The Devilish Montague (13 page)

She was staring in longing at her childhood home when Lady Belden’s driver halted the carriage in front of the forlorn estate. With a basement kitchen and an attic and two entire stories in between, the house had more than enough room for all of them to live together without being under one another’s feet.

Well, her mother might be a trifle underfoot if she decided to follow Richard, but her mother was always an unknown factor. The dowager Lady Carrington did not enjoy society. She preferred living in rural isolation as long as her stepdaughters ignored her existence, which they did. Unlike Richard, Lady Carrington was perfectly capable of making her wishes known.

As much as Jocelyn would prefer to have her mother with her, she had a strong suspicion that Blake was not fond of having family about, so she would discourage visits until she’d found some way of making reparations for the dowry she wouldn’t have.

Heart beating in agitation at the enormity of the deception she meant to perpetrate, Jocelyn accepted the driver’s assistance down the carriage steps. The dilapidated gate and overgrown hedge prevented her from seeing much of the yard. Promising to return quickly, she left her maid behind.

She was halfway up the walk before she recognized a familiar horse tied to a post on the other side of a mulberry tree. Mr. Montague was here! She didn’t know if she dared face him just yet. Besides, there would be no servants, so it would be more proper if she stayed outside, which was all she’d intended anyway.

She followed a brick path around the corner, wondering how one went about hiring gardeners to trim yew hedges when one had no money.

“The rabbit hutch is still here!” she exclaimed, then covered her mouth at her silly excitement over the weathered, screened cages. She’d had to leave all her animals behind when Harold had selfishly cast her family out. She knew better than to become attached to childish pets anymore, but perhaps she could safely keep her kitten. And Percy.

She shouldn’t be thinking of her own pleasure when she was considering depriving a noble gentleman of his—for a little while. Not forever. Just until she had funds again.

She strolled to the rear grounds, gathering her muslin skirt and lifting it above her ankles so she might step past a muddy bit. She stopped at a gate to peer into the backyard.

She did not see Mr. Montague. Taking a deep breath, she followed the path until she could see through the alley of espaliered fruit trees to the conservatory.

A man’s threatening shout startled her into dropping her skirt and looking for a weapon. Before she could so much as locate a dead branch, a mangy mastiff burst past the fruit trees, followed more slowly by a tottering pig.

The curses smoking the air were all too familiar.

Blake burst through the hedge, wielding his walking stick to chase off the damned animals. He halted just short of bowling Miss Carrington into a weed-infested ornamental pond.

She tilted backward to avoid collision, and he recovered enough equilibrium to grab her waist and steady her—not precisely the gallant, courtly behavior of a gentleman, but as close as he could execute under the circumstances. He was too furious and disgusted by the condition of the house to be polite. Feral pigs in the yard!

“Mr. Montague!” she scolded.

“Miss Carrington!” He bit his tongue on his sharp tone and tried to recover his aplomb while holding her fair form dangerously close—in a secluded garden. His brain instantly decamped to the wrong part of his anatomy. “What the devil are you doing here?”
Damnation
. He obviously lacked the ability to control his lust and be civil at the same time.

He glanced around for a garden bench where he could deposit her, but there was nothing except weeds and deterioration everywhere he looked. In that froth of muslin and lace, she was a dewy rose among the thistles.

He’d had some foolish notion that he had something worthy to offer in giving her back her family home, but this was a hovel of the worst sort—with livestock rooting around unattended. How could he expect a wealthy young lady to accept rural decrepitude?

He wouldn’t blame Miss Carrington for fleeing in horror. As he feared, she withdrew from his grasp and offered him the frosty look he deserved. “It appears I’m doing the same as you, checking on the condition of what might be my new home.”

All Blake’s hopes crashed back to reality. She had changed her mind after seeing the pig. How the devil did other fellows marry? And
why
? He resisted the first cutting response that reached his tongue and bowed as he should have done in the first place. “My apologies, Miss Carrington. I am appalled by the sad neglect of the estate.”

He heard the walking bacon snuffling on the other side of the boxwood. Chelsea was so rural it still had
pigs
rooting through the streets? As if in reply, a rooster crowed from what might be the rear of the property.

Instead of looking horrified, Miss Carrington’s face lit with delight, and she hurried deeper into the weed patch. “Do you think the chicken coop might still be here? I once had a red hen I raised from a chick.”

Chickens? Here? Blake ran a hand through his hair and tried to reorient his thinking. It was
him
to which she objected, not the hovel? “The place is a pigsty,” he couldn’t help noting. He refrained from mentioning that he had originally abandoned the rural environs of his family’s Shropshire estate because he could not carry on intelligent conversations with livestock. He needed intellectual stimulation. “You cannot possibly be thinking of moving in.”

