Chapter Twenty-Five

"Itrust you didn't disgrace yourself during your stay, Eleanor."

Monty glanced across the table at the straight-backed, brightly clad form of Lady Howard. Since the arrival of the rest of the Howard family, the atmosphere at Rosecombe—which, during the past week, had taken on a relaxed air—had returned to the coldness of propriety and perfect decorum that he'd been brought up to adhere to, and to impose on others.

"O-of course not, Mother."

Eleanor flushed bright red. She pushed her dessert aside, untouched, despite having declared two nights ago that apple pie was her favorite.

She'd hardly touched any of the courses set before her tonight—not since she'd spilled her soup, leaving a bright green stain on the tablecloth, resulting in a haltering apology, prompted by Lady Howard's orders, and a smile of triumph from her younger sister, who was resplendent in a gown of vivid pink, her hair styled in an intricate array of curls.

In fact, from the moment the Howard family descended on Rosecombe, Miss Howard had become, once more, the unresponsive creature who sat at the edge of the ballroom, shrinking back to blend into her surroundings.

Like an animal seeking to conceal itself from predators.

Gone was the laughing young woman with the intelligent expression who had melted Monty's heart when she'd taken his bastard sister into her embrace. Since he'd taken Miss Howard to the school—on a whim at first to irk his mother—Monty had also taken her to the Swifts' farm. His heart had melted when Joe shyly approached her, slipped his hand in hers, then led her outside to meet his favorite sheep.

And she'd taken Olivia into her heart, paying no regard to his sister's illegitimacy. He found himself wondering, as Eleanor had asked so bluntly, why Olivia didn't reside in the great house, rather than hidden away on the edge of the estate.

He glanced across the dining table, where his mother was staring at Lady Howard. Mother met his gaze, arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow, and curled her lip into a sneer. Oblivious of Mother's disapproval, Lady Howard began enthusing about the dinner set. Last night, Eleanor had declared it to be the ugliest she'd ever seen. But tonight, as soon as Mother alluded to the set's worth, Lady Howard declared it the finest in all England, with her daughter Juliette agreeing and stating that she simply must have one like it for her future home.

Her future home. Ye gods—what unfortunate soul had Juliette Howard sunk her talons into?

Sir Leonard, on the other hand, seemed uninterested in his wife's exaggerated enthusiasm, and more concerned for his eldest daughter. Monty even saw the man rolling his eyes when his wife complimented Mother on the quality of the beef, the intricacy of the crystal wineglasses, and even the smoothness of the wax candles.

"What have you done during your stay, child?" Lady Howard asked Eleanor.

"W-walking, and riding, Mother."

Even the tremor in Eleanor's voice had returned.

"The grounds here are delightful. Have you attended a hunt?" Lady Howard leaned toward Monty's mother, as if enjoying a confidence with a bosom friend. "I've tried so hard to persuade Eleanor to join a hunt, for it really is quite the thing, is it not? I quite gave up on her, but perhaps she responded to your influence, Duchess."

Mother glanced at Lady Howard and bestowed upon her a smile of cold politeness.

"I flatter myself when I say that my Juliette was born to be a duchess, but it's gratifying to know that Eleanor, through a little effort on her part, is showing some capability in that area."

"By chasing an animal to its death over the countryside?" a voice asked.

The party fell silent. Lady Marlow, who had spoken, cut a forkful of apple pie and lifted it to her mouth. Then she swallowed and glanced around the table.

Marlow addressed the party. "You must forgive my wife. She's a little out of sorts today, aren't you, my dear?"

"Well!" Lady Howard cried. "I've never heard the like. I'm of a mind to—"

"Of course we forgive Lady Marlow," Monty's mother interjected. "You're only speaking your mind, aren't you, my dear? Over the past fortnight, I've come to appreciate the value of a woman who speaks her mind, rather than one who says what she believes she must say to flatter another."

Oblivious to the insult, Lady Howard nodded, shifting her feathered headdress in the air. "I quite agree, Duchess. Don't you, Juliette?"

Monty's mother pushed her plate aside with half her dessert remaining. "Take it away, James."

A footman approached and picked it up.

"Thank you," she said. "I've lost my appetite. This dinner set is hideous enough to turn even the strongest constitution off a meal. Do you not think so, Miss Howard?"

Eleanor glanced up and colored. "I-I believe so."

