Chapter Twenty

Rosecombe Park, Hertfordshire, August 1815

"Stand to!"

An order rang out as Monty stepped outside. At once, the waiting servants stiffened and stood to attention, forming a line from the main steps.

He smiled to himself. Perhaps Jenkins thought himself an officer. Standing at the head of the line, body stiff and erect, a thick mustache adorning his face, the black-clad butler looked every bit the officious general. Standing beside him, the housekeeper rolled her eyes, then glanced at him with a look of sisterly affection.

"Is everything ready for our guests, Mrs. Adams?" Monty asked.

"Yes, Your Grace," she replied. "The guests' bedchambers have been cleaned and aired. Miss Howard is in the green room, like you asked. And there was enough ice for sorbet tonight."

"And dinner will be…?"

"At seven, on account of the dowager joining us. Tea will be ready as soon as your guests arrive."

"Where?"

"I thought the blue room in the west wing," the housekeeper said. "It catches the sun at this time of day, as you know."

Which Monty didn't, given how little time he spent in that room. In fact, he spent little time on the estate, preferring to leave the management to Mr. Gregory, rather than have his steward endure an incompetent duke bumbling about the place with his ill-thought-out ideas. In fact, Monty spent most of his time at his country seat trying, and failing, to stave off boredom, staying still like an obedient child while his valet tended to him—tying his cravat in a knot that he'd had never learned to master himself—and wishing the day was drawing to a close before it even begun.

Until today.

Today he did have something to look forward to.

And there it was—in the form of a carriage, turning into the driveway, swaying gently to and fro as it moved closer, accompanied by the sounds of a whip cracking in the air and horses' hooves crunching on gravel.

The servants' chatter ceased as the carriage, the Marlow family crest emblazoned on the side, drew to a halt. Two footmen rushed toward the carriage and opened the door, then stood in attendance.

Marlow climbed out, followed by his wife. Monty waited, but there was no sign of anyone else.

Surely she'd not shied away from coming?

Then Lady Marlow stuck her head inside the carriage.

"Eleanor, we're here." She lowered her voice to an almost indiscernible whisper. "There's nothing to fear, dearest."

Marlow glanced toward Monty and gave an apologetic smile. Monty frowned at his friend, then strode toward the carriage.

"Miss Howard?"

A shape moved inside the carriage, then her face appeared in the doorway—pale skinned, the expression in her eyes reminiscent of a deer caught in a trap.

"I…" she began, then hesitated.

Monty offered his hand, but she merely stared at it. Then he caught sight of her maid climbing down from the back of the carriage.

Of course! What had the maid said the last time Miss Howard seemed unwell—that she became overwhelmed when a lot was happening around her?

He glanced over his shoulder at the front fa?ade of Rosecombe Hall. He'd known the building all his life, but this time, he viewed it through her eyes. Instead of his home, he saw an imposing structure three stories high, fashioned from cold gray stone, the central part topped with a dome, with two sections stretching either side, dotted with row upon row of windows, like multiple eyes looking outward. At the foot of the building, a row of servants in neat uniforms, their eyes on her—and at the end, a black-clad, dour-faced man whose spindly legs and imposing demeanor had the air of a predatory insect.

Devil's coach horse beetle—that was what Monty had called Jenkins as a boy. Harmless enough—benevolent, even—but he delivered a sharp bite when provoked. Metaphorically, of course—but Monty had felt the sting of the old man's tongue when he was caught stealing claret from the cellar. Jenkins was kind enough—but he was a stickler for tradition and decorum, and he didn't suffer fools gladly.

What would he make of Miss Howard and her eccentricities?

Monty turned back to her. "I'm so glad you've come," he said. "I hope you didn't find the journey too overwhelming—and I apologize if you did."

She stared at him, and his heart gave a little jolt at her clear emerald gaze.

"Apologize?"

"For insisting you travel all the way out here and be subjected to all this." He gestured toward the building. "But have no fear—it's less imposing inside, and you're free to come and go as you please. You must treat it as your own home."

She shook her head. "Oh, no—I couldn't possibly…"

"But it will be your home very soon, will it not, Miss Howard?" Marlow said. "I'm sure you'll take no time at all finding your way around. By this time tomorrow, you'll be wondering why you were so—"

He broke off as Lady Marlow gave him a sharp nudge, but it didn't take a great intellect to work out how he was going to finish.

…so frightened.

