Monty cleared his throat. “Do you remember Zeus?”
“Remember him?” Harry’s eyes were wide, whatever had disconcerted her, forgotten. “Monty, we learned to ride on him—forget Zeus! Do you recall when Letitia was determined to ride him but could not mount on her own, and you and I had to…”
Why was it not this easy to talk to other ladies? Harry always knew how to put him at ease. But then, she was one of his oldest friends.
Whoever he ended up marrying, and it was galling to allow an old man’s will control his fate, the woman would just have to accept there was no one he was more comfortable with in the world than Harry Stanhope.
Chapter Three
Harry took a deep breath to calm her frantically beating heart.
This was not a good idea. In fact, she could think of few ideas this bad. But the instant the idea had flashed through her mind that afternoon, as she walked with Monty, she had been unable to rid it from her thoughts.
All she had thought about was this choice. It may be a bad choice, but it was one she was making.
The wind blew in the trees, and the moon emerged from a cloud, bathing Harry in silvery light. This was ridiculous, and she should not be doing this.
It had all started when he had talked about Zeus. The name of that horse had brought back so many other memories of their childhood. And it had reminded her of what they used to do, when they had been punished.
The Chesters and the Devonshires had both taken a house in Cavendish Square, and they happened to be neighbors. When their children needed to be punished after getting into trouble together, what was the easiest way to do it?
Separation.
Harry gripped the branch more tightly and counted slowly to ten. Then she opened her eyes.
This was a bad idea, one she would undoubtedly regret in the morning.
Creeping along the branch and taking care no twigs caught her gown, she moved closer to the large window on the second floor. When she was about four feet from it, her face broke into a smile.
The window had been left open. Monty had always loved sleeping with a breeze.
Trembling hands reached out to the sill, and Harry relaxed. She had made it this far. The hardest part was over.
Suddenly, the image of what she must look like broke into her thoughts, and she almost laughed aloud. If someone came into Cavendish Square, what would they see?
A young lady in a gown ten feet in the air, clutching at a branch of an old oak tree, about to break into someone’s home!
Harry had to force down her excitement. This was ridiculous. This was simply not what a young lady did—particularly a young lady with a title!
But she had never played by the rules when it came to Monty. She loved him too much. If she had been able to stay away, she would have, but once the idea of repeating the mischievous sneaking they had done as children had entered her mind, it was impossible to ignore it.
She had not expected the wind to be this strong, of course.
Her hand now steady, she pushed up the sash and crept into the bedroom.
It took a few moments to grow accustomed to the darkness. Monty was asleep, hair across his face. His blanket was curled around his arm, just as it had when he had been a child.
Something painful pulled at Harry’s heart. She could sit and look at him like this all night, and she would never grow tired of him. How was it possible for such a gentleman to be so handsome and with so little conceit?
She took a step forward, and more of Monty came into view—quite a bit more. With a delightful shock, she saw he was sleeping without a nightshirt on.
Despite her misgivings, Harry did not look away. She looked hungrily at his naked torso and tried to swallow most unladylike feelings of longing. It had been a decade since they had gone swimming in the big lake on the Chalding estate, and Monty had been whipped by his father for being so unbecoming with a lady.
It had taken a few tear-streamed minutes with her father to discover she had been the lady the old Duke had meant.
He had only grown stronger and more manly. She could only imagine what those strong muscles felt like under her fingertips…
She took a step back and almost tripped. She was a lady, and she should absolutely not be looking at a man like that. Like she wanted to eat him up. Like she wanted to reach out and touch him, and he touch her, and—
No. She had to push that idea far from her mind, even if her body physically ached. If Monty had ever thought of her like that, he would have said something by now.
He turned over in his sleep, and Harry started, her heart thundering—but he did not wake.
This truly was a terrible idea, and only now did the depth of impropriety strike her. It had been funny when they were children, with midnight feasts and stifled giggles. It had been daring when they had been older but still just as innocent.
Now they were five and twenty, a lady and a gentleman of society, and what she had done was truly scandalous. If they were caught here…
Turning away from the vision of masculinity, Harry crept back to the window and reached for the sash.
Her distracted thoughts, still on the delectable gentleman behind her, made her fingers clumsy. Before she could stop it, the sash fell with a crash, glass panes juddering and the room echoing with the noise.
She could hear her heartbeat in her ears as she turned around and saw him sitting upright in his bed, pushing his hair sleepily from his eyes.
“Spencer?” he whispered groggily, his eyes barely open. “Is that you?”
It was the last thing she should do, but she could not help it. Harry’s laughter broke through her control, and she giggled in the darkness at the sheer ridiculous situation she had put them in. This was madness!
Monty stopped rubbing his eyes and opened them wide, trying to see through the gloom. “Harry?”
She tried to whisper. “I am sorry—I do apologize, Monty, what you must think of me!”
His shoulders relaxed, and he grinned in the direction of her giggles. “Are we not a little old for creeping into bedchambers?”