Monty stared at his mother as the corners of her mouth creased into a smile. Who the devil was this woman who put a chill in the atmosphere of every room she entered—but now looked at him with something akin to mirth in her eyes, after she had done the unthinkable in publicly thanking the staff?

The rest of the diners set their cutlery down, and the footman circulated around the room, removing their plates.

"I must compliment you, Duchess, on the elegance of your meal," Lady Howard said. "I always find that the quality of the meal reflects on the quality of the hostess, does it not? Only last week, when the Fairchilds came to dinner, Lady Fairchild told me that I was the best—"

Monty scraped his chair back and rose to his feet. "Marlow, Sir Leonard, would you join me for a brandy? Ladies—please excuse us."

Before Lady Howard could resume her speech extolling the virtues of her skills as a hostess, the gentlemen rose and followed Monty out of the dining room.

"Would you excuse me for a minute, Whitcombe?" Sir Leonard asked.

"Of course—James, please attend Sir Leonard, then show him to the library."

"Very good, sir." The footman bowed, then escorted Sir Leonard along the hallway.

Monty led Marlow into the library, poured two glasses of brandy, then raised his glass.

"To the good riddance of unwelcome guests."

"I trust you're not referring to Sir Leonard," Marlow said. "He's good company when not in the presence of ladies."

"You mean when he's found his balls?" Monty gestured toward the door. "Perhaps he deposited them in the privy before dinner and has gone to fetch them."

"Poor fellow," Marlow said. "Do you suppose he entered the marriage state with his eyes open?"

"Does any man enter the marriage state fully aware of what he's getting himself into?"

"I did," Marlow said.

"Your sickeningly happy state is the exception, Marlow. Marriage, for most men, is an afternoon sojourn to church, a day or two of dutiful rutting, followed by a lifetime of regret." Monty waved his glass in an aimless gesture. "I find I'm beginning to understand regret myself, and I have no intention of suffering it more than necessary."

"Regret?" Marlow raised his eyebrows. "Surely you cannot regret attaching yourself to Miss Howard. She's not the sort of woman you'd be expected to wed—but you needn't concern yourself with the opinions of others." He sipped his brandy. "This is a very good bottle."

"Enjoy it while it lasts—there's no more '86 in my cellar."

"There's many worse that you could have chosen."

"Like the '87?" Monty nodded. "A terrible year."

"No, you dolt—I mean worse than Miss Howard."

Monty sighed. "I haven't chosen her. Our engagement is a sham. I won't be marrying her."

"A what?" Marlow spluttered and wiped his mouth. "After berating me for saying it was kind of you to marry Miss Howard, you now tell me that you have no intention of marrying her at all? Bloody hell, Whitcombe, I thought you were a cad, but I didn't think even you could stoop to tricking a respectable young woman—and one less capable than most of weathering heartbreak."

"Miss Howard is aware," Monty said. "She entered into the agreement with her eyes open."

Marlow shook his head. "No matter what you've said to assuage your conscience, I doubt Miss Howard fully understands."

"You do her a disservice," Monty said.

"No, my friend, it's you who does her a disservice. Does Lavinia know?"

"I don't think so."

"You're probably right," Marlow said, "given that you're still in possession of your balls. Lavinia would cut them off and feed them to our farmer's prize porker if she knew. She loves Miss Howard—which is more than I can say for that damned family of hers."

"Ahem."

Monty glanced up at the sound of the footman clearing his throat.

Shit.

Standing beside the footman, his intelligent green gaze flicking from Monty to Marlow and back again, was Sir Leonard Howard.

How much had he heard? His expression was impassive—though, on recollection, Monty hadn't seen any other expression on his face. Perhaps that was how he'd succeeded in business—not just for the sharp intelligence evident in his eyes, but for his ability to conceal his emotions. Doubtless he could have earned himself a fortune at the gaming tables. But, instead, he'd chosen to work for his living, earning a knighthood in the process.

Which was ironic, given that the men and women of the ton were more likely to look upon with favor a man bestowed with luck on the gaming tables than one who soiled his hands with work.

"S-Sir Leonard—may I offer you a brandy?" Monty found himself stuttering, overcome with the knowledge that he was in the company of a better man.

Sir Leonard eyed the decanter, his expression unchanged save for a slight tightening of the corner of his mouth.

"It's an '86," Monty added.

Sir Leonard's eyes narrowed a fraction, as if he were questioning whether Monty intended to impress him merely by virtue of owning a superior cognac.

