When he pushed open the stable door and beheld the sight within, he realised his lack of cheeriness was nothing compared with the utter tragedy that seemed to have overtaken Miss Montrose.
“What is it?” he asked, striding across the hay-strewn floor and without thought gathering her into his arms for, as the eldest brother of three sisters, this wasn’t an unusual course of action. “Is it your aunt? Devil’s Run?”
She shook her head, and perhaps she resisted—he wasn’t sure when he thought about it afterwards—but he was renowned for his fortifying brotherly hugs, and that was what he was offering.
Well, it was until she raised her beautiful, tear-stained face and her eyes, brimming with tears, widened with sudden awareness.
For a moment, they simply stared at one another. Her lovely rosebud mouth parted in surprise, and her gaze seemed to seek something more from him than just his comfort. Beneath his hands, he was conscious of the gentle curve of her waist and her swan-like throat. She seemed like a glorious creature, frozen at his touch, suspended in anticipation of what would happen next; holding her breath, just as he was.
A second after that, he was acting on primal instinct alone when he brought his face down and touched his lips to hers.
Her arms went up and around his neck, and she pressed her body against his as her mouth eagerly responded.
The slow burn in his belly was soon a conflagration as he supported her over his arm and trailed kisses the length of her throat, across her décolletage, and all the way back up to her mouth.
She moaned softly, her eagerness unmistakeable.
And then Devil whinnied loudly, and the spell was broken.
With a gasp, she tore herself away.
Chapter 7
“What do you really know about Miss Montrose?” Antoinette asked the question as she idly wrapped a ringlet about one finger while reclining on a chaise longue in the drawing room
. “I mean, about her past?”
Before Fanny had a chance to put down her book to answer her, Young George’s latest antics had his mother throwing up her hands in frustration. “If you hit your cousin once more just because she’s won at cards—again—I shall wallop your bottom myself, young man! Only you’d then deafen the whole household with your wails.” Hauling on the bellpull, she let out a plaintive, “Nanny Brown! Nanny Brown! Take this child away! Oh, Fanny,” she added when the squalling seven-year-old had been removed, and a now pliant Katherine lay on the Aubusson rug making card houses, “what have I ever done to have to bear such a cross? Young George is going to send me to Bedlam before he’s ten.”
“What have you ever done?” repeated Fanny, smiling over the top of her book. “Why, Antoinette, I’m the last person who should be commenting on such an ill-advised question, rhetorical though I know it was. I’d say you’ve done plenty that warranted such a cross to bear, but I’m not one to harp on past misdemeanours, and truth to say, I’m rather grateful for your multitude of wickednesses that have resulted in us enjoying such a pleasant life so far away from Mama.” She focused her gaze once more upon the page, adding, “And the way things are progressing, I’d say Young George will see you in Bedlam long before he’s ten. Why don’t you ask one of the servants to fetch Jack from the foundling home? There’s no one else who can keep your child in check and I, for one, am losing patience with you for allowing him to send you up into the boughs as often as he does.”
Antoinette sighed, still playing with her hair. “I suppose so; only Jack doesn’t usually come on a Tuesday.”
“That’s because you chose to be the coddling mother on a Tuesday—such a foolish whim, and one that’s not working at all! Can you hear the boy—still? My, but he has a pair of lungs! Come along now, Antoinette, just have Jack fetched and be done with it! Quamby will be in a far better humour if you do. He likes Jack.”
“Well, he certainly likes him for being able to keep Young George in order without resorting to his fists, unlike that gypsy boy.”
Fanny considered. “Jack seems to have a knack for making Young George follow along like a puppy dog, soon perfectly engrossed in whatever game they’re playing. And Katherine can’t get enough of him, which is becoming a little troubling. I’m glad Miss Montrose took to Jack. I just hope she won’t want to see the back of him once she has her own child which, I gather, is her primary reason for wanting to marry Cousin George.”
Antoinette contemplated a cherub on the painted ceiling and then her pointed toe, for she’d just acquired a new pair of pink satin slippers with which she was rather pleased. “My guess is that Miss Montrose lost her heart when she was very young, and believes she’ll never feel love and passion again. If Mr Patmore doesn’t come up to scratch, I’ll know I’m right, for he is rather delicious—”
“I hope you don’t intend acting on that gleam in your eyes, Antoinette!” Fanny said sharply. “Mr Patmore has lost his heart to Miss Montrose. It’s as plain as the nose on his face. Now, we just have to make Miss Montrose realise she’s done the same thing.”
“What if he’s too much a gentleman to persuade her he’s a better bet than his so-called friend? I do so fear Miss Montrose will go ahead and marry George, only because he’s the one man who’s offered her a roof over her head and the chance of babies.”
Fanny put down her book and chewed on the tip of her little finger. “I suppose some might think George a good catch,” she conceded. “You did, at any rate. He’s set for a title and an inheritance even richer than Fenton’s. Who are we to condemn Miss Montrose for putting security above matters of the heart? Or Mr Patmore whom I believe is reasonably plump in the pocket, but really would be looking out for a wife who could bring something to the marriage.”
“We were certainly lucky, and isn’t it a marvellous thing to have security and to be able to follow your heart?” Antoinette turned a beaming smile upon Fanny. “Miss Montrose should be able to, also. She’s not after George for his consequence, I don’t believe. Not at all. As you said, he’s simply the only suitor she’s had. Unless there was one before? Like last season, perhaps. One who threw her over owing to a terrible misunderstanding, and now he’s languishing, alone, somewhere; not knowing that the set down he received was calculated to make him return to her on his knees—with a marriage proposal. Oh, Fanny!” Antoinette clasped her hands together, her eyes shining. “That’s what must have happened. I had an inkling of it, before, but that must be why she’s so quiet and guarded. Her heart has been broken, and it’s up to us to discover exactly who the gentleman is who broke it and bring him here to atone if we can’t bring her to acknowledge her love for Mr Patmore. Don’t you think our heroine deserves a second chance?”
Fanny, who’d been quite engrossed in the amorous pursuits of the heroine of her book, was ultimately more distracted by Miss Montrose’s plight. “I do think Miss Montrose exhibits all the signs of someone nursing a deep sorrow. Of course, Mr Patmore is visiting her as we speak—”
“And he’ll be back here within hours, and then we’ll know whether he is in with a chance or whether we have to dig deeper and find her long-lost love,” Antoinette interrupted. “And, of course, I won’t do anything about Mr Patmore’s deliciousness because I’ll be seeing my darling Ambrose very soon.” Unconsciously, she cupped her bosom and raised her eyes to the ceiling, then burst out, “I have a plan!”
Fanny flicked Antoinette a sardonic look. “Your plans have a tendency to be rather far-fetched, Antoinette, with rather unforeseen outcomes.”
“I don’t dispute that, but it’s the conclusion that’s important, and I’m very good at conclusions, even if matters don’t always go according to plan along the way.” Without waiting for Fanny to respond, she went on, “My darling Ambrose fancies himself quite a dab hand at ferreting out information on all manner of things. I don’t believe this is beyond him.”
Fanny raised an eyebrow but resisted the impulse to remark on her sister’s proclivity for gentlemen of a rougher order. “So, clearly this Ambrose chap, who’s been lurking in the wings and to whom you have made mention more than once, doesn’t mix in our circles? It hasn’t escaped me that you’ve been very much the doting wife, clinging to Quamby’s arm at all society events, lately.”