Monty helped her out of the carriage, then hooked her arm through his. His heart soared as she leaned against him.

"There!" he said softly. "Did I not promise to take care of you—Eleanor?"

She gave a shy smile at his use of her name, and he caught a faint blush on her cheeks.

Monty nodded toward the row of servants. "Ready to face the troops?"

She let out a giggle, and he steered her toward the row of men and women, who—given that news traveled faster below stairs than above—were doubtless eager to see the woman who was to become their new mistress.

Or the woman they believed would be their new mistress.

Each servant bowed and curtseyed as Monty passed them, until they reached the butler.

"This is Jenkins," Monty said. "He runs a tight battalion," he couldn't help adding.

Miss Howard giggled again, and extended her hand toward the butler. Then she withdrew and colored.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Jenkins," she said. "I meant no offense."

"None taken, Miss Howard. And it's just Jenkins."

"Oh dear, yes," she replied, her color deepening. "I'm always forgetting that sort of thing. Papa doesn't mind, of course. Mother would be ashamed if she were here. But I always think it's polite to address someone as Mr., Mrs., or Miss, rather than just using their surname. A surname on its own has a certain abruptness to it. I mean—the other servants address you as Mr. Jenkins, do they not?"

Jenkins arched his eyebrows so high that they were in danger of disappearing off the top of his forehead. Miss Howard stiffened and shifted closer to Monty, as if seeking protection.

Then the butler's mouth cracked into a smile. "It's something I've never considered, miss," he said. "But it's part of the tradition that has existed for generations. Without tradition, mankind risks descending into savagery."

"I like rules," Miss Howard said. "There's comfort in knowing exactly what to do, and say, rather than having to work it out for oneself. But I cannot understand the sense in maintaining a tradition for the sake of it. Some rules can be unfair. For example, Harriet is expected to sit outside the carriage while I'm inside—even if it's raining, and—"

She broke off, and her hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh! I'm so sorry for rattling on. I never know when to speak and when to stay silent. I don't know what came over me."

"I do, miss," the butler said, and Monty gritted his teeth. Miss Howard may not behave as a Society lady ought, but she didn't deserve Jenkins's disapprobation.

"Wh-what's that?" she asked, her voice wavering.

"A sense of justice."

Then the butler winked—he actually winked!—before bowing and addressing Monty.

"Your Grace," he said, the pomposity in his tone returning, "perhaps you should escort your guests inside. There's a nip in the air. Lord Marlow, Lady Marlow—how pleasant to see you again."

"Thank you, Jenkins," Marlow said as he approached the butler, arm in arm with his wife.

Monty escorted Miss Howard inside. She flicked her gaze around the main hallway, then tilted her head back to look at the ceiling. "I hadn't expected it to be so huge!"

The little devil in his head let out a chuckle, and his manhood hardened at the thought of Miss Howard uttering those words in the bedchamber—her eyes and mouth wide open with wonder, before he led her on the path to her first climax.

Oh, to imagine the pleasure to be had at watching her writhing beneath him, surrendering her willing body before screaming his name as he buried himself inside her!

"Y-Your Grace?"

Her inquiry returned him to the present, and he patted her hand and smiled. "Tea?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Marlow said before Miss Howard could reply. "Does your cook still make that fruitcake? The one glazed in honey, with the toasted almonds on top?" He turned to his wife. "My love, you simply must try some. And you, of course, Miss Howard."

"I-I suppose so," Miss Howard said quietly.

"Or perhaps you wish to take your rest?" Monty suggested.

A flicker of hope ignited in her eyes, then she shook her head. "No, I ought to stay up."

"Why, because you think it's the rule?" Monty teased, then his conscience jabbed at him at the distress in her expression. He dipped his head, bringing his mouth tantalizingly close to her lips. "Some rules ought not to be adhered to."

Then he waved over the housekeeper.

"Mrs. Adams, have someone show Miss Howard to her chamber, then send for her maid."

"Very good, sir." The housekeeper offered her arm. "Come with me, my dear. A rest will do you good after being cooped up in that carriage. Traveling can be exhausting, even if you're sitting, I always find."

I always find?Monty couldn't recall the last time Mrs. Adams set foot outside the estate, let alone actually traveled anywhere. But her kind words had the desired effect, and Miss Howard smiled, then took the proffered arm.

"I am a little tired," she said.