Excitement and terror raced through her mind, and all she could do was try not to think about his beautiful physique.
“I thought you could do with a laugh,” she lied. Now that he was awake, her laughter had disappeared. What had she done? How was she going to explain this to him, to make it sound anything less than an intrusion on his privacy?
“Well, a laugh is never going to be turned down,” he said. “But I am more impressed you can still climb that old tree.”
Her fingers were tingling at the sheer excitement pouring through her body. She should leave. Every minute she stood here, she was storing memories that would hurt her later, would torment her. And yet, she could not step away.
“The gown does make it challenging,” she said quietly. “But you know me. I was not going to let it defeat me.”
She had thought quiet conversation would have slowed her thundering heartbeat, but with every second, she became more conscious of exactly where she was.
Monty’s bedchamber. The sleeping quarters of the Duke of Devonshire.
They were certainly not children now. He was all man, and her body responded to him as though he had invited her here himself.
Just do not think about the fact that you are but five steps away from joining him on that bed.
Her eyes darted to the floor. She could cover that distance in three steps if she wanted to. If he invited her to.
A flush she hoped Monty could not see covered her cheeks. What was she thinking? Monty was not in love with her, barely saw her as a lady, and she was a wanton thinking such things! She should not imagine stepping over to the bed and Monty pulling her down and kissing her.
“Just be careful Mrs. Bryant never finds out,” he added, his voice interrupting her thoughts. “That old gossip is always looking for another reputation to ruin, and she could easily make it sound like we were lovers!”
Harr
y’s stomach lurched. In her darkest of hearts, there was the small and secret wish that Mrs. Bryant would find out, the story becoming the gossip of fishwives and market traders. Perhaps that was what was needed for Monty to see her as a woman.
He did not seem the least bit concerned.
It was flattering in a strange way. He had never seen her as a piece of meat, as something to be controlled, flattered, or coerced.
But he had never seen her as an object of beauty, either. That was what stung.
Without conscious thought, she stepped to the end of the bed and sat on it nervously. If she had expected a reaction from Monty, the only one she received was that he leaned back into his pillows and grinned.
“And why do I have the pleasure of your company?”
She had come this far, and it was already far enough—or she could go further. She could ask the question biting on her tongue, but once she received an answer, she would never be able to go back and un-ask it. She would always know. Did she want to?
“After we parted today at the stable yard at Paddington, I went on to the Regent Street Salon,” she started quietly. “And I heard a rumor.”
Monty raised his eyebrows. “These salons, Harry, they are absolutely rammed with nonsense and stories which have no rhyme or reason. There are plenty of rumors in society, and most of them not true.”
“It was a rumor that surprised me,” she admitted.
“There you are, then.” Monty held out his arms expressively. “Why do you not go straight to the source, if it bothers you, to find out if it is true?”
Harry swallowed. “I am.”
He frowned. “It was a rumor about me?”
She needed courage to speak, and as she hesitated, she was tempted to laugh, say it was all a jest, and immediately leave the room.
But she could not. Not after what she had heard about her best friend.
“They say you are to be married.”
Was it her imagination, or did that cocky, confident air suddenly disappear from his face?
Harry’s heart sank. It had been her worst fear, the idea that he would get it in his head to get married.
While he was unwed, she still had a chance to win him. He was free, able to choose her, as long as he did not take another into his heart.
The moment he was married, that would be it. Her chance would be gone.
He had never mentioned any particular young lady too often, and so she had thought herself safe, that there would be months, maybe years ahead of her to help him see they were perfect for each other. That she loved him and hoped to God, he would love her, too.
“It is not completely decided,” Monty said hoarsely. “But it will happen, and soon.”
If she had thought her heart broken before, it was nothing to the agony she felt now. There was a physical wrench in her stomach, as something like a knife slipped into her gut.
“Why?”
Monty sighed, shifting. The moonlight streaming through the open window poured onto the bed, and onto Monty.
Harry could not help herself. She was drawn to him, always, but seeing him half-naked and glowing in the moonlight, she had to be closer to him. Desperation poured through her heart and mind, pathetic desperation to be close to him. He did not want her, and she wanted him so badly.
“’Tis a legal thing,” he said quietly. “I…I have to marry in the next six months.”
Harry’s mouth fell open. Six months? Six months was no time at all, no time to show him who she was. Six months to force him to see her as more than a best friend, but a woman, a partner, a potential spouse? Six months to change the habit of a lifetime?
Her shoulders slumped. If she had not managed it by now, she never would. It was not enough that they were so in tune, for they knew what the other was thinking without saying a single word.
Perhaps if she had been beautiful, had had the good looks of the Cavendish family, or the Lennoxes, or even Miss Emma Tilbury, things would have been different. Monty would have grown up seeing her as a beautiful young thing, and now a beautiful woman.
But he barely noticed she was not a gentleman. She was just Harry.
If she had left the old childish nickname of Harry behind and become Lady Harriet once more, that might have reminded him that under these clothes was a woman’s body.
