Chapter Eight

There were few pleasures in London that Montague, over the course of his thirty-two years, had not sought. He'd had his fill of opera singers and dancers; now he was older, his tastes ran a little differently.

Which was why, when he found himself at the residence of Juliet Stanton, he had every intention of accepting the offer she presented.

The card party, held only for a select few, was conducted in a lavishly furnished drawing room; a parlour, similarly furnished, held the few that wanted to play deep. Juliet Stanton catered to all.

Montague did not play deep—he did not have the pockets for it, and although as a young blade he had gambled heavily, as all young men did, it wasn't in his blood. Instead, he played whist with a small party of like-minded gentlemen while Juliet Stanton held the bank. She courted interest with smiles and batted eyelashes and quiet murmurs of appreciation and encouragement. Montague had been playing the game long enough to know an expert player. She was not young, Mrs Stanton, but she played off her charms to perfection; her forest green dress brought out the copper in her hair, and her shoulders were bare to expose her elegant neck. Her smile, too, was practised, and when she leant forwards, it was to reveal the swell of her breasts.

Juliet Stanton was a woman, Montague mused, who was accustomed to dealing with men's desires.

She glanced up, blue-green eyes holding a hint of amusement. "It is your turn to play, Sir Montague."

He placed his card on the table with deliberation. "Do you consider yourself a gamester, Mrs Stanton?"

"Why, not particularly."

"A shame." He paused, letting her lean into the silence, and glanced away, to a single table lying unused. "I thought perhaps I might challenge you to a game."

"I fear I may not be a worthy opponent."

"On the contrary, I assure you. I think you can provide me with everything I need." He let his gaze drop across her body. There were other men here, but judging from the smiles she occasionally flashed them, like bait to the fish, they were already enjoying her charms.

Indeed, this entire affair was not just to boost her income—as he knew it would be doing with her playing bank—it was to advertise herself. And she was an appealing prospect.

She met his gaze with a boldness he appreciated. "Perhaps, then, we should play."

The process of setting up a table was a quick one, and he challenged her to a game of piquet. She dealt, retaining the honour of holding bank. He didn't care; this entire endeavour was not about the cards and both of them knew it.

"I had no notion you were planning on returning to London," she said, glancing at her hand. "It was my understanding you intended to be away for a long while. "

"Seven years is a long while by my estimation, Mrs Stanton." He glanced around. "You have a tidy establishment here. Might you have room for another patron?"

A smile touched her mouth as she glanced at her cards. "Perhaps. I should warn you, I have exquisite tastes."

"I should expect nothing less from such an exquisite lady."

Once again, she held his gaze as she looked at him. "I've heard of you, Sir Montague," she said. "Rumours fly in London, especially when your cousin is a duke."

A burst of anger tightened his hold on his cards, but he merely said, "Has my cousin been spreading these rumours?"

"What makes you think I run with such exalted company?"

It was Montague's turn to smile. "Rumours fly in London," he said. "It's your turn to declare."

"I have nothing to declare," she said, holding her cards to her chest. He considered her, and the cautiousness that lurked in her eyes. Although the playful smile was still on her mouth, the atmosphere had changed at his reference to her arrangement with Nathanial. He would have to play this carefully if he was to succeed.

"Perhaps we can come to an understanding."

Her eyebrow twitched; the only sign she gave that she was interested. "What could you have to offer me?"

"I am the Duke's cousin. We are not close now, but only four years separate us, and I knew him once. Suffice to say I am as pleased about the Duke's marriage as you are." There—he had scored a hit. Her mouth tightened. "I believe we may have more in common than you might think."

"I believe you win, sir," she said, placing her cards on the table and standing. "You may see me later to settle the score."

Excellent. He nodded as she walked away, back to her party of sycophants who clung to her every word and smile as though it were manna from the heavens .

Montague had never understood that level of mindless devotion. Calf love, that was what it was. Aside from a fleeting fancy for Penelope long ago, he had never been subject to such an emotion, and he could hardly conceive how troublesome it would be.

The party continued until the late hours. Montague accepted Juliet's invitation upstairs to her boudoir—a luscious room draped in red silk and heavy with perfume.

"So," she said, removing her earrings and dropping them onto her dressing table. "You claim we have something in common."

"Are you always so abrupt?"

She sent him a glance through her eyelashes. "I rarely engage in business that doesn't benefit me."

"I hardly expected otherwise. I'm a generous man." With a flourish, he produced a sapphire necklace from his waistcoat pocket. "I believe in both parties being satisfied."

She strolled towards him and picked up the necklace, examining the gold to check it was real. Fair enough; he did have a reputation, after all.

"Very well," she said, turning and showing him her back. Knowing what was expected of him, he deftly unlaced her. She shrugged her shoulders, and in a practised wiggle, let the dress pool on the ground beneath her. She wasn't wearing a chemise or stays.

"Now," she purred, stepping closer—close enough that he could count the freckles that lightly dusted her chest. "Show me what you would like."

Their lovemaking was less about the love and more about the making, which was precisely how Montague preferred to conduct his liaisons. They ended up on the floor, tangled in a silk sheet, and he pulled on his shirt.

"Now," he said, "we may discuss business."

She propped herself up on her elbow, an auburn curl falling across her breast. "A man after my own heart."

"As I'm sure you're aware, I returned to London as soon as I heard my cousin was married." He examined his fingernails with a slight frown. He had not intended on returning to England until such time as he might contrive to dispose of Nathanial without suspicion, but the marriage had forced his hand. A wife would mean children—and if he were the husband of that pretty chit, he would be more than happy to sire a great many children.

A great many children that impeded Montague's chances of inheriting the title. And, more importantly, one of England's largest fortunes.

"I suspected that was the reason," Juliet said, yawning. "Why else would a banished heir return?"

"I won't be the heir for much longer now he's married to that girl." Montague moderated his tone. "What I need is assurance that there will be no children."

"What you need is to get rid of the wife," Juliet said, no emotion in her voice. "Do you have a plan?"

"I need you to keep the Duke occupied while I target the Duchess. It shouldn't be difficult—she seemed amenable to my advances when I saw her last."

Juliet pulled the last of her pins from her hair. Her face remained expressionless. "You intend to seduce her?"

"A separation will ensure no heirs."

"And you think a mere flirtation will achieve this?"

Montague smiled as he recalled Nathanial's possessiveness. Rumours of a love match were probably unsubstantiated—at the ball, he had seemed unconcerned with her whereabouts or behaviour until she encountered him—but he was still her husband and subject to that age-old vice. Jealousy. "Perhaps not if it is a mere flirtation, but if I can induce her to fall in love with me, and perhaps make her preference for me clear, I believe he will be angry enough to not want involvement with her."

"A bold supposition," she mused. "But you may be right—Nathanial does have his pride."

"And that is where you come in, my dear. Dig your claws in deep. You are more experienced than she could ever be, and you know him better."

"And if he wishes for a child?"

Montague gave a thin, humourless smile. "We shall have to ensure he does not."