Chapter Fourteen

Devil's toes—was this how women conversed with each other when they thought themselves unobserved?

No—the expression on Miss Howard's eyes was that of a woman enduring torture, not a conversation. Her cheeks were bright red, and her eyes, glistening with tears, widened as she caught sight of him. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no sound came, and then swayed to one side, as if afflicted by a fainting fit.

The ugliest girl in the room.

Why would any young woman say that to another—let alone her sister?

Juliette dipped into a curtsey, and the contempt in her eyes evaporated. The elegant congeniality and frank desire that replaced it as she turned her gaze on him made her look like a different creature entirely to the one he'd caught tormenting her sister.

"Your Grace," she said, her voice soft and melodic. "I trust you're being treated with the respect you deserve."

Monty glanced toward Miss Howard, who clung to the staircase railing. Then something shifted in his soul—as if he'd been living his life in ignorance, or under the influence of a dream, from which he had begun to awaken…

As if, for the first time in his life, he possessed a conscience.

Eleanor Howard's sister might have indulged in a little torture—but he was the real culprit, in having shattered not only her hopes, but her belief in her own worth. True, he had no intention of marrying her, but had he needed to declare his true intent so cruelly? Only one party had stood to gain from his scheme—and that was him, at the expense of Miss Howard's peace of mind.

You really are the very worst of cads.

He brushed past Juliette, approached Miss Howard, and placed his hand over hers. As if he were training a filly, he coaxed her to uncurl her fingers from the banister, then he hooked his arm around hers and drew her toward him. At first she complied passively, then she curled her fingers around his arm and leaned against him. A barely noticeable act of trust, but he recognized it for what it was.

What the devil was happening to him? Sawbridge would, no doubt, taunt him for going soft.

"Miss Juliette," he said, "I wonder if you'd oblige me?"

Juliette's eyes sparkled with delight, and she gave a gracious smile.

"Your sister was about to send for some tea. Might you oblige instead?"

The smile slipped, and he caught a flash of the expression Lady Arabella had displayed last night—the expression that warned an unmarried man to run away as fast as he could.

"Well!" she exclaimed. "I hardly think that's proper."

"Please send for your sister's maid, also," he said. "We'll be in the parlor."

"It's not my place to—"

"If you would oblige me, Miss Juliette."

She stiffened at the hardened tone of his voice, and he caught a flicker of fear in her eyes.

Good. The ease with which her expression had morphed from spite, when aimed at her sister, to faux innocence and cordiality when directed at him reminded Monty of the bullies he'd encountered at Eton—especially MacDiarmid, who, at best, could be described as a "nasty piece of work" who rallied his disciples to support his vendettas against those he deemed weaker than himself, yet turned into a sniveling wreck when challenged. Monty had caught the little toad tormenting one of the new boys and given him six of the best as punishment.

There was much to be said for the old ways of teaching bullies a lesson.

"Please excuse me, Miss Juliette, while your sister and I return to the parlor," Monty said. Then he turned to Eleanor. "Darling, shall we?"

She blinked and glanced up at him, and he caressed her hand, taking care to run his fingertips over the third finger of her left hand.

"My mother's ring will look exquisite on this finger," he said. "The emerald is almost the same color as your eyes. In my eagerness to see you again, I quite forgot to bring it. But I shall have it with me when next we meet."

Confusion clouded her expression, but she let him steer her into the parlor, where guided her to an armchair by the fire.

"Are you cold, Miss Howard?"

She looked at him, but her eyes were unfocused. At that moment, the door opened and a maid entered, carrying a tray with tea things.

"Are you Miss Howard's maid?" Monty asked.

"No, Your Grace. That'll be Harriet."

Harriet…

The name she'd taken to herself when he saw her in the park.

"Fetch her," he said. "Miss Howard is ill."

"Very good, Your Grace." The maid bobbed a curtsey.

"Quickly now!" he barked, and the maid scuttled off.

Then he resumed his attention on Miss Howard. "Would you like some tea?"

She leaned back and closed her eyes, and Monty approached the table.

