Chapter Two

Devil's toes—could life get any worse?

Every bloody party was the same—a silt-filled pond in which he was the trout that all the preening misses and their overbearing mamas wished to hook, net, then gut before slapping him on a platter to pick at.

Monty steered his partner—a particularly voracious angler—across the dance floor, aware of the envious stares of the un-partnered ladies.

Desperation was such an unappealing quality in a woman. Monty preferred aloof, indifferent females—the thrill of the chase, and their feigned lack of interest that posed a challenge for the briefest of moments. But—once he claimed his quarry, they lost their appeal. Like a delectable entrée, their taste might be relished the first few times, until blandness set in. At which point he tossed them back into the water.

Sadly, women possessed different angling tastes to men. Once he'd been impaled on the hook, he'd be netted for life—stuck with the same dish day in, day out.

But not for some years, provided Mother didn't erode his resolve.

As if she heard his thoughts, Monty's mother came into view. Bedecked in a forest of black silk and lace, despite being at least ten years out of mourning, she watched over the company—a spider waiting to devour any unsuspecting creature who dared approach.

The dance took him closer to her, and she focused her gaze first on him, then his partner, the vain and shrewish Lady Arabella Ponsford. Her mouth creased into a smile of satisfaction, and she inclined her head in the manner of a monarch.

Heaven help me—I know that nod.

Mother approved of Lady Arabella.

Not unexpected, given her pedigree—Lady Arabella's late mother was the king's third cousin, and, to Mother, birth was everything.

Doubtless the whole room considered Lady Arabella his perfect match. But he wasn't ready to submit himself to matrimony. His late father was proof a man could sire a child in his fifties—though to mention that in Mother's presence earned him a tongue lashing, as if he were a wayward child.

"Sweet Lord!" his dance partner exclaimed. "What the devil is she wearing? A potato sack would look better. But I daresay, given her ample figure, her dress is the most expensive in the room, given the yards of silk it must have required."

She paused, expecting a response.

"Of course, Lady Arabella," he said.

One redeeming quality of ladies of the ton was that they talked, and never listened. Therefore, only a limited repertoire of responses was needed to survive their company. Of course and indeed often worked, particularly if accompanied by the woman's name—assuming he could recall her name. I wholeheartedly agree was a favored phrase for allaying a lady's suspicion that the man she talked at wasn't listening. And if the man were unfortunate enough to be married to the woman, he could limit his portfolio to yes, dear—a phrase Monty's father had placed great reliance on.

"I'm glad we're of one mind," Lady Arabella said. "That family should be applauded for elevating themselves from the gutter. The younger daughter is remarkably pretty, and could almost pass for a lady—I'm quite fond of her. But as to the elder—I've seen more attractive heifers. Just look at her!"

Like many young ladies desperate to ingratiate themselves with a man, Arabella sought to insult one of her own sex.

Perhaps he should share his opinion of Arabella herself—a grasping harpy whose outer beauty belied the ugliness within. But he had no wish to meet her gaze, lest she see the contempt he harbored. Instead, he stared out into the blurred faces of the onlookers, curling his lip in a sneer.

One day, Fate would ensure Lady Arabella paid for her cruelty.

The dance concluded, and he steered her toward her friends then retreated to the safety of the punch bowl, before any of them could catch his eye in the hope of securing a dance.

A hand clapped him on the back, and he turned to face the newcomer.

"Cranleigh!" he cried. "Some congenial company at last."

"You must be desperate if you refer to me as congenial, old chap," came the reply. "But I'm afraid I must abandon you. I'm expected on the dance floor."

"With whom?"

"Lady Arabella Ponsford. Exquisite creature—not the handsomest girl in the room, but her fortune renders her a little more attractive than she would be without it."

"She'd be handsomer still if she kept her mouth shut," Monty said.

Cranleigh barked out a laugh. "What man in his right mind listens to what a woman has to say?" He glanced across the room to Monty's mother, who stared at them, disapproval in her expression. "Of course, not all of us are still clinging to our mother's teat. Give my regards to the dowager. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must ingratiate myself with Lady Arabella."

"Take a detour to the buffet before you do," Monty said. "A harpy's voice can erode a man's senses before he notices. I'd recommend the strategic placement of cheese in your ears."

"You ought to make allowances for Lady Arabella, given that she's an orphan."

Monty snorted. "Don't pretend you have a conscience, Cranleigh. You consider her status an advantage because it'll make her one of the richest heiresses in England when she comes into her majority."

"Or on her marriage. I daresay her fortune is enough to compensate for being saddled with her for eternity."

"On your head be it," Monty said. "Nothing's enough to compensate being saddled with any woman for eternity."

"That's because you've not found the right woman."

"I won't find her here." Monty poured a glass of punch and swallowed it in a single gulp. Then he gestured across the room. "Look at them, Cranleigh. Do you want to know what these women remind me of?"

