by Evie Dunmore
“That’s reassuring,” she said, not sounding assured at all.
His lips twitched. “It was plain deductive reasoning, logic, if you will.”
“That’s a sound method,” she acknowledged, wondering where in Hades he was going now.
“You made it perfectly clear that you weren’t in the market for a duke,” he said. “It follows that my younger brother would be rather out of the question for you.”
She blinked. Was he trying to . . . jest with her?
His face gave away nothing, and so, carefully, she said: “But wouldn’t that be inductive reasoning, Your Grace?”
He stilled. A glint struck up in the depths of his eyes. “Deductive, I’m sure,” he said smoothly.
Deductive, I’m sure. So the premise that a woman would always prefer a duke over any other man was a natural law to him, like the fact that all men were mortal. His arrogance was truly staggering.
“Of course,” she muttered.
He smiled at that, just with the corners of his eyes, but it still drew her attention to his mouth. It was an intriguing mouth, upon closer inspection. Enticing, even, well-defined and with a notable softness to his bottom lip when he was of a mind to smile. One might call it a sensual mouth, if one were to think about him in such a way, a promise that this reserved duke knew how to put his lips to use on a woman . . . This man and I are going to kiss. The awareness was bright and sudden, a flash at her mind’s horizon, a knowing rather than a thought.
Her heart gave a sharp, confused thud.
She glanced away, then back at him. No, this new Montgomery was still there, with his attractive mouth, with intelligent humor simmering in the depth of his eyes.
She knew then that she would never be able to unsee him again.
She gave her head a shake. “I can’t return with you,” she said, her voice firm, thank God. “I don’t know how to ride.”
He frowned. “Not at all?”
“Not on a sidesaddle.”
Blast. The last thing she wanted was to plant images in his mind of her lifting her skirts and riding astride.
“I see,” he said. He clicked his tongue, and his horse stopped nosing at the snow and trotted over, tagging the spare mount along.
Montgomery took the reins in one fist. “You will ride with me,” he said.
That was not at all the conclusion she had wanted him to reach. “Is that another jest, Your Grace?”
“I don’t jest,” he said, sounding faintly appalled.
So she was to sit on the horse with him, clutching him like a damsel in a lurid novel?
Her every feminine instinct cried no, and he must have guessed as much, for his expression hardened.
“It seems unsafe,” she tried.
“I’m a good horseman,” he said, and wedged the crop beneath the stirrup. To clear his hands to lift her, she assumed.
A shiver ran through her, she was not sure whether hot or cold. She could still step around him and continue walking toward the village, as far away from this man as possible.
He shot her a dark look. “Come here.”
Unbelievably, she took a step toward him, as if he had tugged at her bodily, and he didn’t miss a beat—he took her elbow and turned her, crowding her back against the warm body of the horse. She smelled sweat and leather and wool; the wool had to be him, for he again stood too close, trapping her between the stallion and his chest.
“Near instant compliance, Miss Archer?” he murmured, his gaze intent on her face. “You must be feeling the cold after all.”
She stared back into his eyes. She couldn’t help it; her gaze became strangely anarchic around him as if it quite forgot that not all gazes were created equal. Perhaps it was the contrasts that drew her in, pale clearness, dark rims; flashes of guarded intensity in cold depths . . . She watched as his attention dropped to her lips.
Her mouth went dry.
His jaw clenched. In an annoyed way.
“Your teeth are chattering,” he said. “This is ridiculous.”
His hand went to the top button of his coat, a gesture old as instinct, and she froze. So did the duke, his hand suspended in midair. His face was almost comically blank as he looked at her, and she knew his impulse to keep her warm had taken them both by surprise. While he might consider it his duty to keep her from perishing on his land, wrapping her in his coat like a fine lady would go too far. She was not a fine lady. She was not his to protect.
He began working loose his scarf. “Take this.” He sounded sterner than ever before. This was a battle she shouldn’t pick. She slung the scarf around her neck and tried to ignore the scent of cedar soap and man that wafted from the soft wool.
Montgomery’s hands wrapped around her waist with a firm grip; next thing she was perching atop the nervously shifting stallion, half on its neck, half on the saddle, clutching fistfuls of shiny white mane. Holy Moses.
And then Montgomery was in the saddle behind her, shockingly close.
“Allow me.” He shocked her again by looping an arm around her waist and pulling her snug against his chest. A notably solid chest. Heat shot through her, all the way down into her toes. And that was a feeling she had hoped to never feel again.
Now she felt it everywhere, a warming, a softening of her body in response to the uncompromising masculine strength surrounding her.
She should have walked to the village; it had been such a simple decision.
She’d ignore it, it would be easy to ignore . . .
His left thigh pressed up against hers, and she gasped. “Wait, please.”
He reined in the horse. “What is it?”
“Please take me to the village, Your Grace, to the inn. It’s a much shorter ride.”
He went still for a moment. Then his arm around her tightened. “Too late now.”
He spurred the horse into a gallop.