He inspected the tea things—two cups, a silver teapot with a fluted edge and an ivory handle, a sugar bowl, and a jug filled with milk.

What the devil was a man supposed to do with all that?

He picked up a cup and turned it over in his hand, running his thumb over the pattern on the porcelain. Then he glanced at the teapot.

"I suppose I should pour some of that in first."

Miss Howard gave no response.

He poured brown liquid into the cup. Wisps of steam rose from the surface, dissolving into the air. Then he reached for the milk jug and poured some in. Was that enough?

Heavens!What the bloody hell was he doing—a man of his station, serving tea?

The door opened and a young woman appeared. She bobbed a curtsey, then glanced across the room and let out a cry.

"Miss Eleanor!" She rushed toward Miss Howard and took her hand.

"I was just about to serve tea," Monty said.

The maid glanced at the teacup in his hand, and her eyes widened.

"How does Miss Howard take her tea?" he asked. "I've added some milk. Should I add sugar now?"

"She doesn't take milk," the maid replied. "She prefers honey and cinnamon."

"There's none of that here." He glanced at the tray. "At least, I don't think there is."

"Lady Howard doesn't permit it. But a little sugar, and no milk, should suffice."

"Oh," he said. "I've already put milk in."

"I'll see to it." The maid plucked the cup out of his hand and set it down, then she filled the second cup, dropped in a sugar lump, and stirred. Then she sat next to Miss Howard and took her hand.

"Miss Eleanor, it's me. Harriet. I've some sweet tea for you."

Miss Howard's eyes fluttered open.

"Perhaps she needs a doctor," Monty said.

"No!" the maid cried. Then she colored. "I mean—begging your pardon, Your Grace, but a doctor won't help. And you mustn't speak of this to anyone—not even the mistress."

"Lady Howard? Why ever not?"

The maid glanced at Miss Howard, distress distorting her features. "I-I can't tell you."

"Surely Miss Howard's mother will know what's best for her."

The maid shook her head.

"Does Miss Howard suffer from some sort of affliction?" he asked.

"Of course not!" the maid replied, a flare of anger in her tone. "Begging your pardon—she just gets a little overwhelmed, often when something's distressed her, or when there's too much going on around her. She'll be fine in a moment."

"Then why can't her mother know?"

"I-I shouldn't say."

"But you shall."

The maid flinched at his tone. "Miss Eleanor cannot help herself," she said. "I wonder what happened to upset her today—when you visited."

A servant had no right to take that tone with a duke. But he found himself admiring the love she evidently had for her mistress.

"I find myself admonished," he said.

"My duty is to Miss Eleanor," the maid said. Then she reached for the bracelet around Miss Howard's wrist, slipped it off, and placed it into her mistress's hands. Miss Howard blinked, then curled her fingers around the bracelet.

"The last time she had such a turn, Lady Howard demanded that a doctor be sent for—a very particular kind of doctor."

"A particular kind of doctor?"

The maid nodded. "The master, Sir Leonard—he's an easygoing man ordinarily, when it comes to her ladyship. But that day, he stood firm, and insisted Miss Eleanor remain here rather than be sent away."

"Sent away?" he asked. "You mean…"

The maid glanced at Miss Howard. "Please—don't speak of it in front of her." Tears glistened in Harriet's eyes. "She's the kindest young lady in the world, and she wouldn't hurt a fly. She's quieter than most, but that's for the good—and she may not seem to have feelings, but that's because she keeps them hidden. She feels a great deal more than she shows."

She met Monty's gaze, determination in her eyes. No servant had ever looked at him so directly before, except perhaps for his butler when he'd arrived home just after dawn, disheveled, reeking of the cologne of the women he'd been rutting all night.

"Miss Eleanor feels more than most, Your Grace."

Monty glanced at Miss Howard. "Yes," he said quietly, "I rather suspect she does."

Miss Howard seemed to react to his voice. Her eyes opened fully, and she lifted her head.

"Harriet?"

"I'm here, miss," the maid said. "Would you like some tea? I've made it good and sweet for you. It'll make you right in no time. Here—let me help you."

"No," Monty said. "Let me, if Miss Howard has no objection."

