Chapter Thirty-Two

Monty climbed out of the carriage, then walked past the row of servants who, at a sharp word from Jenkins, bowed and curtseyed in unison. The butler creaked into a bow, his body bearing a greater resemblance to a devil's coach horse beetle than it had when…

…when she had visited.

With Eleanor beside him, he'd struggled to suppress the urge to giggle at the butler's absurdities—but faced with Jenkins's impassive expression, the urge to laugh receded.

"Welcome home, Your Grace."

"Thank you, Jenkins." Monty brushed past the butler and entered the hallway.

The main house, which he'd always thought overly large, now seemed cavernous, desolate, and empty. As if a chasm existed that had not been there before. A chasm in the shape of…

"Your Grace!"

Monty startled at the butler's voice. "What is it?"

"I've been asking what time you'll be wanting dinner?"

"Do I look like I care?" Monty snapped.

Save a slight widening of the eyes, Jenkins showed no reaction.

Monty softened his voice. "Forgive me—I'm rather tired."

This time, the butler's eyebrows shot up almost through his hairline, and Monty suppressed a laugh at the fact that incivility was met with stoicism, but an apology for said incivility was met with surprise.

But there was nobody to share his observation with—nobody to appreciate the irony.

"I'll take dinner whenever the dowager wishes it."

"Her Grace is not joining you tonight."

Well that, if nothing else, was something to be thankful for.

Monty shed his coat and hat and tossed them to a nearby footman while he pulled off his gloves.

"Would you like tea, sir?"

"No. I'll take an early supper then retire. I'll dine at seven."

"Very good." Jenkins bowed, then gestured to the rest of the servants, who moved back like a receding tide before disappearing to go about their lives. Monty found himself envying them and their days filled with occupation, giving them little time to sit idly and wonder what might have been.

Devil's toes—since when had he grown so melancholy?

He climbed the main staircase, moving absent-mindedly forward until he reached his bedchamber. It was a room he rarely entered during the day—a functional room in which he slept and did little else. Each day he rose from the bed and entered his dressing room, where his valet stood waiting to tend to his every whim. And each night, he reversed the process, standing meekly while his valet peeled off his clothes, then slipped into his bed, falling asleep as soon as he lay down, with no thought for the men and women who strove to ensure that the room was kept tidy, the sheets clean, and the fire made.

But today the room served a different purpose. He crossed the floor, slipped his hand beneath the mattress, pulled out a piece of paper, and unfolded it.

There she was, in her naked glory, staring boldly out of the page, a smile of satisfaction on her lips—a smile for him, and him only.

His body tightened at the memory of the pleasures they'd shared. He shifted his legs as his manhood swelled, then he traced the outline of her form with his fingertips, lingering on her breasts, before lowering his gaze to the juncture of her thighs, where paradise awaited…

"Your Grace—sir!"

Monty turned to see his valet standing in the doorway. He folded the drawing and hid it behind his back, his cheeks warming as if he were a schoolboy caught fisting himself.

"What do you want?" he growled.

"Nothing, sir—I was just unpacking your trunk."

"Then get on with it."

"Very good, sir." The valet turned to go, but Monty held up his hand.

"No, wait. Have Mr. Gregory meet me in my study. As soon as possible."

"Very good, sir."

As soon as Wilkins was safely out of the way, Monty slipped the drawing back underneath the mattress. Then he set off for his study.

He might never see her again, but she would live on in Rosecombe. To honor her—and to honor what was right—significant changes needed to be made.

The first of those was to set up proper funding for the school—hire a schoolteacher to assist Olivia. And the second…

He would publicly recognize Olivia as his sister so that she'd never have cause to feel shame for her birth. Olivia was a Whitcombe. Anyone who objected to that could go to hell.

Perhaps it was a shame, after all, that Mother wouldn't be joining him for dinner tonight. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see the look on her face when he told her.

Nothing except the notion that Eleanor—his Eleanor—might be proud of him if she knew what he was doing in her honor.

But Eleanor—who might, even now, be enjoying Colonel Reid's courtship—would never know.