The Devilish Montague (11 page)

“I’m sure we can, Miss Carrington,” he said, glancing at her lips. “And since there is no one about, perhaps we can start now.”

His smile turned wicked as he leaned down to place his mouth firmly across hers.

Blake hadn’t meant to kiss Miss Carrington. He had developed a logical plan of action that involved proving he wasn’t a violent man, followed by telling her that should they marry, they would each maintain their independence. He would keep his rooms in the city while she nested in rural solitude until such time as he could go off to the Continent. It was the only rational proposition he could offer, after all, since neither of them had a real interest in marriage.

But his infernal fascination with champagne blond curls and violet-blue eyes was his undoing. Her eyes had lit like a child’s at hearing she could have Carrington House, and she had looked so delectable discussing marriage as if they were equals that he hadn’t been able to resist reminding her that he was a man and she was a woman.

A very, very large mistake.

Now that he’d sampled her glorious mouth and the eager press of her luscious lips against his, it was difficult to stop. Rather like eating one of Gunter’s ices. Blake hadn’t known he was starving until he’d had a taste. He dived into the sweetness she offered and didn’t want to halt until the dish was empty. Had there not been a basket and a kitten between them, he would have completely lost his head and reached for her—because the silly twit
wasn’t stopping him
.

Unlike Gunter’s ices, her kiss was warm and heated his blood clear down to his toes. Blake tried to turn her passion into a negative quality, but instead, he desperately desired to hold her closer and enjoy the pleasure of the firm, rounded breasts not inches from his grasp....

He took a deep breath and pulled back since this dish was not one he meant to devour yet.

Miss Carrington stared up at him as if he’d just gifted her with the world’s treasures.

And he, male imbecile that he was, all but crowed in satisfaction that he’d placed that expression of rapture on the face of the lovely, flirtatious Miss Carrington. He blamed the pleasure coursing through him on the novelty of kissing a lady. It in no way changed the matter at hand—which was Miss Carrington’s dowry and his need to acquire it.

“I believe I am supposed to apologize for my inappropriate behavior, but I fear if we are to get along, you will have to learn that I’m not the civil sort of gentleman to which you may be accustomed,” he said stiffly.

She smiled, and Blake noticed that Miss Carrington’s lower lip was a trifle plumper than her upper, just right for nibbling....

He rubbed his nape, glared up at the tree branches, and thought of the Union Jack and the code paper crackling in his pocket.

“That’s fair enough. I’m not the civil sort of lady you seem to be expecting,” Miss Carrington said pertly, standing up before he could help her from the seat. “How is Percy?” she asked, changing the subject.

Her cheeks were pink, so she was not quite so nonchalant as she pretended. Had he been anyone else, Blake would have thought her blush charming, but he did not have the patience to suffer the indignities of courtship. He was frustrated with himself for having taken things this far so quickly. He took the kitten’s basket and tried not to glance down at the nicely plump breasts he’d wanted to squeeze.

How the devil did one bring up the subject of consummating a marriage of convenience? Did she even know what that meant? Should he even be considering it?

Yes, he most certainly should. Why should he accept leg shackles without some recompense? Besides, it would be hell attempting to ignore temptation. So much for logic and reason. He had the dread notion that consummation came with ties that bound too tightly, but it was not a topic suitable for discussion with a maiden lady. The choice must be his.

“Percy sings like a sailor and, inexplicably, is still being showered with attention and lavished with all the treats he can consume. His language is not fit for a household of children, however.” There, now he sounded like his usual self.

Except now the word
children
floated between them. Marriage meant children. He couldn’t afford them, wasn’t even certain he liked them. He had never considered procreating. He had an older married brother who would inherit his father’s title and estate, and another brother to be the spare heir. Did he dare hope Miss Carrington wished to raise only birds?

She flushed slightly, then glanced at him through her long lashes. “Where exactly did you leave Percy?”

“He is safe on Danecroft’s estate, where no one can easily encounter him.”