"I never acquired a taste for brandy," he said.

"Then perhaps—" Monty began, but Sir Leonard interrupted.

"Perhaps we should rejoin the ladies."

Marlow let out a laugh, a tremor in his voice. "Don't you want a few minutes' respite?"

Sir Leonard's eyes darkened, and he set his mouth into a hard line. "I've not seen my daughter for a fortnight, Lord Marlow," he said. Then he flicked his gaze over Monty, and his frown deepened. "I'm anxious to reassure myself that she has been treated well here."

There was no mistaking the tone of Sir Leonard's voice, which made it abundantly clear that he'd already formed a conclusion to the contrary.

Monty drained his glass, then gestured to the door. "Shall we?" he said. "I've no wish to keep you from Eleanor a moment longer than necessary."

Sir Leonard raised an eyebrow at the familiar address, then nodded, and the three men exited the library.

As they approached the drawing room, Lady Howard's voice could be heard cutting through the air. Sir Leonard let out a sigh, and though Monty longed to express his sympathies, he had no wish to subject himself to more of the man's disdain. He found himself wanting Sir Leonard's approval. But, unlike his wife, the shrewd man was impervious to flattery.

Monty led them into the drawing room.

Good—Jenkins had followed his instructions to the letter. Fewer candles than usual gave the room a homelier appearance, with a softer light unable to reach the furthest corners of the room.

One of which Miss Howard had placed herself in—coincidentally, or perhaps not, on the opposite side of the room to her mother and sister—while she toyed with her bracelet. Lady Marlow sat close to the fireplace, engaged in conversation with Monty's mother.

"Bloody hell, Whitcombe, what's all this?" Marlow asked. "Do you expect your guests to stumble about in the dark?"

"Some of my guests prefer a softer light," Monty said, "and a darker room always seems to mute the conversation. Loud chatter is to be abhorred at the best of times—more so after a lengthy meal."

Sir Leonard glanced across the room at his daughter, and back at Monty.

"Leonard! Over here."

Sir Leonard flinched at his wife's voice. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he sauntered over in her direction.

"You simply must tell the duchess about your newest consignment of silks." Lady Howard leaned toward Monty's mother. "They're the most exquisite colors," she said. "Everyone in London is wild for them. Sir Leonard is very discerning when it comes to his clientele, but he'll make an exception for your modiste."

Monty's mother turned her head, slowly, until she faced Lady Howard, her eyes glittering with warning.

Did the woman ever cease talking? Her voice was enough to induce a megrim in the strongest of constitutions.

Monty approached Miss Howard. "Are you well—Eleanor?"

She nodded, not meeting his gaze, and continued twirling her bracelet.

"It's no trouble, I assure you, Duchess!" Lady Howard cried, and Eleanor visibly shook.

"Mother," Monty said, "might you oblige us with a little music?"

"Of course, dear boy." The dowager rose and crossed the floor to the pianoforte.

Dear boy?

If Mother kept up such cordiality, he'd be obliged to inquire whether she'd taken a bump to the head.

She lowered herself onto the piano stool and began to play a gentle tune. The room seemed to sigh with relief as the air filled with soft music against the backdrop of the crackling of the fire. Not even Lady Howard would dare talk over the performance of a duchess.

Monty sat beside Eleanor and reached for her. She hesitated, then placed her hand over his.

What greater pleasure was there to be had, here in his home—and in the company of a remarkable young woman—away from the harsh chatter of Society?

What a pity their arrangement was soon to come to an end!

The evening drew to a close, and James escorted the dowager to her carriage, while the remainder of the guests dispersed to their various chambers.

Lady Marlow beckoned to Miss Howard. "Come along, Eleanor—we've an early start in the morning."

"I'll escort Miss Howard to her chamber, Lady Marlow," Monty said.

She narrowed her eyes. "I don't think that's entirely—"

"It's all right, Lavinia," Miss Howard said.

"Very well," Lady Marlow said, "but mind you treat my friend with respect."

What a harridan she was! Did she think that as soon as her back was turned, Monty would toss up Miss Howard's skirts and fuck her against the wall?

Saints alive!

He drew in a sharp breath as his cock stiffened against his breeches at the delicious notion of Miss Howard's eyes wide with surprise, and dark with need, as he pounded inside her, pinning her to the wall while she writhed in pleasure and screamed his name.