Chapter 9
She smelled of jasmine, sweet and warm like a summer night in Spain. Utterly incongruous with the snow-covered fields flying past, and certainly with the shivering, obstinate creature in his arms. She had marched through the snowdrifts with the determination of a small battalion, and had defied him until her teeth rattled. Her stubborn resistance had left him two options: one, throw her over his shoulder like a barbarian, or two, negotiate. Sebastian’s mouth thinned with annoyance. He never negotiated unless the other party had something to offer, and there she had compelled him to present his apology on a hill, and to try a joke to break down her defenses. Even the joke had gone out of control, when she had unexpectedly, cleverly, volleyed it back at him. Trust a bluestocking to know the difference between deductive and inductive logic.
By the time they cantered into the courtyard, it was dark and the lanterns on the palace walls spilled yellow twilight across the cobblestones. His horse chose to be disobedient and veered toward the stables, and he leaned forward to take control of the reins. Miss Archer turned her head, and his nose landed in soft curls and his mouth against one cold ear.
She went stiff.
He straightened. “I beg your pardon.”
The iciness of her skin lingered on his lips.
Night would have fallen long before she would have reached Hawthorne. She could have lost her way, and she would have been found in the morning, on one of his fields, a prone, frozen form in a patched-up coat.
An irrationally strong desire to shake her gripped him.
“Your Grace.” His groom stood by his left knee, eyeing the woman in Sebastian’s arms with blatant astonishment.
“Stevens,” he said curtly, “the spare horse.”
Miss Archer shifted, the movement pressing her round backside more firmly against his groin. With a silent curse, Sebastian swung from the saddle the moment Stevens was out of the way.
Her face was above him, still and pale as mo
onlight. He raised his arms to assist her, but she didn’t budge, her fists still gripping the horse’s mane.
“If you please, miss.” Had she fossilized up there? She was suspiciously quiet.
The horse danced sideways, eager to get to the stable. Still she clung on.
He put his hands where her waist would be under layers of clothes, ready to pluck her off, and he heard the faintest of whimpers.
“What now?”
“I’m not sure my legs will carry me,” came her voice, annoyed.
It dawned on him that she had probably never been on a horse in full gallop before. He supposed the raw speed of it could be frightening for a novice. His own face was numb from the stiff headwind.
“I assure you I will catch you,” he said gruffly.
She all but fell into his arms and clumsily slid along his body, her hands clutching at his shoulders as her feet hit the ground. She blinked up at him, her eyes an undefinable color in the gaslight. He knew for certain, though, that they were green, a surprisingly calm, muted shade like lichen. He had taken a good look earlier.
She strained against him, and he realized his arms were still locked firmly around her. Releasing his hold, he stepped back, a supportive hand below her elbow. “Are you able to stand?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
She seemed rattled. No doubt she was used to standing firmly on her own two feet.
He placed her hand onto his forearm, just in case. Her gloves were worn, and he felt the absurd urge to keep his hand on top of hers until Stevens, slowest groom in Christendom, moved to take over his horse.
He all but dragged her up the main stairs. A small audience awaited them in the bright warmth of the house—Mrs. Beecham hovered, and there at the back of the entrance hall were two young ladies, looking ready to come dashing the moment he was out of the picture.
Miss Archer dropped her hand from his arm, her expression as buttoned-up as her useless coat. It didn’t help. She was still beautiful.
He’d noticed her beauty earlier, out on the hill. Even stripped of strategic fineries that would fool a less discerning male eye, even with her nose reddened and her hair windswept, she was beautiful. She had the timeless features that transcended fashion and rank: the graceful neck, the elegant cheekbones, the soft mouth. That mouth. The pink fullness belonged on a courtesan in Brittany, not an Englishwoman, or bluestocking, or country girl . . . He became aware that he was staring, that he was trying to place her in any one of the categories of females he knew, and, amazingly, he could not.
She still wore his scarf, and the monogrammed crest of Montgomery had settled like a badge on the swell of her left breast. A dark, hot emotion surged through him at the sight, incinerating calm and conscious thought. Possessiveness. For a moment, it beat through every part of him, a searing want, a near physical pull tugging him toward her.
Christ.
He stepped back.
Lichen-green eyes followed him suspiciously.
“I trust I will see you at dinner, miss.” The coolness of his voice turned it into a command, and her mouth gave a mutinous little twitch.
He stalked off, almost tasting the base satisfaction of sinking his teeth into her plush bottom lip.
* * *
An hour later, he was staring at his reflection in the washstand mirror, restored. A bath, a close shave, a valet who knew what he was doing, and from the outside, even he couldn’t tell that he had unboarded a ferry in Dover this morning and then chased after an impossibly stubborn female. But there was still a hollowness, an unease in his chest. Perhaps he was beginning to feel his age.
“I heard the young gentlemen are pleased to be dining with you so unexpectedly, Your Grace,” Ramsey remarked as he tapped the pin into his cravat.
