Chapter Six

As Monty descended the steps from Mrs. Delacroix's townhouse, streaks of soft blue light stretched across the sky, heralding the dawn. Daniella—or Doris, as he knew her name to be, but woe betide anyone who uttered it—had begged him to stay for breakfast, doubtless because she thought it would earn her an extra coin.

Why did everyone always want something? Men sought him out either as an ear to listen to their boasts of male prowess, or because they wished to associate themselves with a duke. Doxies wanted the gratification he gave in bed, as well as the trinkets he gave them. Single ladies of rank saw him as a title to bag at the altar, and their mamas saw him as a potential son-in-law to provide for them in their dotage when they'd driven their own husbands into the grave.

And his mother saw him only as a stud to maintain the Whitcombe bloodline.

Take, take, take…

Why was nobody willing to give? Did the world believe that, because of his rank and fortune, he was undeserving of a little consideration that came without a price attached?

Even this morning, as he pulled his breeches on after Daniella's ministrations, she'd initiated a discussion on the quality of silks to be had this Season. At first, she'd remarked on Sir Leonard Howard's ability to procure the most exotic shades. But soon her soliloquy turned to the price of Madame Chassineux's gowns and how, in a world where fashions changed at an alarming pace, a woman of her means could no longer maintain her wardrobe.

To extract himself from her twittering, he'd tipped a handful of coins into the jar she conveniently kept by her bedside, thereby concluding the conversation. He grinned to himself at the recollection of the smile of triumph on Daniella's lips. Did the foolish creature not realize he'd always intended to pay her for their night of continuous rutting? Her tales of woe only served to increase his contempt.

Bloody women—they're all the same.

Though perhaps they weren't, if the contented expressions in Thorpe and Marlow's eyes at White's last week were to be believed. Even that curmudgeonly old fossil Hardwick had been seen trotting along Rotten Row, a look of bliss in his eyes, his pretty young wife on his arm, unashamedly displaying her delicate state of health. And what had Hardwick said when Monty attempted to ridicule his slavish devotion?

"Whitcombe, my boy—you fail to understand the difference between a loving wife and a mistress. A loving wife wishes to please her husband for his own sake, and she takes her own pleasure from doing so."

Daniella, for all that she was talented, sought only her own gratification. Even when she'd kneeled at his feet last night, lips parted in anticipation of pleasuring his cock, she couldn't hide the greed from her eyes—the anticipation, not of pleasure, but of coin.

What it must be like to have a wife perform such a service—willingly, on her knees, reaching her peak purely from the prospect of servicing him? A woman who gladly spread herself for him to feast on…

Where could he hope to find such a creature? Not in Society's drawing rooms—nor at the Westburys' damned dinner party, which he'd promised Mother he'd attend tonight.

Perhaps the solution to marital bliss was to choose the very worst kind of woman for a wife.

He drew out his pocket watch. A quarter to seven. Mother would be up by now, waiting at the head of the breakfast table, ready to lecture him on the folly of whoring.

Then a stay of execution beckoned in the shape of the gates leading into Hyde Park. Beyond, a wide expanse of lawn, sloped gently down toward the water, covered with pockets of mist that lingered over the surface. He slipped through the gates and approached the gravel path alongside the lawn. Glistening dewdrops twinkled where the sun's rays penetrated the mist, and he caught a myriad of colors, as if the ground were dotted with diamonds. Soon, they would disappear. But, at that moment, they belonged to him.

And, at that moment, the park was his, and he could appreciate its natural beauty without interruption.

Then he caught sight of a blurred shape through the mist.

A deer, perhaps? It seemed the right size.

Werethere deer in Hyde Park? It was a haven of countryside in the center of town—who knew what manner of wild creatures had made their way here over time to seek refuge?

He stepped forward, and the gravel crunched underfoot, but the creature gave no sign it heard.

Then the mist dispersed, and Monty realized his mistake.

The creature wasn't a deer. It was a woman, sitting on the grass, beside a thick tree stump, the hem of her skirts already stained with the dew.

A servant, perhaps, seeking a moment's respite before her employers demanded breakfast. Though if they saw the state of her dress, she'd be dismissed. Unless, of course, she belonged to one of the more liberal families, such as the Howards, whose fortune had been acquired through trade, rather than inherited.