She tipped her face up, her soulful eyes breaching the armor that encased his heart.

He took her hand. "I find myself somewhat melancholy tonight," he said.

"How so?"

"My house will be empty once more tomorrow."

"You'll still have your mother, and"—she lowered her voice—"Olivia is only a short walk away."

Yes—his half-sister was merely a walk away, though he found himself cursing the rules of propriety that kept her from the main house.

But didn't he rule over Rosecombe? In which case, he should be able to decide for himself what must be, and not be dictated by tradition merely because it was how others before him had behaved. Olivia deserved her place in his family as much as…

No—do not tread that path.

"Tomorrow you will be leaving us, Miss Howard," he said.

You fool! Can you not think of anything better to say?

"Yes," she replied. "Will you return to London also?"

"I'll follow in a few days. Rest assured, I intend to carry out my duty. I shan't abandon you once our arrangement is concluded."

"Won't you?"

"I'll not break our engagement until I'm satisfied that your future is set."

Her eyes widened. "Do you intend to find me a husband?"

"Did I not promise to assist you in that quarter?"

"Yes—but perhaps I don't want one anymore," she said. "I've no wish to marry if I cannot find a man to accept me for who—and what—I am, and who'll give me the freedom to pursue my dreams, no matter what. But perhaps such a man does not exist."

She was right. No man who walked the earth came close to deserving her.

"I should thank you, Your Grace," she said.

"Montague, please."

She hesitated, as if negotiating a dilemma, then nodded. "Montague. You've helped me see the world with different eyes—and shown me that there's a whole world outside the little circle in which I've been confined all my life. Though the prospect is terrifying, I'm convinced I can make a life for myself—without being a burden to others."

He squeezed her hand and lifted it to his lips. "Eleanor, you could never be a burden. Whatever you decide to do—and whomever you choose to spend your life with—you will always brighten the world around you."

She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held firm.

"No—Eleanor," he whispered. "Let me speak frankly. I might have taught you a few inane phrases to navigate yourself around a shallow Society—but I'm the one who's benefited the most from our arrangement."

"Because of your mother?"

He shook his head. "I might have set out intending to silence my mother—but I have benefited so much from your companionship. You've shown me how to look at the world with different eyes—with your eyes. And for that, I shall be eternally grateful."

He lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers. "Goodnight—Eleanor. I promise that if there's anything I can give you, you only need ask."

She curled her fingers around his, then opened her mouth, as if to speak. But she colored and withdrew, and his heart ached at the yearning in her expression.

He caught her hand. "Eleanor—tell me what you desire."

"I-I don't…"

"You do, my love—I can see it in your eyes. Tell me."

She drew in a deep breath, as if summoning courage.

"I-I want to be loved," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"You are loved, Eleanor. You have friends who care—"

"No!" She let out a low cry. "I-I mean, loved properly. J-just once. So I know what it's like."

She met his gaze, and his heart ached at the tears in her eyes. The pain in their expression told him of the risk she had taken in making such an honest plea—a plea from the heart.

But he couldn't do that to her—no matter how greatly he desired it.

"Oh, Eleanor," he said, his voice hoarse. "You know not what you ask."

"I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have presumed…"

"Sweet Lord, you presume right!" he cried. "But I cannot ruin you, Eleanor—and ruin you I would."

"Do you think I care?" she asked. "I'm never likely to marry. I thought I might, once, but not now. Not after…" She shook her head. "Would you deny me this one request? It means so little to you—but to me…" She shuddered as she caught her breath. "It would mean so much."

Her voice, an agonized whisper, spoke to his soul. He drew her to him, burying his head in her hair and inhaling her sweet scent.

"Oh, Eleanor—you're so wrong," he said. "How can it mean so little to me when I've thought of nothing else this past fortnight? My body and soul are in agony for the want of you. But if you yield to me now, we will cross the threshold beyond which we can never return—beyond which I'll be unable to resist the urge to bury myself inside you until you scream my name."

She tensed, and for a moment, he thought she'd bolt, like a spooked filly. But, slowly and carefully, she curled her fingers around his hand and lifted it to her lips. Desire fizzed through him as she flicked her tongue across the back of his hand.

Sweet Lord—what might she look like, kneeled before him, ready to worship his body, her eyes lifted to his?

"Please…"

That single word, spoken through her soft lips, was enough to breach his defenses. He swept her into his arms and strode along the hallway to her chamber.