He placed his arm about her shoulders and helped her to sit upright while the maid held the teacup to her lips. She took a sip, and her expression uncurled—almost like the hedgehog that he'd set down in a secluded corner of Westbury's garden, where it had remained curled up for several heartbeats before gradually unfurling, then moving across the lawn and disappearing in the hedgerow.

Except he had no wish for Miss Howard to disappear.

"Y-Your Grace," Miss Howard said. "You're still here."

"I am."

"But I thought—"

"I'm going nowhere," he said softly. "You may leave us, Harriet."

"But you don't know what she needs," the maid replied.

"Then tell me."

"Gentleness, Your Grace. She gets very little of that."

"I can give her that," he said.

"Make sure you do, Your Grace. Of all the young ladies in London, Miss Eleanor deserves to be loved."

Before he could answer, she exited the parlor.

Miss Howard stirred again.

"Would you like some more tea?" Monty asked.

Her eyes focused on him, their color growing in intensity.

"Miss Howard?"

She remained silent, and he picked up the teacup.

"Eleanor?"

She blinked, and her expression cleared. "Your Grace."

He guided the cup to her lips, and she lifted her hand and curled it around the porcelain. He brushed his fingers against hers, then caught his breath as a small fizz of desire rippled across his skin.

"You must call me Montague," he said, "at least for now."

She drained the teacup, then set it aside. "What would be the sense in my calling you Montague?"

"While we're betrothed, we—" he began, but she interrupted.

"But we're not betrothed." She let out a soft laugh, though sadness lingered in her eyes. "It's the shortest betrothal in history, but it's more than I could have hoped for. And nobody could take that from me—a few minutes at the end of a party where, for once, the world didn't pity me."

"There's been many shorter, I assure you," he said. "But there's no need to break our betrothal just yet. I don't wish to humiliate you."

"More than you already have?"

She spoke the words so softly that he could almost have believed he'd imagined it.

"We cannot marry, of course," he said, "but I'm not averse to our retaining our betrothal until the end of the Season—if you have no objection."

"For what purpose?"

"It might be beneficial to us both. My mother will stop plaguing me about marrying, and you may find your life much improved."

"May I?"

His conscience—the newly discovered entity—needled at him. There might be some merit in extending their false betrothal until the end of the Season—merit for him. It would keep Mother, and the tenacious Lady Arabella, off his back. But perhaps Miss Howard could benefit also.

"Your sister might treat you less cruelly," he suggested.

"You oughtn't speak of Juliette in such a manner," Miss Howard said. "I often behave a little…eccentrically. Juliette's merely concerned for how my behavior might reflect on the family."

"You mean how it might affect her prospects."

"Please don't speak of her so unjustly, Your Grace."

Ye gods—even after the behavior he'd witnessed on the part of Miss Howard's sister, she still rose to defend her! The maid was right. Miss Howard deserved to be loved—even if he wasn't the man to do the loving.

More's the pity.

Ignoring the voice in his head, he took her hand.

"Would you be averse to remaining engaged until the end of the Season?" he asked. "I'll behave properly, of course."

"Behave properly?"

Devil's toes—must he spell it out?

"I'll"—he hesitated—"remain faithful. It's the only way to convince my circle of the authenticity of the betrothal."

"You mean you'll not ask anyone else to marry you while we're betrothed?"

Bugger.He would have to spell it out.

"What I mean is I'll not lie with another woman until our betrothal is at an end."

"Oh." She blushed and lowered her gaze. Her lack of understanding of the world and its euphemisms reminded him of a child. Yet he could see in her eyes a sharp intelligence.

She was the most contradictory woman. Plain and uninteresting from a distance, but up close, she intrigued him with her intense expression. She seemed shy to the point of agony, but the brief moments when she'd looked into his eyes, the directness of her gaze threatened to tear away the armor he'd secured around his soul.

"I have no right to ask," he said, "but I would like you to consider my request."

"No," she said, and his heart sank.

But he'd acted like an utter cad—what else could he have expected?

"You have no right to ask," she continued. "But I'll help you nonetheless."

