Chapter Fifteen
Ominous, heavy rain clouds swept overhead as Montsimon’s carriage set off for Slough. Althea had dressed with care in her dove-colored carriage gown in the Grecian style. The collars and cuffs of her purple redingote were trimmed with ermine, and her hat made of the same fur. She settled against the squabs opposite Montsimon and tucked her purple half-boots out of the way of his long legs. “I hope the roads remain passable.”
Montsimon crossed one tasseled boot over the other and settled himself against the maroon leather squabs. “No need to worry.” He gave a careless shrug. “If we must, we can put up at a coaching inn for the night.”
“My reputation may already be in shreds, Montsimon,” she said. “This road is frequented by the ton traveling to and from Bath. If I’m seen staying at an inn in your company without even my maid—”
“And, as the ton thrives on gossip, and will be delighted to pounce on something improper to discuss at length,” he interrupted, completing her sentence. “What a pity we won’t be making it worth their while.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or might we?”
Althea looked at her Limeric gloves, smoothing invisible creases. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
In the ensuing silence, she couldn’t resist a peek at him.
His eyes had turned speculative. “I suspect you didn’t enjoy being married, Althea.”
Her face heated. Montsimon had not been married off to the highest bidder when just out of the schoolroom. Men had extraordinary freedom to do exactly as they pleased. But after her aunt’s inference that she was naive, and Brookwood’s foul claims, his suggestion hurt. “You think me a prude?”
“No, I doubt you’ve enjoyed a man’s touch.” He smiled. “The right man can change that.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And the right man, would be…?”
“I’m available, should you wish it.”
Suddenly hot, she slipped her redingote from her shoulders. “The air becomes so humid when it rains.”
Montsimon’s gaze roamed over her figure from her half boots to her bonnet, pausing rather long at her chest, as if he undressed her with his eyes. “You’re very appealing in that ensemble. How wasted your beauty would be if you chose to shut yourself away from life,” he added with a wicked smile.
The suggestion that she was a prude hurt, but she would bear it if it kept him at a safe distance. She must never forget what he was, a notorious rake who had cut a swathe through many ladies of the ton. In his dark gray greatcoat, tan-colored trousers hugging muscled thighs, he sprawled on the seat opposite, graceful but mercurial and unpredictable. He made her fear he might spring into action at the barest invitation. She was not about to give him one.
After sharing a bed with him without incident, she had been lulled into a false sense of security. Her heart hammered foolishly. Heavens! She was to spend days in his company. She pulled her redingote back over her shoulders and wrapped it around herself.
“Don’t put it on. I am enjoying looking at you. You’re a pretty woman, and it’s a wonderful way to eliminate the boredom of such a trip,” he drawled. “Although, I can suggest a better way.”
She had to fight her own battle of personal restraint as a vision flashed into her mind: her straddling his lap, her arms around his neck, her lips pressed to his tempting mouth. She took a long, steadying breath. “Oh? You’ve brought a pack of cards?” she asked, pleased at how nonchalant she sounded.
Montsimon chuckled. “No. Did you?”
“I did not. We might talk.”
“We can discuss where I am to stay once we reach our destination.”
“There’s a fine inn in the village.”
“That’s not very generous of you.”
It wasn’t. It was ungrateful and ill mannered. “Of course, you may stay at Owltree Manor,” she murmured, visualizing him in the spare bedchamber.
His eyes glowed with enjoyment. How annoying he was. Was she so transparent?
She cleared her throat. “Do you wish to search the house?”
“Any false panels? Hidden rooms?”
“I haven’t found any.”
“I’ll take a look. Men will keep watch of the house after we leave.”
Her eyebrows rose. “You have the men for such an endeavor?”
“I’ll get them.”
Men at his beck and call, prepared to stake out a country house in winter? A difficult thing to arrange for most, but he didn’t bat an eyelash. Althea stared at him. “There’s a mystery attached to you, Montsimon.”
“I daresay.” He grinned. “Imagine the fun you’ll have attempting to solve it.”
“I doubt I’ll ever learn the entire story. Not from you, at any rate.”
“You’re unnerved. I wish you weren’t involved, believe me.” He leaned forward, a frank expression in his eyes as they searched hers. “I’ll make you a promise. I will tell you all that I can as soon as I am able.”