"Of course you are, my dear! Come along and we'll make sure you're well rested in time for the evening. Dinner's at seven."

"I shouldn't need that long."

"You can join us when you've had your rest," Monty said. "Or, if you're eager to view the painting, I—or anyone else here—can take you to it."

"Thank you."

The housekeeper led Miss Howard across the hall. Monty watched them ascend the staircase, then they veered right at the turn and disappeared along the upper hallway.

Jenkins stood in the doorway, his gaze fixed on Miss Howard. But rather than the aloof disapproval that the butler bestowed on the majority of Rosecombe's female houseguests, Monty could swear he saw something akin to cordiality.

Or—dare he say it—approval.

Then Jenkins scuttled off to resume his duties, barking orders to every servant he passed, while Monty steered Lord and Lady Marlow toward the parlor for tea.

Perhaps it was a figment of Monty's imagination, swelled by wishful thinking, but he could swear that Jenkins—who'd been at Rosecombe for so many years that he was part of the fabric of the building, and who was notorious for disliking everybody, both upstairs and downstairs—had stumbled across a person whom he actually liked.

And that, if nothing else, set Miss Howard apart from every other creature in the world.

*

Monty pulled outhis pocket watch and flipped it open.

Twenty past six. Enough time to return to the house before the dressing gong. Most likely, his valet would already be fussing around his dressing room, setting out an array of waistcoats and cravats for him to choose from. Didn't the man know he cared not which one he wore? There were more important things in life than whether his waistcoat matched his necktie.

Marlow and his wife were likely to be engaging in a more energetic pursuit—and certainly a more enjoyable one.

Unwilling to be forced to hear their cries of pleasure, Monty had slipped outside for air. Why the devil had Mrs. Adams put them in the red guest room? It was far too close to his own bedchamber, which meant that he'd be treated to their screams of ecstasy all night—that was, if Marlow had spoken the truth about his wife's talents in the bedchamber.

But a woman that feisty—and Lady Marlow was one of the feistiest women he'd met—was bound to provide excellent bed sport. No man wanted his bed partner to close her eyes and lie back, waiting for her ordeal to be over. No, he wanted a woman with a mind of her own who required a greater effort on his part before she eventually surrendered.

For, as all men knew, the chase, and the final conquest, were always better than what came after—a lifetime of being bound to the same woman forever.

Along the path back to the house, Monty spied a lone figure leaning against a fence, looking into the field beyond where a horse stood grazing at the far end, the roof of the stable building visible in the background.

Sketchbook in hand, her pencil sweeping across the page, it was Miss Howard.

As he approached, she startled and looked around.

"Oh, Your Grace! I didn't know you were outside."

"Nor I you," he said. "Weren't you supposed to be resting?"

"Yes, but I saw the horse as we came up the drive earlier today."

"And you felt compelled to draw him," he said. "Why didn't you say so?"

"Everyone was so keen on my taking a rest that I didn't want to cause offense," she said. "I did rest for a while. I didn't realize how tired I was until I reached my room—which is beautiful, by the way. I love the color particularly; it reminds me of…" She colored, then sighed. "I'm doing it again, aren't I? I always talk too much when I'm…"

"Nervous?" he prompted. "There's no reason to be. I meant it when I said to treat Rosecombe as your home." He gestured to the sketchbook. "May I?"

She nodded and held it out. He took it and studied the page. She had drawn a horse—more specifically, his horse. It was as if the animal stared out at him from the page. No item of detail was missing, from the heavy-lidded, thick-lashed eyes, to the velvety soft, slightly flared nostrils, to the white mark on the animal's forehead in the shape of a butterfly.

"It's Hercules!" he cried. "But how can you depict such detail from a distance? He's at the opposite end of the field, yet this portrait is accurate down to the last whisker! Do you possess an eyeglass, or inhuman eyesight?"

She let out a soft laugh, and his breeches tightened at her relaxed manner. She laughed so rarely that each occasion was to be savored—and his hungry body reacted with pleasure and need in equal amounts.

"He came over to say hello when I arrived," she said. "Just for a moment—then he lost interest and galloped over to the other side."

"He's a little restless at the moment," Monty replied. "One of the mares is in season—which is why he's been put out here."

Her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink. "Oh," she said, her mouth forming a delectable, round circle.

"But you were still able to sketch his likeness," Monty said.

"He was with me long enough for me to commit him to memory. But it's still not accurate." She turned the sketch upside down and stared at it for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I see it—around the mouth, see?"

