Chapter Twelve

Monty kneeled before Miss Howard, his mother's admonishments ringing in his ears.

Lady Arabella's the prettiest girl in the room—why do you refuse to dance with her?

If you tarry, Dunton will snap her up—or even that upstart Mr. Moss.

And the final comment that had pushed him over the precipice…

If you don't ask her to marry you,I'll ask on your behalf.

"Miss Howard," he said, "will you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?"

A collective intake of breath rippled through the room, as if the whole company were about to faint with shock.

And well they might. What the bloody hell was he doing?

Serving Mother right, that was what, by proposing to the least handsome, least congenial—and most undesirable—creature in the room, in the hope Mother would cease plaguing him.

Miss Howard stared at him, fear and astonishment in her eyes. She was so still, he might have believed her a statue were it not for the faint pulse at the base of her throat. He let his gaze wander across her chest, taking in her neckline and the swell of her breasts…

Perhaps not so undesirable after all.

Then, before his eyes, Miss Howard seemed to withdraw into herself—almost as if she wished to make herself invisible to predators. But the whispers threading through the company told him that every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on her—and him.

"Miss Howard," he said, and she flinched. "For many months, I've admired you from afar. You set yourself apart from others, and the more I observed you, the more I saw your perfection. In fact, from the moment I first set eyes on you, I singled you out as the woman with whom I wish to spend the rest of my life."

With luck, that would convince the company. Miss Howard would, of course, understand that every word he spoke was false.

Then the fear in her expression morphed into hope. Not the material desire he saw in other ladies—but a purer, almost innocent form of hope, harbored by a soul that had been trapped in darkness, alone and unloved, and was being offered a beacon of light, in order for them not to merely exist, but to live.

It was the kind of hope capable of breaking a man's heart and which, if unmet, led to the destruction of the one who harbored it.

His chest tightened with a previously unknown sensation—as if his granite heart were at risk of erosion after all.

Which was nonsense.

Thiswas nonsense. He ought to retract before it was too late. With luck, his little show would have humiliated Mother into keeping quiet for the foreseeable future about his marital prospects.

But before he could open his mouth, Miss Howard rose, the joy in her eyes rendering her almost pretty.

"Your Grace," she said, a tremor in her voice, "I would be delighted to accept your hand. Thank you."

She took his proffered hand, and a spark of desire threaded through his body at the feel of her skin on his. She drew in a sharp breath, then withdrew her hand.

"Oh, how wonderful!" a female voice cried. Monty turned to see their hostess, the Duchess of Westbury, approaching them. "Whitcombe, Miss Howard—may I be the first to congratulate you?"

He took Miss Howard's hand again, and this time there was no mistaking the spark of need. Then he rose to his feet and cast his gaze over the company—their hosts, the Duke and Duchess of Westbury smiling in congratulation, the expression of horror on Mother's ashen face…

…and the thinly veiled anger in Lady Arabella's eyes.

As for the Howard family, he suppressed the urge to laugh at Juliette's sour-faced jealousy, and Lady Howard's hungry triumph. But Sir Leonard showed an entirely different expression. Rather than delight at his daughter making a magnificent match—or relief at believing she'd been taken off his hands—Monty saw only suspicion and mistrust. He'd have to take care not to reveal his true intentions to the older man, lest he find himself at the business end of a pistol.

There was only one beast in the world more imposing than an overbearing mother.

An overprotective father.

Monty lifted Miss Howard's hand and brushed his lips against her skin, inhaling the sweet, soft scent of exotic flowers—lighter than the expensive scents favored by most debutantes, and, for that, all the more alluring.

"I'll trespass upon your time no longer, Miss Howard," he said. "With your father's permission, I shall call upon you tomorrow at… Shall we say ten o'clock?"

With luck, she'd agree, then he could thank her for complying with his ruse and they could part ways. He could return to his life of freedom, and Miss Howard could return to…whatever the devil it was that she did with herself.

She curled her fingers around his, in a gesture not of possession, but of trust. Then she glanced across the room toward her father.

"Papa?"

Monty felt his cheeks warm under Sir Leonard's scrutiny. At length, Sir Leonard nodded.

"Of course," he said. "I trust you'll abide by your word, Whitcombe, and not be late. I shall, of course, require an interview with you after your audience with my daughter."

Though he smiled, Sir Leonard's voice carried an undercurrent of threat.

Monty approached Sir Leonard to shake hands, and the older man took his in a firm grip, holding it for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Yes—there was no mistaking it. Sir Leonard had issued a threat. But, in a world filled with men who fawned over him, Monty found the man's hostility something to be admired rather than scoffed at, even if it didn't bode well for their meeting tomorrow.