He took her hands. "Miss Howard—you'll have no cause to regret it. And when our agreement comes to an end, I'll make sure you emerge with your reputation enhanced. The world will believe that I have wronged you."

"Very well."

He kissed her hands, and caught his breath at the tiny pulse of need.

"What can I do in return?" he asked.

She shook her head. "You needn't trouble yourself."

"Is there nothing you wish for?"

She opened her mouth as if to reply, then closed it again.

"Eleanor?" Improper it might be, but he relished the feel of her name on his lips. "There must be something, even if you don't believe I can give it to you."

"There are many things I wish for," she said, "but nobody can give them to me."

"Give me leave to try."

"Very well," she said. "For one thing, I'd like to fit in."

"To fit in?"

"I've never belonged, you see. I don't speak, or behave, like other women. I don't even think like them."

He suppressed a laugh. "From what I understand of Society ladies, Miss Howard, if you wish to think like them, then you need to cease thinking at all. And I'd advise against that."

She withered under his laughter and tried to withdraw her hand. But he held it firm.

"My intention wasn't to make fun of you, Miss Howard," he said. "You must never change the way you think. But I can advise you on how to navigate your way through Society."

Her eyes sparkled with hope, and for a moment, the barriers to his heart were in danger of being breached.

"Would you take the trouble to do that?" she asked. "For me?"

"It's no trouble," he said. "You only need convince the world that you're one of them."

"I've tried," she said. "I try so hard to behave and speak like others—but it never works."

"Then let me teach you," he said. "And a lesson is always best undertaken in a practical manner."

Her eyes flared with apprehension. "Practical?"

"I must teach you in the very environment in which you wish to survive," he said. "In public."

"In p-public?"

"Yes," he said. "Such as in the park. We'll have enough privacy to discuss the principles without being overheard, then you can put those principles into practice when we encounter others."

"You want to take me for a walk in the park?"

He would have laughed at the astonishment in her voice had he not recognized the tragedy. The poor creature clearly couldn't comprehend the notion of anyone wanting to spend time in her company.

"Yes," he said. "I can think of nothing more pleasurable."

And, at that moment, he genuinely couldn't.

She gave a shy smile, and he couldn't help a prick of pride at the notion that he'd played a part in her recovery.

"Is there anything else you require, Miss Howard?" he asked. "It seems, at the moment, that I have the most to gain from our arrangement."

She shook her head.

"Do you wish to marry eventually?" he asked. "To have a home—a family of your own?"

"A home, yes," she said. "And…" She colored.

He caressed her hand, as if to coax a further response from her. "And?"

"I want to be loved," she said. "But all young women want to be loved, don't they?"

"In my experience, young women want to be married, not loved," he said, "preferably to a wealthy man with a title—the grander the better."

She withdrew her hand. "That may be the case with the young women you pursue. But I'm different."

She spoke with an edge to her voice. Was this timid little thing admonishing him?

"Not so different, Miss Howard," he said. "Had any duke kneeled before any woman in Society last night, she'd have accepted his offer of marriage—as you did."

She drew in a sharp breath, and his newly found conscience needled him at the distress in her eyes.

"I didn't accept your hand because you're a duke," she said. "I accepted it because I was—" She broke off and shook her head.

"You were what?" he asked.

"Mistaken," she said, her tone flat. "I realize that now. After all, what man in his right mind would—"

"Plenty would, I assure you," he interrupted. "Not all men are heartless rakes. Granted, we rakes are in the majority, but I'm convinced I could find you a kinder man before the Season is out."

"How would you know whether he was kind or not? A woman only discovers a man's true character after she's reached the point of no return. Given the limited opportunities men and women have to get to know each other before committing themselves for life, what chance has any woman of entering into a union with the full knowledge of what her life will be like?"

What an enigma she was! She expressed herself eloquently on the arguments against entering into the marriage state, yet she'd accepted his proposal so readily under the mistaken belief that his offer was genuine.

For a woman so disinclined to trust others, what had given her cause to harbor such trust in him last night?

And what in the devil's name was making him want, so badly, to be deserving of her trust?

