Chapter Eight

As Monty escorted his mother through the hallway, he caught sight of their hosts. The Duke and Duchess of Westbury stood by the drawing room entrance to greet their guests. Occasionally the duchess met her husband's gaze, and they smiled, as if sharing a delicious secret, and Monty could discern a sheen of excitement in her expression—the unmistakable look of a woman well pleasured—which matched the look of repletion in Westbury's eyes.

Lucky bastard.

The duchess, despite her origins, was a woman to be admired—accomplished, intelligent, and utterly devoted to her husband. She'd even taken Westbury's natural son into her embrace, treating him as her own. The boy had everything a young man could want, a life, love, doting parents—everything but the title. But perhaps the lack of title gave him more freedom than his younger half-brother. Standing beside the duchess, he was the image of his father, and Monty found himself envying the easy affection between him and his stepmother as she introduced him to each guest, pride and love in her eyes.

How might Monty's life had been had his own mother accepted his father's natural child into the family? But perhaps Mother was to be forgiven her bitterness. Westbury had fathered his natural child ten years before his marriage, rather than ten years after. Unlike Monty's father, Westbury was that rare beast—a husband who kept faith with his wife. The man had it all—a prosperous estate, an adoring wife, and a brood of children.

Bloody lucky bastard.

Then Westbury glanced to his right and stiffened, as if he were a young lad caught transgressing, destined for a dressing-down from the family matriarch.

And what a matriarch!

Westbury's grandmother, tonight's guest of honor—dowager duchess, survivor of wars, riots, and at least two plagues of influenza—stood at the end of the line, her arachnid gaze sweeping over the guests while they bowed, curtseyed, and showed due deference. As each guest passed, she lifted a single eyebrow, then gave a slight nod, before turning her attention to the next disciple come to worship.

And now it was Monty's turn.

"Augusta, darling!" his mother cried. "How well you're looking."

"Did you expect otherwise?" the dowager replied, and Monty smiled inwardly at his mother's look of discomfort.

"I meant no offense, Augusta, I was merely making—"

"A bland social nicety, rather than a truthful observation. You should know by now, Matilda, I'd rather hear the truth from one of my dearest friends. The crow's-feet around my eyes are deepening with the passage of each year, and my bones creak every time I move. Yet this incorrigible boy"—she gestured toward Westbury—"sees fit to parade me about the place to applaud himself on having preserved my life to the point where the family received a personal letter of congratulation from that vain fop, the prince regent."

Westbury blushed.

"Grandmama Augusta," his wife said, "do you recall what we discussed earlier today about how few people in Society appreciate your unique style of frankness?"

"Of course I do, Jeanette!" the dowager huffed, though a spark of affection shone in her eyes. "But I deem it a privilege, now that I have lived a century, to be permitted to say precisely what I think without recourse."

"Oh, no!" The duchess laughed. "That simply won't do in a world where we're expected to be civil even to those we dislike."

"Then Society had better prepare itself for an onslaught from my tongue."

"Nothing the world isn't already used to, Grandmother," Westbury said. Then he addressed Monty's mother. "Duchess—it's a pleasure to see you. My grandmother has been looking forward to seeing you again."

Then the dowager turned her attention to Monty. His stomach fluttered with anticipation as she lowered her gaze to his feet, then lifted it, slowly, taking in every detail of his form—his attire, his countenance, and, most likely, his worth in the world.

Devil's toes!Mother possessed a stare that could wither a houseplant at fifty paces. But Westbury's grandmother had mastered the art with a glare that could fell an army from the opposite end of a battlefield.

"Is this your boy, Matilda?" she asked.

"Permit me to introduce myself," Monty said. "I'm—"

"Yes, yes—I know who you are!" she exclaimed. "You must be thirty at least, and still unmarried. Not even courting, I hear. Do you ever intend to take a wife?"

"Grandmama!" Westbury's wife exclaimed. "You cannot ask so frank a question."

"I'll ask what I like, Jeanette. He's a grown man, capable of defending himself."