She could manage one word. “Who?”
Monty shrugged awkwardly. “I am not sure. There is not anyone in particular who would suit, and so I need to think more about it.”
Harry could not resist. She moved closer to him, seated right beside him at the head of the bed. She had not imagined they would be this close, not even when she was planning this escapade.
But it did not feel wrong. It felt right, like she belonged there, slotted into her rightful place.
His hand was inches from hers and without thinking, without remembering he was half nude and lying in bed, and she had crept into his bedchamber in the dead of night, she reached out and took it.
Harry squeezed his hand, not taking her eyes from his. “As long as I approve of her.”
Her breath was lost as Monty sat up and leaned toward her. “Harry, you are my best friend. If you do not approve, then I will not marry her.”
His chest was heaving at the ferocity of his words. His shoulder was almost touching hers, and she felt dizzy at the closeness of their bodies.
They had been close before, countless times—had embraced, had sat together in concerts, had been squashed together in carriages.
But not like this. Never like this.
His hand was warm, and his whole body radiated heat and a musk that made her want to moan. His eyes were raking her face as though attempting to remember who she was, and for a wild moment, Harry was certain he was going to close the gap and kiss her.
She was so lost in her longing, she thought he had already done so. Her eyelashes fluttered shut.
Monty chuckled softly, and Harry’s eyes snapped open.
“After all,” he said nonchalantly, leaning back, “you two will be the women who have to put up with me for the rest of my life—I would rather you had a united front!”
Did he know how much his words pained her? Could he ever guess how terrible it was to hear the person you loved speak about their future spouse in such a lighthearted way?
But no matter the turmoil in her heart, she tried to smile. “Yes. Look, Monty, I had better go. I haven’t climbed down that oak tree in over a decade, and I don’t want to be too tired when I attempt it.”
Monty returned her smile. “You can always go down the stairs and leave by the front door.”
“And risk the ire of Mrs. Loughton?” Harry shook her head, her brittle smile holding. “No, I think not.”
“Have it your way. Just make sure you leave the window up, I—”
“Like the breeze,” finished Harry.
She rose and stepped to the window but could not deny herself one last look at Monty.
He was smiling. “No one knows me like you do, Harry.”
As she climbed out and onto the solid branch of the oak tree, Harry had to pause to gather her thoughts and wipe away her tears. He did not love her. He did not even like her, not in that way. He was her best friend, and if she did not want to lose him forever, she needed to accept she would never be his bride.
Chapter Four
Monty shifted in his seat. He was right. If he squinted at the portrait opposite, it almost looked like his Great Aunt Matilda.
“…do you not think?”
He jerked to attention and tried to smile at the young lady opposite him, sipping tea and looking expectant.
“I could not agree more,” he said jovially, without the foggiest idea of what he was agreeing to. “Another cup of tea?”
Miss Coulson simpered, and Monty tried not to roll his eyes. Attempting to look interested in the conversation was nigh on impossible, and only by adopting a glazed look and peering at the portraits around the drawing room, had he stopped him
self from yawning.
He should never have accepted the invitation from Letitia, plain and simple. An invitation to take tea? One of the more insipid creations of polite society and one he had worked hard to avoid most of his life—but Letitia was family.
Even if she was disappointing him by hosting such a wearisome social occasion.
“And of course, the latest fabrics simply do not make it beyond London, and so I told Mama if we were ever going to consider Almack’s, we absolutely had to come here not a week, but four weeks before. How else are we to discover the latest fashions? And Mama said…”
Monty stifled one of his ever-increasing yawns and raised his eyes to the other side of the room where Letitia stood. Goodness, she was a wet hen. This is her own home—well, the home of her father—and she still looks just as lost in it as Miss Coulson, and she has never been here in her life.
Lady Letitia Cavendish, for all her good breeding and good name, simply did not enjoy society. She was the biggest wallflower Monty had ever known, and he was extremely fond of her.
It was why he had persuaded Daniel to come with him. His younger brother, hot on the heels of life, love, and laughter, had to be convinced a tea party hosted by Letitia was worth attending.
Monty glanced at his brother, speaking animatedly with Miss Coulson about her gown, and rolled his eyes. It was a small party, and of course, Daniel had attached himself immediately to the woman he considered the most attractive.
Not that there were many to choose from. Letitia, of course, Miss Coulson, and two other silly girls with whom he had been introduced and promptly forgot their names. And Harry. He always forgot Harry.
“—quality of silk,” Miss Coulson was saying. “Quite the expected thing, but when it arrived…”
Monty shuffled in his seat and tried not to catch the eye of the young lady opposite him. The last thing he needed was another marital rumor—but was this not what this entire afternoon was all about?
Damn Aunt Elizabeth. Why hadn’t Letitia argued against her mother? Instead, he was trapped in this ruse, for that was what it was, and it was hard to understand why his cousin had allowed such a thing.
Always the Best Friend (Never the Bride Book 4) Page 3