Chapter Fourteen

Nathanial watched Theo go, fury warring with the lust that still rampaged through his veins. He had not meant to take things so far, but he had not known she would be so innocently enticing. He had been entranced by her. If she had not cried or backed away from him, he might have taken her there and then.

He hated her for it.

Yet he could not stop himself wondering what her reaction would have been if he had revealed his identity. Would she have been horrified or pleased? Would she have been relieved that this experience, so new to her, had been with the man she had married? Or would she have panicked at having been discovered?

He rather suspected the latter would have been true, and the thought brought new weight to bear on his chest.

The ball held no more pleasure for him now. The only reason he had come in the first place was to retrieve his errant wife, and now that would prove impossible without revealing his identity .

Nathanial swore, tasting the ugly word on the frigid night air, before turning home. After this, he needed a long walk to clear his head.

Theo slipped along the edge of the room, relieved Sir Montague was nowhere to be seen. Her head spun and her hands trembled. Going out into the garden had been a terrible, wonderful, awful mistake.

She closed her eyes.

"Your Grace," a sultry voice said. Theo opened her eyes to see Mrs Stanton standing before her, burnished hair piled on her head and a particularly flimsy black mask against her alabaster skin. "What a pleasure to see you here."

Shocked, Theo stumbled back. "How do you recognise me?"

Mrs Stanton smiled. "I know of no one else Sir Montague would accompany."

Fresh shame welled in Theo and she could have cried at the reminder of Sir Montague. "Excuse me," she said, maintaining her composure by strength of will she had not known she possessed. "I must go."

"Already? Sir Montague has been quite concerned." Mrs Stanton's fingers squeezed Theo's arm painfully. "After all, you disappeared outside for such a long while." Although her mouth smiled under her mask, her eyes glittered with anger and jealousy and all the feelings Theo had experienced at the thought Nathanial had been prepared to entertain a nameless, faceless young woman in the garden.

Mrs Stanton, she was sure, knew whom Nathanial had been. She had known, or suspected, what they had done in the garden .

The thought ought not to have made her feel better, but it was a bitter kind of triumph, to know she had been the means of making this beautiful woman jealous. To know that Nathanial, at least, had not sought her out.

Perhaps Mrs Stanton thought Nathanial knew who Theo was. For a moment, Theo ached with the hope it might have been true—but then, why had he called her ‘my muse'? Why had he not revealed his identity and revealed he knew who she was?

No, it was a foolish hope too far, and Theo sucked in a breath to counter the sting of disappointment. All she wanted in the world was to go back home and climb under the sheets of her bed so she could have a good cry.

"I confess I quite enjoyed myself," she said pettishly, and inclined her head. "Excuse me." While Mrs Stanton watched with controlled fury, Theo tossed her head and headed once more for the exit. She would walk if only that would take her home faster.

But before she reached the door, Sir Montague stepped out from the darkness.

"Please," she said, holding out a hand. "I don't want to talk."

"What do you want?" he asked in a quiet voice that sounded almost . . . hurt. She looked up into his face, and the darkness of his eyes that hid all emotions behind them. Once, she felt she could have drowned in those eyes, but tonight she was unmoved.

Neither he nor Nathanial had behaved like a hero tonight.

"I want to go home."

His mouth tightened, and for a moment, she wondered if he would refuse to let her pass. Nathanial had warned her of the consequences of trifling with Sir Montague—perhaps she was about to find out how terrible they could be .

But his gaze travelled once more across her face, and whatever he saw there inspired him to step back and usher her through the doorway. "Allow me to escort you home, Duchess. My carriage is waiting."

Reluctantly, but with little choice unless she wanted to walk the dark streets alone, she accepted his hand and allowed him to hand her up into his carriage.

The journey to Norfolk House was thankfully short, and although Theo had half expected Sir Montague to make some reference to what happened, or indeed what he had hoped for when he had brought her to the masquerade, he said nothing. He merely loomed in the darkened corner of the carriage, watching as she worried at her gloves. When they arrived, he leaned over her and opened the door.

"I hope you will not mind that I do not escort you to the house itself," he said. "I hardly think my presence will be welcome."

There was nothing Theo could say to that; he was right. His presence would not be welcome. "Thank you," she said eventually. "For tonight."

"I believe the custom is to tell you it was my pleasure," Sir Montague said, his dark, magnetic gaze holding her hostage. "But as I'm sure you're aware, it was nothing but a disappointment."

Theo caught her breath as, with a bitterly sardonic smile, he offered her his hand and handed her down onto the street. At this time of night, even the lamps did little to stave off the darkness, and she felt utterly alone. As Sir Montague watched from the carriage, she went up to the house and let herself in. Nathanial was not yet home, and she fled upstairs to her bedroom, only realising, when she got there, that she had never heard the carriage pull away.

Montague glowered at the spot Theo had been sitting in just minutes before. He had seen her arrive safely, and had behaved in all ways like a gentleman, but it would have been so easy to abandon the shackles of society and manners and expectations and take her against the seat.