"In that, I can help," he said. "In the company of women, a man hides behind a fa?ade of gallantry and restrained politeness. But among his own sex, he speaks more freely. If you permit me, I can point out the more congenial bachelors with whom you have a greater chance of finding happiness."

Her eyes widened in horror. "Are you offering to find me a husband?"

"I'm offering to give you an introduction," he replied. "With hundreds of young women parading around the ballrooms of London, trying to secure the notice of hundreds of young men, it's no wonder that the chances of finding the right partner are so slim. If I can steer you toward those I deem more suitable, I would be saving you the effort of having to wade through a cesspool in search of the few gems that exist."

She let out a giggle. "Cesspool? Are you equally ungallant in your description of ladies?"

"Ah," he said, "I liken ladies to a barrel of apples—shiny, polished skins, all tempting a man to take a bite. Only when he sinks his teeth in does he discover whether the core is rotten."

Her laughter died. "Your view of Society is as bleak as mine, Your Grace."

"Then perhaps we're not so dissimilar after all."

The door opened, and Monty glanced over his shoulder to see Miss Howard's parents standing in the doorway.

He rose to his feet and bowed. "Sir Leonard, Lady Howard—forgive my being so forward with your daughter."

Sir Leonard shifted his gaze from Monty to his daughter, then back again, suspicion in his eyes. Lady Howard glanced toward the tea things, lingering on the empty cup.

"Your Grace, my daughter doesn't appear to have served you tea. Eleanor—where are your manners?"

"Your daughter's manners are impeccable, Lady Howard," Monty said. "I'm simply not in the mood for tea."

"Perhaps port is more to your taste," Sir Leonard said.

"At this hour?" Lady Howard exclaimed, wrinkling her nose.

"Or a brandy?" Sir Leonard continued, ignoring his wife. "I've a bottle in my study, and it would give us the opportunity to discuss what, perhaps, ought to have been discussed before the events of last night."

"Leonard!" Lady Howard said. "His Grace is our guest. I doubt he'd take kindly to—"

"To not being granted an audience with his prospective father-in-law?" Sir Leonard interrupted. "Quite so. Your Grace—shall we?"

There was no mistaking the edge of steel in the man's voice, the backbone with which he had, no doubt, forged a profitable business—a very profitable business, according to half of White's.

"Of course, sir," Monty said. "I trust you can forgive my transgression of last night, which arose from being caught in the moment."

"Of course you're forgiven, Your Grace!" Lady Howard cried. "Isn't he, Leonard?"

Sir Leonard rolled his eyes, and Monty found himself pitying the man. Miss Howard had been right. Only after marriage did a man learn the true nature of the object of his affections—at which point, it was too late, and he was yoked for life.

Miss Howard rose to her feet.

"Eleanor, your father doesn't want you to be party to the conversation," Lady Howard said.

Miss Howard colored. "I know, Mother—I merely fancied taking in the air. That is, if you'll excuse me, Your Grace."

Monty took her hand and lifted it to his lips. "Until tomorrow, Miss Howard," he said. "Shall I call at noon?"

"Yes, do," Lady Howard said, before her daughter could respond. Ignoring her, Monty waited until Miss Howard lifted her gaze. They stared at each other for a heartbeat, then she lowered her eyes.

What might those eyes look like widened in surprise and pleasure in the throes of her climax while she screamed his name?

His body tightened at the notion, and she curled her fingers around his hand, sending a ripple of desire across his skin.

What the devil was happening to him? Had his promise not to rut another woman for the rest of the Season addled his mind? Celibacy was not a state that came naturally to him. Since his first awakening to carnal pleasure at the hands of a doxy, he'd taken his fill night after night, until he became a master of the pleasures of the flesh—both his pleasure, and that of the women he bedded. Why, then, had he promised to abstain?

To prove yourself worthy of her.

He bade his leave of Lady Howard and her daughter, then followed Sir Leonard into his study. Now the real ordeal of the day was about to begin. Monty had to convince a respectable, honorable, and, by all accounts, sharp-as-a-whip businessman that he was worthy of the man's daughter—something which he knew, as an undisputed certainty, that he could never be.