Chapter Ten

As Monty entered the drawing room, his senses were assaulted by the pitch of female voices. Ye gods—no wonder gentlemen sought solace in their clubs. Women might believe gentlemen's clubs existed to assert their mastery over the world. But, in reality, they were sanctuaries from nagging wives.

And nagging mothers.

He cast his gaze over the drawing room and caught sight of his own mother deep in conversation with Westbury's grandmother, as if they plotted something.

Which didn't bode well.

The duchess gestured toward the coffee table, and, with murmurs of appreciation, the gentlemen milled about while footmen busied themselves pouring coffee and plucking sweets of eye-wateringly bright colors from the display in the center of the table.

The footman who'd earned Lady Arabella's disapproval was nowhere to be seen. Surely the duchess hadn't dismissed him for inadvertently offending Lady Arabella, who held everyone and everything in contempt?

Then a side door opened and the footman entered. He exchanged a few words with the duchess, who nodded and smiled, placing a hand on his arm. Across the room, Monty noticed Lady Arabella watching the exchange, her mouth creased with disgust as if she'd just ingested an unripe plum.

Sorry, Miss Harpy, you'll have to find another victim for your spite.

"There you are, Montague. At last."

Mother appeared at his elbow, together with the dowager duchess—who, though ancient in years, clearly possessed the ability to scuttle about the place as silently as a spider. And as quickly, despite the silver-topped cane she held in her claw-like hand.

"Duchess," he said, addressing the dowager. "And Mother—may I bring you some coffee and one of"—he gestured toward the pile of sweets—"whatever they are?"

"My coffee-drinking days are over," the dowager said. "But some of the young women here tonight might appreciate your gallantry."

"I agree, Augusta," Mother said. "Lady Arabella's without a cup. I'm sure she'd appreciate a little something."

"Quite so." The dowager raked her gaze over Monty, then arched her eyebrow in appreciation.

Sweet Lord—was he the little something?

"I've no wish to impose myself on Lady Arabella," he replied. "She appears to be having a private conversation with Miss Juliette Howard."

"Is not my son terribly ungallant, Augusta?" Mother said. "And after the lengths we've gone to secure his interests."

To secureyour interests, more like, Mother.

But he daren't voice his response. The dowager carried the air of a woman who was not to be refused—or disobeyed—and Monty suspected that her cane was put to a great deal more use than merely supporting her as she walked.

"I'm sure the boy meant no offense, Matilda," she said. "Young men must be forgiven for their disrespect of their elders. But they always come around to our way of thinking eventually. They must enjoy their little rebellion before they don the mantle of duty." She fixed her gaze on Monty. "Dear boy, I'm sure you'll be a credit to your mother once you embrace your responsibilities. In fact, I have the very thing to bring together two young people who are so obviously well matched. What say you to a little dancing?"

He couldn't think of anything worse.

"Oh, yes!" his mother cried. "That would be a perfect end to a perfect evening. The two of you were partnered so well at dinner, I've no doubt you'll shine on the dance floor. Augusta, would your granddaughter play for us?"

Devil's toes—one dance with Lady Arabella at the Fairchilds' ball was enough to last a lifetime. After enduring her complaints throughout dinner, the last thing he wanted was to spend the rest of the evening with her, let alone the rest of his life.

The dowager approached her granddaughter-in-law. "Jeanette, darling—the young people are wild for dancing. Would you oblige?"

A ripple of enthusiasm threaded through the company, and Monty's heart sank as he spotted Lady Arabella staring at him, expectation in her eyes.

"Mother—have you been scheming again?" he asked.

"Of course not," she said, a little too forcefully. "Augusta's merely giving you a helping hand."

"Oh, is she?"

"She's taken pity on me, on account of your failing to do your duty."

"Not this again, Mother." He sighed. "I've already said—"

"Don't I have a say? I don't want to see the Whitcombe line expire while you refuse to entertain the prospect of Lady Arabella as your bride."

"Why not say that a little louder, Mother, and announce your desperation to the whole room?" he retorted. "If I want a bride, I'll take one on my own terms. I must like her, at the very least."

"And, in order to like her, you must first get to know her. Augusta has been most obliging in that quarter. Our hostess had originally placed you next to the vicar's wife until Augusta intervened on your behalf."

Sweet heaven—was there no escaping female wiles? If Mother had recruited the dowager to her campaign to shackle him to that harpy, then all hope was lost. He must surrender, or desert—the latter of which was infinitely more preferable.

"Will you not dance tonight to oblige me, Montague?"

"No," he said, ungraciously. "I won't."

"Don't you want a wife?"

"At the moment, all I want is solitude." Ignoring her protests, he strode across the room and headed for the terrace doors. Lady Arabella stepped into his path, her eyes shining with triumph.

Clearly she believed he was in a hurry to partner her, as opposed to being in a hurry to get away from her.

"Oh, Your Grace…" she began.

"Excuse me," he said, veering to one side.

She scowled, giving him a glimpse of what would be in store for him for the rest of his life were he to shackle himself to her.

Once outside, he closed the terrace doors behind him and drew in a deep breath, cleaning his lungs with the night air. Strains of music filtered through the doors, and he strode across the terrace and leaned on the balustrade, looking out into the garden bathed in moonlight.

Incivility had its benefits, not least the ability to extract oneself from disagreeable company. Doubtless Lady Arabella would describe him as the very worst of brutes to that sharp-nosed friend of hers.

Let them! They believed him to have a heart of ice—but they were wrong. Ice, like his interest in a woman, melted away with each encounter, until it was no more. His heart was fashioned from granite—a stone that, no matter how belligerently a woman tried to erode it, remained as cold and as fixed as it had ever been.

"Oh, Lady Arabella," he said. "How little you know of my heart!"

A sound—like a small cry—came from the end of the terrace, where the surrounding trees cast deep shadows.

"Who's there?" he called.

He discerned faint shapes in the darkness—a stoneware urn bearing a plant with thick, sharp-edged leaves, a pair of statues guarding a gap in the balustrade where a staircase descended into the gardens, and a row of bushes lining the far wall.

He took a step forward, then froze. A faint rustling sound carried across the terrace—too deliberate to be attributed to the wind.

Had Mother sent someone to spy on him?

"Show yourself!" he demanded.

One of the bushes seemed to be quivering, though there was no wind. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he thought he could discern a shadow within the bush. Was it a spy—or perhaps another man, seeking respite from the flesh market inside?

"You're at liberty to tarry here as much as I," he said. "If you're here to escape the company inside, then I applaud your good taste."

His words were met with silence.

"Of course, if you've no right to be here, then I'm within my rights to alert the Duke of Westbury to a trespasser. One of my fellow guests is a magistrate, I believe."

He smiled to himself. The threat of the authorities would flush out any coward.

Then he saw it—at the base of the bush. A shape, moving along the ground, about the size of a man's hand. A long nose, black eyes gleaming in the moonlight, stubby legs, and a body covered in spikes.

He approached the bush and the creature froze. The nose seemed to withdraw into the body, together with the legs, until all that remained was a ball of spikes.

He burst out laughing. What a fool he was to think someone was there! No wild animal would have ventured so close to the bush if that were true.

"I know how you feel, little fellow," he said. "My spikes may be invisible, but I wear them as you do, to ward off predators.

He pulled his gloves out of his pocket, slipped them on, then picked up the creature, wincing as one of the spikes penetrated the fabric.

"Let me take you to safety, mon ami."

He descended the staircase and placed the hedgehog in a sheltered corner of the main garden. When he glanced back toward the terrace, he saw a shadow moving across the balustrade. Then he blinked and it was gone.