“That’s a half-promise, and I’m not at all frightened.” With nothing more to say, she sank back against the seat. How did he do that? Disarm her so adroitly while lulling her into a sense of security, right when she hoped to learn more or even prompt an argument to clear the air? There was no sense in attempting to gain the upper hand. She let the matter go, for now. Her brow furrowed as she studied the wintry countryside as it passed. A prolonged silence enveloped the carriage with a sense of things unsaid.
“Althea?”
His voice was soft, gentle. It was as her aunt had said; a diplomat with a honey-tongue would always get what he sought. She kept her gaze on the landscape. “Yes?”
“Was Brookwood good to you?”
Her stomach clenched. “Not particularly.”
“I suspected as much.”
She pushed away from the window and faced him. “You knew Brookwood?”
“Only casually. I’ve heard some distasteful things about him.”
She had the ridiculous urge to defend her husband as if speaking of him now that he was dead was disloyal. “His mother died when he was young, and he was raised by his brutal father. A harsh, punishing man.”
He batted the words away, a tightness in his jaw. “That’s no reason for a man to grow up to be vicious himself.”
Alert, she observed the play of emotions on his face. Raw hurt glittered in his eyes, which had grown so dark to be almost black. She thought she recognized that pain. She had tried to help Brookwood early in their marriage. It quickly proved an impossible task.
“Your father was cruel?” she asked quietly as compassion joined the gamut of perplexing emotions she had begun to feel for this man.
“Not uncommon, I imagine. Many men suffer thus.”
She coiled her fingers in her lap, fighting the need to reach out and comfort him. But if she drew from him the hurts of his sad past, she would have to confess hers. That, she wasn’t prepared to do. But she well understood how he buried his pain behind a wall of denial, adopting the persona of a charming bon-vivant. What a pair they were!
“I have a confession,” she said after searching for a distraction.
His expression softened. “How interesting. Please continue.”
“While we were at the Canterbury Inn, I did leave the bedchamber.”
He folded his arms. “I thought as much.”
“Only for the briefest moment. But while I was in the corridor, a man came out of the parlor.”
He frowned. “Go on.”
“I thought I recognized him, Montsimon, and I’ve since recalled his name. It’s Cecil Hazelton. He’s an acquaintance of Brookwood’s.”
Montsimon’s gaze sharpened. “What can you tell me about this Hazelton?”
“He was an old school friend of Brookwood’s, and they kept in contact through the years. He has a country house somewhere near Owltree. I know this because, while staying at the cottage, Brookwood rode over to visit him. It can’t be far. He was there and back in a matter of a few hours.”
“It’s interesting that he used a false name at the inn. Now why would that be? I’ll need to pay a visit to this Cecil Hazelton.”
“I’m sure someone in Slough will know of him. The inn keeper or a shopkeeper, or perhaps the vicar.”
“I’ll leave it to you to ask. They’ll be more forthcoming with someone from the area.” Montsimon leaned forward and grasped her hands. “I’m grateful you chose to tell me. This might be important.”
She was inordinately pleased but withdrew her hands. No sense in encouraging him.
“But at the same time, it is worrying,” Montsimon said. “If Hazelton saw you, they may suspect you’re onto them.”
“I don’t see how—”
“From now on, my lady, I shall have to be your shadow.”
“My shadow?” She eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?”
“Best for us to appear to have married,” he said bluntly.
“That’s impossible.” She pretended not to understand him. “How does one appear to be married?”
“It’s self-explanatory. I’m proposing we behave as a couple.”
“To deceive who exactly? My poor servants?” She narrowed her eyes. Was this another of his tricks? What lengths would a rake go to?
“Don’t look at me like that, Althea. It is only for a short time. And I won’t insist on my conjugal rights.”
Ignoring the overheated atmosphere, she shot him a withering glance. “You most certainly won’t! You have no such rights.”
“Very well. If you prefer to keep this on a business footing, so be it. But we will have to put up a show.”
She didn’t like that confident glint in his eye. Men could be so casual about affairs where women could not. “What about my servants!”
“We shall tell them we married in London.”
“No, Montsimon. I won’t lie to them.”
“Think it through, Althea.” He removed his hat and put up a hand to smooth his dark brown locks. “Surely you trust me after what we’ve been through together?”
