Chapter Twenty-Three

There was nothing pleasanter than spending a day outside, in the country, away from the expectations and demands that came with a dukedom.

Monty drew in a lungful of air, relishing the sweet scent of summer blossom and the sounds of the countryside—the whisper of the wind in the trees, the distant lowing of cows, and the gentle ripple of water. Near the edge of the lake, Marlow and his wife strolled side by side, she leaning on his arm while he held a parasol above them both.

Was there ever a couple so much in love? Last night, Marlow couldn't have been more attentive to his wife. But while a few weeks ago Monty might have sneered at Marlow's gallantry, last night his heart had swelled at the notion of two people caring so deeply for each other that the happiness of their loved one ranked above their own.

It was certainly not a state his mother had enjoyed. Her marriage with Father had been the grandest match of their Season—a perfect union by Society's standards. But Father's philandering had turned Mother into a resentful wife, an aloof parent, and now a bitter widow.

As Monty looked across the landscape, his gaze settled on Miss Howard sitting on a blanket, her sketchbook on her knees while she worked away, occasionally glancing up at her subject—the horse chestnut tree stump.

Eccentric, unfathomable—even awkward—she may be, but she was a woman who could never be deemed bitter, aloof, or resentful. She would never fit into the world's ideal of a Society marriage. She would either rise above it or…

Or she would be crushed beneath it.

Miss Howard's prospects for a match might increase once their arrangement was concluded, but she needed to be matched with the right man, if not one who appreciated her for what she was—but at least a man who would not confine her or stifle her personality.

"Montague."

Monty glanced across to where his mother sat beneath a canopy, a footman beside her holding a parasol—though, unlike Lord Marlow, he was doing it out of a sense of duty, rather than love.

"Are you hungry, Mother?" he asked, reaching for a plate of sandwiches.

She shook her head, then gestured toward Miss Howard. "What in the name of the Almighty do you think you're doing, Montague?"

"Having a picnic."

The stoic expression on the footman's face almost disintegrated into a smile.

"You know perfectly well what I'm asking, boy."

Boy?Was he a child to be admonished, then sent to bed with no supper?

"Enlighten me, please, Mother," he said.

"I'm asking why you're trying to deceive me?"

"Deceive you?"

"Me—and perhaps the whole of Society. Do you take me for a simpleton?"

"What do you mean?" Monty asked.

"That your engagement is a sham!"

This time the footman lost his composure. He drew in a sharp breath and stared at Monty open-mouthed.

"Mother, I don't think—"

"Tell me I'm wrong, Montague," she said. "Look me in the eye and say that you honestly intend to marry Miss Howard."

The footman tensed.

"Mother…"

"You owe me the truth, if nothing else," she said. Then she gestured toward Miss Howard. "And you owe it to her."

Monty sighed and dropped the plate of sandwiches back into the basket.

"No," he said quietly. "I don't intend to marry her."

The footman frowned, disapproval in his eyes.

"You must send Miss Howard home at once," Mother said.

"Why, because she's not grand enough for you?" he snapped.

"No, Montague," she replied coldly. "It's because keeping her here is stooping to a depth of cruelty I'd have thought beyond you. Your father might have taken pleasure in toying with a perfectly pleasant young woman—but I thought better of you."

"It's not like that, Mother," he said. "Miss Howard is aware of the circumstances of our engagement, and she agreed to them."

"Agreed, perhaps, but willingly? Was she party to the decision, or did you merely tell her?"

"I told her, but—"

"When did you tell her, Montague? The night of your proposal? Miss Howard told me that you hadn't spoken a word to her until that evening—and that she believed you weren't even aware of her existence until then."

Devil's toes—put like that, it made him sound like the very worst of cads.

"I told her the following morning," he said, his cheeks warming with shame.

"I thought I'd raised you better than that, Montague."

"You didn't raise me at all, Mother."

"Must you answer back all the time?" she cried. "Miss Howard is a charming creature, though she'd make a hopeless mistress of Rosecombe."

"Why's that?" Monty asked. "All a duchess need do is give birth to dukes and do what she's told."

"You underestimate what I did for your father if you think that. A duchess is at the pinnacle of Society. She must instill awe and respect in everyone she encounters. She must run a household steeped in responsibility and tradition, with none to help her, and maintain a position of superiority among the tenants and staff. And, not only that, she must turn a blind eye to her husband's roving one."

There it is.

"Mother, why must you always hark back to my sister?"

To his credit, the footman tried his best to remain stoic, but he couldn't disguise the sharp intake of breath at Monty's reference to the disgrace that should not be named.

"Must you be so cruel?" she cried. "I've told you not to mention that brat." She gestured toward Miss Howard, who continued with her sketch, oblivious—blissfully so—of the fact that she was being discussed. "I'm thinking of her, Montague. How do you think she'll cope when you inevitably cast her aside in favor of another and spawn a litter of bastards?"

"One child out of wedlock is hardly a litter," Monty said. "Isn't it time you let it go?"

"While that brat lives here, I'll not rest."

"Olivia has as much right to live here as you, Mother," Monty said. "It's not as if you've set eyes on her—she's never been to the house. If you wish to blame anyone for her existence, then blame Father—or, perhaps, ask yourself why he felt the need to look elsewhere."

"I didn't betray Beverly."

"There's more forms of betrayal than taking a mistress," Monty replied.

"Such as tricking a young woman into a false engagement?"

"Miss Howard is perfectly aware—"

"On the surface, yes," she interrupted. "But that young woman is unlike any other I've known. Most girls are like babbling brooks—all noise and chatter, making such a fuss about everything, yet when you look beneath the surface, there's no depth at all. Miss Howard is like the lake at the base of a waterfall—surrounded by noise, itself quiet and accepting, with still, dark waters that appear characterless at first, but when you delve in, you discover a depth previously unheard of."

Monty shook his head. "You talk in riddles, Mother. You've made your disapproval of her very clear, and now you speak in her defense."

"I caught a glimpse of the depths beneath her surface," she said. "Last night, she revealed something of her mind. This morning, she revealed something of her heart."

"Her heart?"

She nodded. "At first I thought her an awkward little thing, trying—and failing—to engage in conversation. Until I touched on a subject about which she was passionate. Then her true nature came to the fore. I cannot recall the last time someone spoke to me as she did, in defense of something she cared about."

"Which was?"

She shook her head. "It matters not. I believe she said more than she intended. It would be unfair to divulge what she said."

Monty stared at his mother. He'd rarely heard her speak with such softness. Perhaps she possessed a heart after all—which had been crushed over the years by the burden of being a duchess.

And perhaps she was right. Even if he'd intended to marry Miss Howard, she could never shoulder that burden.

But a part of him wanted to prove his mother wrong about Miss Howard—as he himself had been proven wrong.