"No, but I'm sure you'll tell me."

"Hothouse orchids. Exquisite to look at, but they serve no purpose other than to be admired. When a man takes one on, he's burdened with a responsibility for life—to feed and water her while she strives to maintain her elegance. But when the bloom inevitably fades and the petals grow tired around the edges, the man must redouble his efforts while turning a blind eye to her fading beauty. And then, once the beauty has gone—do you know what the man's left with?"

"I cannot imagine."

"A bowl of dirt," Monty said, "and the realization that he wasted his better years seeking a perfection that never existed. Which is why I intend to wait until the last possible moment before marrying."

"And deny yourself the chance at happiness—not to mention an heir?"

"On the contrary," Monty replied. "By delaying marriage, I'm prolonging my happiness and merely deferring the production of an heir."

"Your mother will be disappointed."

"Mother is always disappointed," Monty said. "Therefore, I might as well act in a manner that furthers my happiness to the exclusion of all else. Go tend to your orchid, Cranleigh. I wish you joy of her."

"There's prettier orchids to be had," Cranleigh said. "Take that delectable specimen over there."

Monty looked where his friend indicated and recognized the young woman who'd been dancing with Colonel Reid. She approached Lady Arabella, and the two women exchanged the outwardly congenial smiles of good friends, tinged with the hardness of bitter rivals. Arabella's smile slipped. And well it might—the newcomer surpassed her in beauty as the sun outshone a dying match. Thick blonde curls shimmered in the candlelight as if her hair contained a piece of the sun. She glanced across the ballroom and met Monty's gaze. Brilliant blue eyes stared at him, and he looked away. Delectable she was to look at, but her expression conveyed a calculating nature.

Heaven help Colonel Reid. A master strategist he might be in a battle, but in courting that young woman, he was engaging in a war he had no hope of winning.

"Divine, isn't she?" Cranleigh whispered. "She surpasses Lady Arabella in looks, if not in breeding. But a man would be willing to put up with a little stain on his line of succession to have that pretty mouth around his—"

"Who is she?" Monty interrupted. The last thing he needed to hear was what Cranleigh wanted a woman to do with her mouth.

"Miss Juliette Howard."

"The silk merchant's daughter?" Monty glanced toward her again. "I've seen Mr. Howard at White's, though have yet to be introduced. He seems pleasant enough, though that wife of his is a little loud for my tastes. He's another man who'd benefit from stuffing cheese into his ears."

"It's Sir Leonard now," Cranleigh said. "A knighthood rather than a baronetcy, so it's unlikely to satisfy his wife."

"I doubt anything would satisfy her, save a titled husband for their daughter."

Monty caught sight of Mrs. Howard—Lady Howard, as she was now—arm in arm with Countess Fairchild. Then he glanced toward Juliette Howard, then back to her mother.

A definite resemblance. Lady Howard's eyes, though green, were the same shape, and framed by a delicately featured face. She must have been captivating in her youth—no wonder Sir Leonard had been ensnared. But, like all elegant females, age had faded her brilliance to reveal something of her true nature. She couldn't completely disguise the sharp-nosed sourness, no matter how dazzlingly she smiled.

Miss Howard approached her mother, and they crossed the dance floor to sit beside another woman—an unremarkable-looking creature that Monty hadn't noticed before.

Miss Howard and her mother turned their attention to her, and she seemed to shrink, like a woodland creature trying to make itself smaller to elude a predator. She nodded and lowered her gaze in the manner of a servant.

Was she Miss Howard's governess? Though why she'd be invited to a party with the family made no sense. Perhaps she was a maiden aunt.

Ungainly and plain—whoever she was, she was Monty's opposite in every aspect, save one.

It was evident from her expression that she loathed being here as much as he.

"You should be dancing, not drinking, Montague," a voice said.

Mother always knew how to creep up on him, until it was too late for him to escape.

"Would you like a glass?" he asked.

"I'd like to see you settled," she said. "I'd like you to take up your responsibilities and provide the dukedom with an heir."

"I'll not achieve that by dancing," he replied, "and rutting in the middle of the dance floor is frowned upon."

"Don't be so tiresome!" she snapped. "You promised to accommodate me tonight."

"And I did, Mother. I danced—as I said I would."

"One dance!" she scoffed. "Lady Arabella would have welcomed a second—and Countess Fairchild has made it plain that her Irma is open to offers."

"I made no promise as to the number of dances, Mother. And I'll not make a promise that I cannot keep."

"Such as the marriage vows."

"I intend to honor my marriage vows," he replied. "But won't even consider making those vows until I'm convinced I can honor them."

"Heirs should be produced sooner rather than later to assure continuation of the direct line," she said. "You cannot remain a bachelor forever, Montague. I'm not getting any younger."

