistful voice. “Orrinshire was my second choice that evening, but I have heard he is most enamored with…”

  The trickle of names washed over Harry, barely able to comprehend them. How could Letitia keep track of so many people and their intimate relationships with other members of society?

  There was only one gentleman for her, Monty.

  It had been agony, distancing herself for fifteen painful days. Each day without him was a missed opportunity. Each day of sunshine was cold, every day of rain empty.

  She had no choice, of course. After that wild and passionate encounter, when they had known each other, she had to protect herself.

  Protect him. He needed to marry, free from any previous lover.

  She was already in love with Monty. Did she need to be reminded every day he would soon be engaged to another?

  “And the ball ended,” said Letitia sadly, “without me taking a step in the dancing whatsoever. I have been practicing, of course, with the hope, I could use my skills at the ball, but it was not to be.”

  She fell silent as they stepped onto Hill Street, and Harry realized it was her turn to say something.

  “There is Almack’s this Wednesday,” she said quickly with a smile, squeezing Letitia’s arm. “Who knows who will be there?”

  This was entirely the wrong thing to say.

  “Oh, a great number of people!” Letitia said with a broad smile, her eyes lighting up. “Why, I spoke with Lady Romeril yesterday, and she has heard Viscount Stulsemere will be there. It is years since…”

  The next part of her monologue began, and try as she might, Harry could simply not attend to her words.

  Her mind was full of Monty.

  Harry’s stomach contracted painfully at the thought of sitting in a church calmly, like the lady of good breeding she was, watching Monty at the altar with another woman.

  But if she was honest—and it pained her to be this brutal, even in the privacy of her mind—then she knew it was hopeless.

  If Monty had wanted to marry her, he would have asked.

  “Careful, miss!”

  Harry jolted, and Letitia stopped with her, gasping, as a man in overalls carried a heavy sack of something past them, almost running into them.

  Harry bristled. “Mind where you are going,” she shouted after him.

  “Harry, no!” Letitia hissed under her breath, clearly
terrified. “Come on, let’s go!”

  Her pain and frustration were spilling out, but she mustn’t lose her temper with a stranger on the streets of London because the Duke of Devonshire did not want to marry her!

  Taking Letitia’s arm, she asked, “What were you saying about Viscount Stillymar?”

  “Viscount Stulsemere,” corrected Letitia in an unusually sharp voice. “Really, Harry, you are one of the most eligible young ladies in London—”

  “Along with yourself,” Harry interjected as they started walking again.

  Letitia flushed.

  “Few gentlemen even notice me, and none of those who do think enough of me to ask me to dance,” said Letitia quietly. “I do not think my marriage prospects are high. Anyway, I was saying about the viscount…”

  Harry allowed her friend to babble on about the gentleman, her mind fixed on another.

  There was no way around it; Monty had not proposed marriage, and after the night they had shared two weeks ago, if that was not enough to do it, then nothing would. What else could she do? If he had seen her as a suitable bride, he would have said something, anything to that effect. But he had not.

  All she could do was try to protect her bruised and battered heart. She would never be the bride. If she could not marry Monty, she did not want to marry at all.

  “Harry, can you hear me?”

  “What?”

  Letitia had the closest thing to a knowing smile on her lips. “Harry, what are you thinking.”

  “About your viscount.” Harry looked around, unsure which street they were on, she had been paying so little attention. “And the ball you’re talking about.”

  “Harry, which ball am I talking about?”

  Harry opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  “I thought so.”

  Harry’s shoulders slumped. “I do apologize, Letitia. I have much on my mind, that is all. I will put it to one side and attend, I promise.”

  Letitia did not say anything as they slowed past a shop selling bonnets. It was only after they had moved on that she spoke, and she said something Harry could not have predicted.

  “Harry, why have you been so cold to Monty recently?”

  Harry stopped dead in the street, her arm falling from Letitia’s grip.