Westbury's wife turned to Monty, laughter in her eyes. "I'm afraid you're in for a salvo of questions tonight regarding your marital status, Your Grace."

"Nothing I'm not used to on a daily basis at home, Duchess," Monty replied, "though I confess I'd hoped, for the sake of my poor ears, for a little respite tonight."

He offered his arm, and his mother took it as he steered her into the drawing room.

"Must you be so tiresome, Montague?" she said. "Not only did you insult me, you insulted our hosts. Augusta was within her rights to ask you anything she wished."

"I'm in no mood to discuss marriage tonight, Mother."

"Nor any night. Why can't you be more like Westbury? He takes his duties seriously, and he respects his grandmother."

"I do respect you, Mother," Monty said. "I'm merely in no mood to take a wife."

"Westbury may have married beneath him, but the girl has at least done her duty by giving him an heir. The more robust constitutions and wide hips found in the lower classes may be inelegant, but they do at least facilitate the production of healthy heirs."

"Should I inspect her teeth as well?"

"Don't be so insolent! Westbury's heir is a fine-looking young man—the image of his father. It's heartening to see the bloodline hasn't been tainted by his wife's stock."

"Ye gods, Mother, you make the duchess sound like she's a prize heifer!" Monty exclaimed. "And I'll have you know that the young man standing beside her is Westbury's natural son. But the duchess is kind enough to treat him as her own, rather than banish him into obscurity. She, unlike you, understands that a child should not be forced to pay for the sins of his—or her—father. It is for that, not the duchess's ability to breed heirs, that we must applaud her."

She paled, and then stumbled against him. Regretting his words, he steered her toward a footman holding a tray of champagne glasses. By the time she drained two glasses and was halfway down a third, she'd recovered her composure, if not her temper.

"I've told you before not to mention that brat," she said, her voice a harsh whisper.

"You mean Olivia?"

"I care not what the creature's name is—I only care that Rosecombe Park is being tainted by her presence."

"What rot!" Monty said. "She's tucked away in a cottage on the far reaches of the estate, to satisfy your sensibilities. You've never set eyes on her."

"Her very existence is an insult."

"There's nothing I can do about that, Mother," he replied. "I suggest you visit Father's gravestone and take it up with him, given that he's the one responsible. You can hardly punish his daughter merely for existing."

"How dare you refer to her as his daughter! I've a good mind to…"

But Monty was spared the knowledge of what Mother had a good mind to do by the announcement of dinner. He rose, took her arm, and led her into the dining room.

When he stopped at his place on the dinner table and read the place card next to his, his heart sank.

Lady Arabella Ponsford.

Devil's toes—that was all he needed.

He gritted his teeth and bestowed a warm smile upon his dinner companion as a liveried footman steered her toward her place.

"Lady Arabella, a pleasure."

She inclined her head in response, then stood beside her seat and glared at the footman. "Well?" she snapped. "Must I seat myself?"

The footman—who couldn't have seen more than fourteen summers—colored and drew back the chair. She gave a sharp sigh, then slapped his hand off the back of the seat.

"What must our hostess be thinking, employing such an incompetent creature! I've a good mind to suggest she has him dismissed."

"Perhaps he's only recently entered her employ," Monty said.

"He shouldn't be allowed above stairs until he's fit to be seen."

Was this what he must endure for the duration of the meal?

And it was. Despite the exquisiteness of the dishes, Monty's dinner partner found fault with everything. The fish was too cold, the wine too sour—the meat was too tough, and the dessert too sweet. So engrossed was Lady Arabella in her soliloquy on the inferiority of the meal that Monty was able to say little, provided he punctuated his responses with the occasional nod or appropriately timed murmur of agreement. And as long as he fixed his gaze on the food in front of him and not meet his companion's eyes, he could avoid being drawn into a full conversation.

Never before had the pattern on the dinner set, or the facets of the wineglass, provided such an object of interest.

"And the taste of it left a lot to be desired. What did you think, Your Grace?"