“Thank you.” She squeezed his arm, apparently oblivious of the undercurrents he’d been conjuring in his head. “I know I owe you a debt of gratitude. Lady Bell is likely to send me home if I add Percy to the household.”

“You are fortunate that I may be the only candidate for your hand who does not care if you fill his house with animals,” he said dryly, relieved that the conversation had turned from the intimacies of courtship to safer avenues.

She frowned, and he feared he’d stepped over some invisible line. He had never been one to chase the ladies and so did not know where those lines were drawn. He really needed to learn the strategy of courtship if he were to succeed in this campaign.

“Marriage is a very odd sort of adjustment, is it not?” was all she said.

Which, of course, agreed with his own thinking. “As long as we enter into it sensibly, with no illusions, we should succeed at it.”

As he guided Miss Carrington onto the street through the park gates, a woman’s shriek split the air. The reckless rattle of wooden wheels against cobblestones and the shouts of passersby swung Blake to the left. A runaway horse and driverless open carriage were racing directly toward them.

Blake shoved the kitten basket into Miss Carrington’s hand and pushed her to safety behind the park’s wrought iron fence. She dragged at his coat sleeve, crying for him to follow. The horse was nearly upon them, screaming in terror at the carriage rocking behind it.

Blake knew his limitations. On a game leg, he could not hope to leap into the carriage seat and grab the reins. But neither could he leave hapless pedestrians in peril. After prying Miss Carrington’s grip from his sleeve, he hurried back to the street and grabbed for the harness as the horse bore down on him. The abrupt pull on the leather startled the animal into rearing. Blake avoided the hooves by mere inches but gained the reins, and applied all his strength to hauling the terrified animal to a halt.

Shouts and screams echoed up and down the normally quiet avenue of elegant mansions while he fought the bucking mare. What the devil had got into horses around him these days?

To his utter dismay, while his arms were in danger of being ripped from their sockets, Miss Carrington lost her common sense and raced from the haven where he’d left her. Leaving behind the kitten basket, she dodged into the street to retrieve a bunch of carrots fallen from a farm cart. She came within inches of the panicked mare’s nose, waving the treat temptingly.

“I cannot hold her down much longer,” Blake shouted. “Stand back!”

“Poor baby,” Miss Carrington crooned idiotically in reply, reaching to pet the mare’s arched neck. “Poor baby, somebody hit you, didn’t they. Calm down, sweetikins, have a treat, and we will make it all better.”

Murmuring in that same senseless manner, she distracted the mare as much as Blake’s brute strength did. Maybe more.

“You’re risking your damned life!” he shouted at her, furious as hell, then bit back his temper as the mare shied from him. He wrapped the reins more firmly in his fist so the damned animal wouldn’t trample his almost fiancée.

“Oh, and you didn’t?” Miss Carrington inquired, casting him an amused but admiring glance as the horse whinnied and seemed to settle. “There is logic in only one of us being maimed and killed?”

“Women are frail and more likely to be injured,” he argued, insensibly apparently, since she’d survived. He hated having his logic disturbed.

“You have an injured toe and a game leg,” she countered. “And you still leaped to the rescue.” She flapped her ridiculously long lashes and beamed that vague smile he’d seen her use on her suitors. “I merely fed the poor thing carrots. You are above all gallant and brave, sir.”

Blake wanted to roar his fury as the charming woman he’d just kissed affected society’s facade of naïveté while a crowd gathered and the carriage’s driver pushed through the throng, shouting. But he resisted, turning his anger to the man who must have lashed his horse to have caused the welt along the animal’s flank.

But the driver did not carry a whip.

“Are you the owner, sir?” Miss Carrington called as the man pulled his cap and bowed to her. “She is such a lovely mare,” she cried fatuously. “I cannot understand why you would need to whip the sweet thing!”

Blake scowled. Despite her missish behavior, she had drawn the same conclusion he had. He would rather punch the man, but he waited with foreboding for the result of Miss Carrington’s less violent approach.

“My poor Molly has never known the sting of a lash,” the driver protested. “I left her with the postboy but half a moment while I fetched the lady’s boxes, and next I knew, she was off down the street!”