Had Nathanial taken her the same way? He had not thought his cousin capable of it, but Theo's face when she returned—afraid, hurt, worried—bore the markings of a lady who had not enjoyed the proceedings. And although his natural instincts were not to cherish or protect, he had found himself wanting to ease the sting somewhat.

A foolish notion. Fanciful. It made little difference to him whether she had voluntarily engaged in the activities Nathanial had no doubt taken her there for. All that mattered was whether their relationship would survive, and whether she would be borne an heir. Unlikely, if they had only come together once.

But the thought he had missed his chance, that Nathanial had beaten him to it, made his fists clench. He laughed humourlessly before directing his groom to take him home. The masquerade had lost its appeal, and he knew that for better or worse, he would be thinking of Theo, little Theo, and what might have happened in the gardens.

Montague drummed his fingers restlessly against his thigh. All in all, this had played excellently into his hand. Nathanial had been angry and jealous, tipped off as Montague had directed, and he had behaved rashly. This was precisely the kind of response he had hoped for. And yet, for a reason he could not quite decipher, he was dissatisfied with the events of the evening .

It had been his expectation that he would be the one to kiss her sweet lips and take her into the velvet night. He had hoped to learn all the secrets her body might have to offer.

Yet Nathanial had got there first.

Montague could not recall the last time he had felt jealous over a lady, and the emotion was distinctly unwelcome. As they arrived at his house, he dismissed the thought and alighted onto the street.

A shadow outside detached itself from the wall and approached. "Sir Montague," the figure said. Juliet. Here, at his home. Montague bit back his irritation. "I suspected you would not return to the party."

"How very astute of you."

She tossed her hood back to reveal her pale face and narrowed eyes. "I presume you saw the Duchess disappear into the gardens with the Duke."

"I had no idea you were at the masquerade."

"Nonsense." She put her hands on her hips. "I know you saw me there."

She was fast presenting herself as more of a hindrance than a help. "Then why did you not flirt more with the Duke? Keep him entertained so he did not take the Duchess into the gardens?"

"What else could I do? He came in search of her."

"Of course he did. I arranged for him to discover her whereabouts." He raised an eyebrow at Juliet. "But I had thought more highly of your feminine wiles."

"My wiles don't compare to a jealous husband," she snapped. "And you know as well as I do that the Duke was jealous."

"Then console yourself with the thought that we succeeded here tonight," he said, keeping his tongue languid. With one hand, he grabbed her wrist and squeezed hard enough to hurt. She glanced down at the contact, and her eyes widened. "Tell me, Juliet, what did you expect to gain by coming here?"

"Release me."

"Answer the question."

"You're a brute," she told him instead, her eyes flashing. "The Duke would never accost me in such a manner."

"The Duke is a gentleman," he said, using his other hand to take her chin. She was fragile under his touch, like a bird. He could snap her at any moment. "Don't make the mistake of thinking the same of me."

She stared at him, anger and fear warring in her eyes. Good—she should be afraid. There were few things he wouldn't do, and he was tired of playing the long game.

There were now two things he wanted. The title and the wife. He would ensure he got both.

"Now," he said, releasing her chin. "Tell me for what purpose you came here."

"Making Nathanial jealous was a mistake. You saw how he was. He will only want her more."

"Perhaps," Montague murmured, staring down at Juliet. She had rouged her cheeks and reddened her lips, giving her the look of a doll, if dolls possessed eyes with such sharp, calculating gleams. "I imagine he wanted her a great deal tonight."

"Can you not see why this is a problem?"

He pulled Juliet closer, his fingers tight around her elbow. "Jealousy is the most unproductive of emotions. Consider, Juliet, if you will. Nathanial, lost in jealousy, takes advantage of the Duchess. Will that induce her to love him? Or will she fear him and he bury himself in regret?"

"But that leaves chance for an heir."

"A chance," Montague conceded. "But a small one."

Juliet tossed her head impatiently. "I hardly know why you're talking of love now. Love matters little—it is desire we must temper. "

"Nothing tempers desire like regret," Montague said, and kissed her. If he could, he would have kissed Theo's swollen lips at the ballroom, when she had reappeared. He had wanted to tangle his fingers in her mussed hair and tell her his name until she was not likely to forget. But she had not looked at him as though she wanted him, and he cared—cofound it, he cared —whether she wanted his advances.

He pulled at Juliet's hair, tugging her head back and exposing the long line of her throat. She swatted at his hands. "We agreed you would tempt the Duchess away from her husband."

"And so I will. Helped, of course, by Nathanial chasing her away."

Juliet glowered at him, and he almost laughed at the pettish hurt in her face. It appeared he was not the only one consumed by thoughts of what had occurred in that garden, though he fancied he hid it better.

"You should stop scowling," he said, stroking her face with the pretence of affection. "Jealousy doesn't look good on you."

"Whereas cruelty is the only thing you know how to wear," she retorted, drawing back from his caress. "Lure the Duchess into your bed, Montague, or there will be consequences."

"Was that a threat?"

"Not to you."

He doubted that, but he also didn't care. There were greater things on his mind than Juliet Stanton.