But he couldn't envisage Lady Howard permitting a lack of decorum among her servants.

Feeling like an errant schoolboy, he slipped behind a nearby rhododendron to observe her unnoticed.

She had a book on her lap, and seemed to be writing, though she continually looked up toward the tree stump, then back down to the page. Each time she looked up, she smiled—not the smile of gratification he'd seen on Daniella's lips half an hour ago, but a genuine smile of contentment.

She stopped writing, placed the journal on her lap, then pulled a bracelet off her wrist, twirling it between her hands—a gesture that seemed familiar…

Of course! The bland little governess from Lady Fairchild's ball.

No—not a governess—Sir Leonard Howard's eldest daughter.

What the bloody hell was she doing? Didn't she realize the risk to her reputation if she were caught grubbing about on the ground? Perhaps she lacked understanding.

Soft in the head—that was how Sawbridge described her, much to Marlow's obvious anger.

A splash echoed in the distance, followed by a volley of quacks. She stretched her arms, slipped the bracelet back on, then tilted her head upward as a beam of sunlight broke through the trees.

Then she turned her face toward the light, and Monty caught his breath.

Her eyes were the most extraordinary color—like an exotic ocean, a rich green, with shades of blue. Illuminated by the sunlight, they radiated intelligence and insight, with a peculiarly intense expression, as if she constantly strived to see beyond the superficial to discern the very essence of the subject she was observing. Then the sunlight faded as a cloud passed over, and she resumed her attention on her journal.

No—not a journal. A sketchbook. From his vantage point he could make out the image of a tree stump on the page.

A bird flew out from the bush, squawking in distress. Miss Howard leaped to her feet, clutching her sketchbook. She glanced in his direction, and his heart ached at the terror in her eyes.

Perhaps she did understand the risk to her reputation.

But though she—a young woman in the park, alone and unchaperoned—was the one at risk of vilification for breaking decorum, he was the interloper, having trespassed on her privacy.

Unwilling to disturb her peace, he retreated, and picked his way across the grass toward the park gates.

But rather than return to his townhouse and a judgmental mother, he found himself waiting beside the gates to see if his quarry would emerge.

Soon enough, he heard footsteps on the gravel—then they stopped.

What was she doing?

He peered around the gates. She stood in the center of the path, staring wide-eyed at the grass, where he'd left a trail of footprints.

Then she looked up and met his gaze. He stepped forward, and she gave a cry, dropping her sketchbook. He darted forward to pick it up, and she retreated, her body seeming to shrink under his scrutiny.

"You've nothing to fear," he said. "You've dropped your book."

Well done, Monty—nothing like stating the bloody obvious.

She remained, unmoving, her gaze fixed to the ground, and he found himself wanting to see her eyes again. Would they be as captivating at close quarters?

"Forgive my incivility," he said. "If I might introduce myself, my name is Montague—Montague FitzRoy."

If anything, that discomposed her further. Doubtless, if he'd added fifth Duke of Whitcombe to his introduction she'd have melted in a puddle of terror.

"Might I be so bold as to ask your name?"

For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer. Then she tilted her head to one side and spoke in a barely discernible mumble.

"H-Harriet."

"Harriet?"

Why didn't she give her real name?

She looked up, as if she sensed he knew she'd lied, then her gaze returned to the ground.

"Well then…Harriet," he said, "might you grant me a wish, if I return your sketchbook?"

"I-I don't understand."

"Will you look at me?"

She stiffened, and for a moment, he thought she'd refuse. Then she lifted her gaze to his.

But rather than displaying the clear gaze that had captivated him earlier, her eyes were dark and narrowed, almost as if she were in pain. Unwilling to prolong her agony, he held out the sketchbook. She snatched it, bobbed a curtsey, then mumbled her thanks and fled.

Devil's toes—what extraordinary creatures women were! If they weren't throwing themselves at him, they were fleeing in terror.

If she couldn't even look at a man, imagine how she'd react at the prospect of the marriage bed.

She was, without doubt, the very worst kind of woman a man would want for a wife.