Bugger.

This question required more than a simple yes or no.

"In my opinion it was over-salted," she continued, removing the necessity of a response. "I abhor an excess of salt, don't you?"

"Yes, Mother."

"I beg your pardon?"

Shit.

"Yes, Lady Arabella."

She frowned, then nodded. "I'm glad we're of one mind. If we had no standards, where would the world be? Ruination, that's where."

"Our hostess might appreciate the benefit of your wisdom on standards," Monty couldn't resist saying.

"Well, at the very least she should treat her subordinates with a firmer hand, rather than let them take advantage. But I'm not one to criticize."

Monty's body convulsed with mirth, and he let out a snort, disguised it as a cough, then took a mouthful of wine.

"If I were to say anything, I'd advise her on the folly of letting her husband's"—she hesitated, wrinkling her nose—"brat run unfettered about the place as if he were part of the family."

"Westbury's natural son is part of the family," Monty replied. "He's also sitting directly across the table."

The fear in Lady Arabella's eyes as she snapped her head up and looked around was almost worth having endured her company over dinner.

"If you were to criticize one course the most, which would it be, Lady Arabella?" Monty asked.

"The soup, of course. It was appallingly served."

"How so?"

"That footman splashed some on my napkin."

"An accident?"

"No. An insult."

"If the footman intended to insult you, he'd do more than spill soup on your napkin."

"Such as?"

Monty shrugged. "Perhaps your soup had a sharper taste than you might expect."

"I don't understand."

"Or…perhaps it was a little more yellow in color than everyone else's?"

A snort, followed by a volley of coughing, came from across the table. Sitting opposite, a few places down, was the woman from the park that morning—the eldest Miss Howard—flanked by her father and Westbury's eldest son. For less than a heartbeat, she looked directly at Monty, a flash of mirth in her green gaze. Then her eyes narrowed and she resumed her attention on her plate.

He'd not noticed her before. She seemed to blend in with her surroundings. Her gown, a light blue muslin, lacked adornment, save a thin lace trim about the neckline. And her hair, fashioned into a simple style, was dotted with what looked like daisies. She was the opposite of her sister—the exquisitely beautiful Juliette—who sat next to Westbury, at the far end of the table, wearing a gown of bright pink silk, a necklace of rubies and diamonds about her throat, her hair studded with pearls.

"Eleanor, what are you doing?" Lady Howard's voice cut through the conversation. Miss Howard mumbled an apology, her features creased with distress. Then Sir Leonard leaned toward her and whispered something indiscernible, and she gave a quick, tight smile. The young footman Lady Arabella had complained about refilled Miss Howard's wineglass, and she nodded her thanks.

"Oh, Lord," Lady Arabella said. "I know we must make allowances for the lower classes, but even the most generous hostess should draw the line when it comes to inviting those who cannot understand proper decorum. Thanking paid subordinates, indeed! I fail to understand her lack of propriety when her sister is so charming. Of course, you know what's been said about her…"

But before she could tell him what gossip circulated around Miss Howard, Westbury stood and tapped his wineglass.

"Care to join me for a brandy, gentlemen, while the ladies seek respite from our company?"

The men murmured their assent.

"Lady Arabella, please excuse me," Monty said. "We must continue our conversation another time."

She nodded, then gestured toward the young footman. "I must have a word with our hostess about him."

"Leave it with me, Lady Arabella," Monty replied. "I'll deal with him."

Spiteful triumph glittered in her eyes. She offered her hand, and he held it close to his lips, not quite able to bring himself to kiss it. Then he rose and followed the gentlemen out. As he passed the footman, he stopped and leaned close.

"May I help you, Your Grace?" the boy asked, his voice wavering with apprehension.

"I wish to commend the excellence of your service," Monty said. Then he left the astonished young man standing while he exited the dining room. As he reached the doorway, he glanced back to see Miss Howard, her gaze flicking between him and the footman, a smile on her lips. Then she lowered he gaze once more.