Sebastian watched his mouth curve into an ironic smile. At least one young gentleman was presently not pleased at the prospect of dining with him. Peregrin aside, he was well aware that while he edified a party, he didn’t make it a more pleasant occasion for the people in attendance. When he entered a room, conversations sputtered, laughter became muted, and everything became a little more purposeful. Everyone had something to gain from a duke, and everyone had something to lose. His presence spun a web of caution around people, trapping truths and impulse like a spider’s lair with a wayward fly. There came a point in a duke’s life when he rarely encountered an honest opinion, where he could be on his way to hell in a handcart and everyone would politely step aside and wish him godspeed.
“Ramsey,” he said. The valet had begun dusting off his already pristine dinner jacket sleeve.
“Your Grace?”
“If you were to walk in on me in my study, and you saw me standing amid great chaos, and a pair of legs sticking out from under my desk, what would you do?”
Ramsey went still. Carefully raised his eyes to ascertain his mood, though he’d know by now that he wouldn’t see anything Sebastian didn’t choose to show. “Why, Your Grace,” he then said, “I would fetch a broom.”
Indeed he would.
“That will be all, Ramsey.”
He had to lead his guests into the dining room and spend the next three hours not strangling his brother.
* * *
Peregrin approached the seat next to him much as a well-bred man would approach a whipping post: collected, pale, and rather stiff in the legs. His normally wayward hair was meticulously slicked and parted. But he was evading Sebastian’s eyes like a coward. God grant him strength—if he were to fall off his horse tomorrow, eight hundred years of Montgomery history would pass into this boy’s hands. Castle Montgomery would move out of his family’s reach forever. Not strangling Peregrin would take some effort.
Scraping and shuffling ensued as people were being seated; further down the table there was a subdued commotion as Lord Hampshire and Lord Palmer batted their eyes at the men to their left, and James Tomlinson pretended to fan himself. They sat in the seat where a lady would have sat, had someone with half a brain organized the house party. As it was, the elderly aunt of Julien Greenfield and three bluestockings were scattered among thirteen young men. Sebastian wouldn’t even try to begin understanding such a thing.
“How refreshing, to have so many young people at one table,” Greenfield’s aunt said loudly from his right.
“Isn’t it just,” he replied smoothly.
Peregrin seemed deeply fascinated by his empty plate.
Footmen lined up and lifted silver domes off the first dish, revealing choice pieces of pheasant in a blood-red sauce.
Cutlery clinked; wineglasses reflected the candlelight.
Peregrin still hadn’t mustered the courage to look at him. Sebastian glared at his brother’s profile, his anger on the tipping point to wrath.
Ever so slowly, Peregrin raised his gaze to him.
A shudder ran through the young man when their gazes locked.
Sebastian gave him a thin smile. “How is the pheasant?”
Peregrin’s eyes widened. “It’s excellent, thank you.” He poked his fork at his food. “I, ah, trust your journey was uneventful, sir?”
“It was,” Sebastian said, taking a sip from his water. “It was upon my arrival that things became interesting.”
Peregrin swallowed audibly.
The guests had fallen into animated conversation. He could pick out the calm hum of Miss Archer’s alto voice from the other end of the table, followed by the too-loud laughter of the eager young men around her. He nearly scoffed. Whatever it was that would truly keep a woman like Miss Archer entertained, none of those boys could provide it.
“I will go to London tomorrow,” he said to Peregrin, “and when I’m back on Monday, I shall expect you in my study at six o’clock.”
He hadn’t thought it possible, but his brother’s face turned even whiter.
And just to see what wou
ld happen, he picked up his knife and skewered the slab of meat on his plate.
Peregrin’s fork clattered onto the table.
Sixteen heads swiveled toward them, as if a shot had been fired.
Chapter 10
Annabelle woke from a soft clanking noise she couldn’t place. She was of a mind to ignore it, for the pillow beneath her cheek was incredibly, alluringly soft, a cloud in her arms.
And . . . unfamiliar.
And it was past six o’clock; she felt it in her bones.
She had overslept.
She lurched into a sitting position, and a squeak sounded somewhere in the shadows.
The shapes of the room came into focus: opulent bedposts, high windows, the faint glint of a chandelier . . . she was in the Duke of Montgomery’s house, and there was a maid by the fireplace with a poker.
She sagged back into the pillows. There was no fire she needed to tend, no cousin or half a dozen children waiting for their breakfast . . .
She ran a hand over her face. Her forehead was damp. “What time is it?”
“About six thirty, miss,” the maid said. “Would you like me to send for some tea?”
How tempting, to have tea in bed. Despite the extra half hour of sleep, her body felt oddly sluggish. But she still had a translation to do before the activities of the day began. She forced a leg out of bed. Her foot was heavy as if filled with lead.
“Will there be any breakfast at the table at this time?” she asked.
The maid’s eyes widened when she seemed to piece together her intentions. She had probably never seen a houseguest rise before dawn. Noblemen didn’t rise until noon; Annabelle had that on good account.
* * *
The footman marched ahead into the breakfast room, then halted abruptly to click his heels together. “Your Grace, Miss Archer,” he announced.
She nearly froze in midstride.