He let out a snort. "I know enough about the act of procreation to know that you'll have no part in it, Mother. Unless you wish to stand by my bedside and watch me perform, as a horse owner does when a stallion ruts a mare."

She closed her fan and slapped him across the hand. He winced at the sting and dropped his glass, which hit the floor with an explosion of shards and red liquid.

Almost at once, a nearby footman raised his hand, clicked his fingers, and pointed toward the floor. Another footman scuttled over and began clearing up the mess.

Devil's toes—were they all under constant scrutiny such that if a man so much as scratched his ear, someone, somewhere was taking note?

"That was your fault, Montague," his mother said, after the footman left, all remnants of his mishap obliterated.

"You hit me with your fan."

"I was provoked. I care about the dukedom, even if you don't. Why must you be so cruel as to deny the title an heir, and me a grandchild?"

Her voice wavered, and Monty caught the sorrow in her tone. He reached for her hand. "I'll give you a grandchild in my own time, Mother," he said. "Have no fear."

"But I do fear," she replied. "I fear that your taste for…" She wrinkled her nose, as if the very thought of his bedroom activities—and activities undertaken in all manner of interesting and imaginative locations—brought about nausea. "…for the more indulgent trappings of bachelor life is diverting you from your duty."

"I've years yet," he replied. "A man is capable of fathering a child later in life. After all, Father—"

"Speak no more of that!" she cried. "Is that what you intend to do—litter the countryside with natural children, while the estate is entailed elsewhere?"

"I've no intention of littering the countryside with bastards," Monty said.

"Such coarse language! I quite despair of you. Lady de Witt has remarked several times that I have the patience of Job when it comes to you. And Countess Ashford said—"

"I care not what those old crones have to say."

"You should care! Our position in Society is revered—and rightly so. But the plague of modern sensibilities is encroaching on our world. You can fool round as much as you wish with those doxies of yours—I know more than most that wives must turn a blind eye. But I fail to see why you cannot find yourself a respectable, well-bred girl to marry and accomplish your duty with."

Devil's toes—Mother's desperation for an heir must have reached new heights if she was signaling her approval of his indulging in extramarital affairs.

But that was something he'd never do. Once married, he'd keep faith with his wife. Having seen his mother turn increasingly bitter after Father sired a child with his mistress, Monty had no wish to cause such pain to any woman he married. Marriage—a true marriage, not just one accepted by Society—required sacrifices and compromises on both sides.

And until the allure of his mistress—or rather, mistresses—had faded, he wasn't ready to abandon the more pleasurable aspects of being a titled, wealthy man of the ton.

"I'll take a wife when I'm ready," he said. "I cannot understand why you insist on plaguing me."

"Because I'm in the right! Why must you torment your poor mother? Think of my heart?"

"I didn't realize you had one."

As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he regretted them. His mother plagued him, but he'd always prided himself in never stooping to his father's level of cruelty.

"If you had a heart, Montague, you wouldn't behave in such an unfeeling…"

He raised his hand. "Mother, I'm tired, and you've taken too much punch. I suggest we call a truce. You're in need of far more congenial company than I can give you, and I'm in need of air."

"So you wish to run away—into the arms of a doxy, I'll warrant."

"Perhaps."

"Mrs. Delacroix will break your heart."

Monty's breath hitched, and he stared at her. How the devil did she know he'd been spending much of the season parting Daniella's thighs?

Her stricken expression dissolved—proof, if he needed it, of her subterfuge—and a sly smile curled her lips. "Mr. Moss was seen entering her establishment last week—or so Lady de Witt told me."

"Many men enter Mrs. Delacroix's…establishment," Monty replied. "That's the point of her. And, as you so beautifully pointed out just now, I have no heart. Now, please excuse me." He inclined his head and turned toward the doors.

"You cannot leave!" his mother said. "How will I get home?"

"In the carriage," he replied. "I shall walk. I may be a disappointment to you, but I'm not such a bad son that I'd leave you with no means of getting home. I'll see you in the morning."

He strode across the dance floor, navigating his way around the couples. An uncomfortable sensation prickled the skin at the back of his neck—as if he were being watched.

His gaze fell on Lady Howard and her daughter. No—they were deep in conversation, admiring some trinket around the vain little debutante's throat. And the maiden aunt with them…

He caught his breath.

She was looking straight at him.

She lowered her gaze, and her body stiffened. She slipped what appeared to be a bracelet off her wrist and twirled it around her forefingers in a rhythmic, repetitive pattern, the candlelight reflecting off the plain gold band.

Had she been watching him?

Then Lady Howard spoke to her and she cringed, then nodded obediently.

No wonder he preferred the company of the demimonde to the savagery of Society ladies! And though Monty set little store by what his father told him, he'd taken one adage to heart.

Son, if you wish to understand what a woman will turn into after you marry her—you only need look at her mother.

Which was why, when he eventually married, the last woman in the world he'd choose would be a daughter of Lady Howard.