Miss Carrington continued to stroke the mare’s nose while Blake took a second look at the painful welt across its flanks. The horse had definitely been struck. “Does your postboy carry a stick?” he asked.

“Tom?” The driver looked enraged. “Tom wouldn’t raise a stick to a rabbit!”

“Someone must have pulled a prank,” Miss Carrington murmured, glancing up the street with a frown. “We’d best let them go before we cause more of a scene.”

Blake’s gaze followed hers, but he recognized no one in the crowd. He would prefer to get to the bottom of the incident, but they were blocking the street. As long as the animal wasn’t routinely mistreated, there was little more he could do here.

Except he’d just discovered there was far more to Miss Carrington than fluttering lashes and vacuous expressions. She was as suspicious of the incident as he, which ought to worry him. Instead, he was intrigued. Puzzles, after all, were his specialty.

In a flurry of gratitude for preventing the horse’s harm, the driver led his carrot-chomping mare away.

Blake glared down at the dainty female who was now taking his arm as if they hadn’t just courted death. “Do you generally defy common sense in dangerous situations?” he asked.

She patted his arm and offered him a devastating smile. “I do not generally encounter dangerous situations, sir,” she said with a trilling laugh, before stooping down to retrieve her kitten basket. “You are the one who seems to attract them.”

He frowned but did not take up that unpleasant observation. “Shall I drop my dangerous suit for the sake of your well-being, then?”

She laughed again, following his long strides without difficulty. “If I must marry to have a home, your ill humors and dangerous predilections are preferable to my other choices,” she said with what sounded like good cheer.

Blake slanted her a suspicious look. “I do not have ill humors.”

“You are a surly bear,” she countered. “But fortunately I like bears.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh at her complacent tone or argue with her sentiment. “Must I escort you to fetes and musicales before I dare ask for your hand?”

He hadn’t meant to say that. This whole episode had taken off on tangents that didn’t fit his master plan. He’d thought her a fairly insensible young miss and meant to woo her with kittens and gallantry. He would prove he could be charming, escort her about town so everyone expected an announcement, speak with her solicitors and his parents, then ask to meet with whomever was responsible for her. That was the way it was supposed to be done.

But that was before she’d wooed a panicked mare with carrots, then laughed, calling forth in him another urge to kiss her. Or throttle her. Depending on the cause of the laughter, he supposed.

She shot him a smile so blindingly bright that Blake nearly staggered. He, who had stood courageously in three duels, four if the one with Bernie counted, floundered beneath a woman’s enticing smile. He was damned glad his friends weren’t here to notice.

“The choice of entertainment this time of year is limited,” she said pragmatically. “I do not have a father with whom you might discuss settlements, and I am of age, so my pig of a half brother knows nothing of my business. I suppose you might consult with Lady Belden and the solicitor who handles my inheritance, if you wish to be proper—when you are ready, of course.”

Viscount Carrington, as the head of her family, was a definite disadvantage that he must maneuver around. Guiltily, Blake wondered if he ought to tell her how he’d once shot Harold, but it would not reflect well on either of them. “Is there more I should know about the brother you call a pig?” he asked.

“Besides that he put my mother, my brother, and me out of our home as soon as he came into the estate? No, not particularly.”

“Why would he throw you out?” Blake asked.

Miss Carrington shrugged. “The reasons are many, I’m sure. I believe the last straw came the evening I insisted that we go through with my come-out as planned, and Richard got into a fight with my sister-in-law over the birds. Harold intervened, and my mother swatted him with a broom. We are not a tight-knit family,” she finished wryly.

“So you are estranged and that was not Harold I saw departing Lady Belden’s when I arrived?” he asked, hating to doubt her honesty.

“Oh, no doubt it was,” she said with a shrug. “He scarcely acknowledged my existence until I came into my inheritance and moved in with a marchioness. He’s been calling regularly since then. I daresay his wife is eager to cozy up to me now that I have funds and connections. I have had my revenge by giving them the cut direct and refusing to accept their calls.”