No, Monty didn't see—and nor did he see the point in turning a picture upside down.

"It's so I can see the drawing on the page, rather the drawing in my mind," she said.

Bugger—he must have said that aloud.

"When we look at something the right way up, our mind often replaces what's really there with what we wish, or expect, to see," she continued. "But invert the image, or look at its reflection in a mirror—we can see beyond what's in our mind, and the flaws become more apparent. More importantly, we see where the flaws are, and can remedy them."

She turned the sketch upright, then made a few pencil strokes around the horse's mouth.

"Yes, I think that's satisfactory."

"Satisfactory? It's exquisite," he said. "Hercules is here on the page. It's not merely a drawing—it's the essence of him."

Her blush deepened and she closed the sketchbook.

"Did you manage to see the Stubbs?" Monty asked. "I asked Mrs. Adams to tell the staff to direct you to it."

She looked away. "I-I didn't like to ask. Everyone seemed so busy, rushing about the house."

"You'll see it after dinner, when we retire to the drawing room," he said. "My mother knows more about the painting's history than I—she can tell you about it."

Her eyes widened. "Your mother's here?"

"She lives in the dower house, but she often dines in the main house when I'm at home. Tonight's no exception."

Miss Howard tried—and failed—to disguise the horror in her eyes, and she looked away.

"Do you ride?" he asked.

"Oh," she said, resuming her attention on him. "Not really. I tried it a few times, but I never saw the point. Mother and Juliette ride. They've been on a hunt—but it's not something I'd enjoy, thundering across the countryside in pursuit of a creature, only to see it being torn apart by dogs at the end."

Put like that, Monty also struggled to see the appeal.

"Let me introduce you to someone whom I think you'd like," he said, offering his arm.

"Who?" Her eyes widened and she glanced around, as if expecting an ambush.

"Lady Star."

"Are there more guests?" she asked, her voice tight. "I-I thought it was just Lavinia and Lord Marlow. Is it a large party tonight?"

"Lady Star is a horse."

"Oh—you must think me an awful simpleton."

"On the contrary, I assure you," he said. "I'm at fault for having given my horses such ridiculous names. But the personification of animals is a common practice. My mother's named each of her dogs and speaks to them as if they are favored children. I daresay you've done the same for your pets?"

"I've never had a pet," she said.

"Oh, forgive me—if you're not fond of animals, there's no need to go to the stables. We can return to the house. It's almost time to dress for dinner, anyway."

"Oh no—I adore animals," she said. "At least—well—I find large animals a little intimidating, as you never know what they might do. But dogs—" She broke off and sighed. "It doesn't matter."

Clearly it did, but he prided himself in knowing a little more about her than he did at first—enough to know that, sometimes, it was best not to pursue her on matters. Sometimes it was best to let her say in her own time what was on her mind without forcing it out of her.

As they entered the stable yard, a groom appeared, carrying a bale of hay. He stopped and dipped his head. "Your Grace, sir. Are you wanting to ride?"

"No, Sam, I wish to introduce Miss Howard to Lady Star."

"Beggin' yer pardon, miss." The groom set the hay aside, then tipped his cap toward Miss Howard. "Lady Star's in the first stall."

"Not the far one?" Monty asked.

"No, sir. On account of Hercules…" The groom glanced at Miss Howard and blushed, which turned even the tips of his ears pink. "I-I had to move Artemis to the far stall."

"Very good, Sam." Monty steered Miss Howard toward the first stall, and its occupant approached the door.

"Hello, my beauty," he said, holding out his hand. The horse nudged his hand with its nose, and he let out a laugh. "Forgive me, I've nothing for you, but perhaps Sam does?"

"Of course, sir—there's some apple cores sent from the kitchen this morning." The groom scuttled off and returned with a bag. Monty reached inside and took one. The horse's lips quivered, and Miss Howard let out a giggle.

"Would you like to give her an apple core?" Monty asked.

"Oh…" She hesitated. "I-I don't know."

"Let me show you." Monty held the apple core in his hand, palm flat, and the horse took it. Then he rubbed the horse's nose, and the animal gave a low nicker of pleasure. "Now your turn."

She drew out an apple core.

"Keep your palm flat," he said. "That way she'll take the apple core and leave your hand behind." She hesitated, and he leaned toward her. "Trust me—Eleanor."