He had nice hair. She tugged at her gloves. “I am grateful for your help, but it would be naïve of me to trust you to that extent, Montsimon. And I am not naïve,” she said defensively.
“I don’t seek your gratitude, Althea. I just want to keep you safe.”
He sounded sincere. She met his gaze as her aunt’s warning came back to her. The appeal in his clear gray eyes was almost irresistible. But she would resist. She must guard her battered and bruised heart from further hurt.
*
As luck would have it, the rain eased, and a pale winter sun shimmered through the branches of the evergreens adding little warmth. The carriage continued toward Slough, jouncing through ruts, and sending up a spray from water-filled potholes. Althea had praised Flynn’s coachman. He had to agree, Ben skillfully handled his thoroughbreds. Flynn’s finances were often stretched, because his lifestyle demanded a better income than he had at present, and he refused to economize on well-bred cattle and well-sprung vehicles.
Althea had grown quiet. She had not yet agreed with his idea. Nor had he attempted to persuade her. He left her to consider it, trusting that her commonsense would bring her round. He sat back, content to look at her, admiring how her pale-blonde hair curled about her neat ears beneath her fur hat and her dimpled chin, which she thrust out at him rather too often.
“Very well, I agree,” she said, breaking into his thoughts.
“To what?” She caught him off guard; his thoughts had moved on to how appealing she’d looked rumpled and sleepy from sharing his bed, while embracing the possibility of a more successful outcome next time.
“To pretending we are married, or have you dismissed the idea?”
“Of course not” he said hastily. “I allowed you to take your time. You’re obviously a woman who is very careful with making up her mind.” He shrugged and tried not to appear too pleased. “I knew you would come to see the sense of it.”
She raised her eyebrows, a smile lurking in her eyes. “Oh, you did, did you?”
“How else can I remain close enough to protect you?”
Her eyes widened. “I-I’m grateful that you wish to defend me, Montsimon,” she said in a broken whisper. “More than I can say.”
“There’s no need for that,” he blustered. After all, he had his own reasons for traveling to Slough. A dimple peeped from her cheek. The deuce! She toyed with him, giving back some of his own.
He chuckled. “You are a minx, madam.”
Her expression sobered. “Let me make it perfectly plain. No matter how hard you try to persuade me, I will not agree to us sharing a bedchamber.” She frowned. “So there will be no arguments. I intend to sleep alone.”
He shrugged. “No matter. I shall lie on a pallet outside your door.”
A smile lifted her lovely mouth. “I don’t believe that is necessary. I have a spare bedchamber. You must realize…if a woman loses her reputation and society cuts her, life can become extremely difficult.”
“Why would they?” He gave a dismissive shrug. “You’re a widow and your reputation is of no interest to anyone but you and a few gossipmongers.”
“Oh? You mean those who speak at length about your exploits?”
He smiled, she had a point there.
“And my servants—”
“—shall think we are married.”
“Montsimon, my servants are decent people, and unlike some members of the ton, do not countenance liaisons outside of marriage.”
“When our reasons can be explained, they will understand.”
“I do hope so.”
“Then it’s decided,” he said with a decisive nod.
A faint blush warmed her cheeks. “Please remember that this arrangement does not permit over-familiarity on your part.”
“I have shared a bed with you before, madam. Did you not emerge unscathed?”
She smiled wryly. “I doubt you have the self-control to continue in that vein.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you don’t trust yourself?”
“Oh.” The blush on her cheeks deepened. “I don’t wish to seem coy, Montsimon. It’s just that I know of what men are capable. And how women can suffer because of it.”
He hid a surprising stab of guilt behind a hurt expression. “I do hope you’re not comparing me to Brookwood.”
“You are nothing like Brookwood.” She looked out the window, shadows were gathering. It was only a few hours until nightfall. “We are on the outskirts of Slough,” she said, relief in her voice. “We’ll reach Owltree Cottage shortly.”
“You have nothing to fear from me, my lady,” he said with an affronted frown. “You’ve succeeded in crushing any ardor on my part.”
She glanced at him, her eyes contemplative. “Good.”
It never occurred to him that any lover of his might suffer hurt after their relationship ended. The women he’d known always seemed so confident, with an eye to their next beau. But it was a damnably alarming thought.