She met his gaze, and he smiled his encouragement. Then she held out her hand, and the horse deftly plucked the apple core from her palm.

"There's a good girl," she said softly, then reached out and stroked the horse's nose. Monty held his breath, and the animal grew still, as if it were doing likewise. Miss Howard continued to caress the horse's nose. Then, seemingly emboldened, she placed her hand on the animal's face. The horse blew out a soft breath from its nostrils and leaned against Miss Howard until their heads touched.

"She likes you, miss," the groom said. "She doesn't always take to strangers."

"Lady Star, meet Eleanor," Monty said. "Eleanor—meet Lady Star. Would you like to ride her during your stay?"

"I don't know…"

"She'll do for you, miss," the groom said. "She has the sweetest temperament—with the right rider."

"You don't want me to ride in a hunt, do you?" she asked.

"I was thinking of a tour of the estate—and perhaps a picnic at the end if the weather's nice enough," Monty replied. "There's plenty of fine spots just right for sketching. In fact, I know of a rather fine tree stump."

"The one by the lake, sir?" the groom asked. "That's a rare, fine spot for a picnic, miss, if you don't mind my saying."

"I don't mind at all," Miss Howard said. "In which case, I'd love to—if it's not too much trouble."

"Nothing's too much trouble," Monty said. "Besides, we've been planning this, haven't we, Sam?"

"Aye, that's right, sir," the groom said. "I'll make sure to pack a bag of apple cores for you, miss, for Lady Star."

"Oh, would you?" she cried. "That'd be so kind, Sam, thank you. Oh—I'm quite looking forward to it now. That is, if I'm able to keep my seat."

"You'll have no trouble with Lady Star," the groom said, patting the horse's nose. "The master will be there to help you—he's an excellent rider. And Lady Star here responds well to a gentle temperament such as yours."

"You're very kind, Sam."

The groom colored. "It's not kindness when I speak the truth, miss."

Monty smiled at the adoration in the groom's eyes. The shy, awkward young lad seemed utterly smitten with Miss Howard.

And she seemed utterly oblivious. Most young women would have taunted him, or demand he be punished for his familiarity. But Miss Howard spoke to him as if he were an equal.

"Thank you, Sam—you may continue with your duties," Monty said.

The groom tipped his cap again, then picked up the hay bale and disappeared into one of the stalls. Monty took Miss Howard's hand and hooked it around his arm, as if she belonged by his side, then steered her out of the courtyard.

"You've made quite an impression on young Sam, Miss Howard."

"Oh dear," she replied. "I suppose most of your guests know a great deal more about horses than I. Perhaps he was just being polite when he said I'd be able to ride her."

Monty stopped and drew her close. Her eyes widened as she tipped her face up to meet his gaze, and the desire that had been swirling deep within him came to the fore.

"He was not being polite," he whispered. "And neither am I when I say you're the most extraordinary woman I know."

She lowered her gaze. "Your Grace, I must insist—"

"No, Eleanor," he said, unable to conquer the hoarseness in his voice, and her gaze snapped back up, eyes widening to large emerald pools into which he yearned to dive. "Do not suggest that I'm anything but honest with you when I say that you are a jewel among women, and Rosecombe is all the better for having you here."

"Your Grace, I—"

"Montague," he said, his voice a low growl in his throat. "You must call me Montague."

"Montague…"

His name on her lips was more than his resolve could withstand. Surrendering to his desires, he lowered his head and captured her lips. She let out a low cry of need and parted them, inviting him in. But before he could claim her, a familiar sound echoed through the air.

Curse that bloody gong!

He withdrew and sighed. "That's the dressing gong for dinner," he said.

"You have a gong for dressing?"

"I do. It acts as a warning."

"A warning of what?"

"That if I'm not in my dressing room in five minutes, I'll be in for a dressing-down from my valet."

She let out a laugh. "I can't imagine Harriet being cross with me. Not like…" Her voice trailed off, but she had no need to finish.

Devil's toes—no wonder she hid behind a thick shell, or always seemed to be searching for a quiet corner in which to melt into the shadows. She seemed to have been underappreciated and misunderstood by everybody, save for a few individuals who looked beyond her eccentric exterior to the pure soul within—such as her maid, Lady Marlow, and now Sam.

And, of course, Monty himself. The more he saw of that pure soul, the more he resolved to ensure she would be placed in safe hands when they came to part—even if those hands were not his.