Her foolish delight slid away, and she cast him a startled look that oddly affected his breathing and made him want to say anything to bring back her earlier joy.

“No? Your father has rejected our marriage, then?” she asked with disappointment.

Disappointment! She
wanted
to live in a pigsty? She
still
wanted to marry him? And reside in rural decrepitude? She was a most unusual woman, if so. But if it would return that rapturous smile . . .

“You would actually consider living here?” he asked warily.

“Of course!” she cried in satisfaction, abandoning the feral pig and crowing rooster to follow a walkway toward the conservatory with its cracked panes. “Someone should take care of the poor animals before winter comes. Will it take very much work to repair the conservatory glass?”

“I fear it will take a great deal of work just to restore the main portion for habitation, much less any barn or stable.” More work than he had time or she had money to accomplish.

“The gardens merely need a bit of mowing and trimming,” she declared. “But I know nothing of repairing barns or conservatories.” She found the garden entrance and appeared to be hunting for a key above the doorframe. “We cannot bring Percy here until the glass is repaired.”

He’d already unlatched the door before the pig had rushed him. Since she’d disregarded both pork and mastiff, Blake assumed his valor in protecting Miss Carrington from wild animals went unappreciated. The
house
was the key to her happiness. Strangely disgruntled to be reminded where he stood in the scheme of things, he shoved open the rusty iron and glass panel and gestured for her to enter. Her smile challenged the sun as she stepped over the threshold.

Blake suffered a chill of foreboding. In a few weeks, this hovel could be his home. The bewildering Ladybyrd could be his wife. He’d rather face a duel. At least in a duel the outcome was straightforward. Wives and houses promised an entire array of uncertain tortures, like rampaging pigs and inconvenient demands for attention.

Perhaps he could fortify the study and lock out intruders. Or better yet, hope her income would allow him to maintain rooms in the city. Perhaps he could demand his father provide a greater allowance for agreeing to the settlements. That prospect cheered him considerably.

“Isn’t the ironwork marvelous?” Like a beam of sunshine, she whirled between rotten wood tables and gazed upward at filthy, cobweb-encrusted fretwork.

Blake didn’t know Miss Carrington well enough to decide if she was crazed or joking, but she seemed genuinely pleased. Warily, he crossed the moss-covered ancient stone floor to the house proper. “If you love this spider-infested filth, you should be in alt over the rest of the place.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? We can see the rest of the house? It is not improper?”

He hesitated. Of course it was improper. But at his shrug, she grabbed his arm, stood on her toes to press a kiss to his stubbly cheek, and reminded him of why he’d agreed to consider giving up his bachelor freedom. He had to steady himself after that brief inundation of lavender, powder, and feminine pulchritude.

He was developing a depressing—and swelling—awareness of why men married. Ah, yes, that was it. The flesh was very weak indeed.

“Oh, look, the study is still in excellent condition!” she said as they entered. “You would have a place for your books. And your friends. And your cigars. You should be very happy here,” she exclaimed heartily, as if reassuring herself. She whirled briefly around the walnut-paneled chamber to verify her observation before dashing off to an adjoining room.

A study of his own . . . seemed dismayingly staid and ho-hum. Perhaps he could set up a boxing ring in the carriage house for the winter months when he was not on campaign.

“A working fireplace would be more useful,” he complained, smelling damp ashes and running his hand over the smoke stains on the marble.

“A chimney sweep will solve that,” she called from the next room. “Oh, the velvet draperies are still on the bay window!”

Following her to the parlor, Blake shoved aside the moldering fabric to better see outside the filthy glass. Dust billowed into the air. He fought a cough by gripping tighter, and the panel tore with rot, crumpling at his feet in a cloud of dust. Obviously, Carrington hadn’t wasted money on renovation. How damned long had he left the place untended?

“Oh, well, the velvet was too heavy anyway. An airy muslin, perhaps.” She flitted from the window to examine the peeling fireplace mantel. “This was carved in the style of John Adams. Isn’t it exquisite?”

Blake narrowed his eyes and regarded his bride-to-be’s behavior with suspicion. She seemed a trifle anxious, where before she’d been all fluttering lashes and giddy laughter. Was she actually trying to convince him that he would enjoy living in this hole?

Perhaps she was nervous about being alone with him. It wasn’t as if he had any skill at putting ladies at ease.

He bumped his leg on a low table that served no purpose other than to bruise shins. “We will have to hire someone to haul all these abominations out of here,” he declared in disgust, finding a topic he could expound upon. “Apparently, the furnishings have not been changed since the first King George.”

“Don’t be silly. Let’s see what condition the attics are in. We can move a few of the unnecessary pieces up there, if there’s room. Some new fabric and a good polish on the rest, and it will be like new.”

The woman was definitely nicked in the nob if she thought anything short of a magic wand could restore this place. Would she attempt to refurbish him, too?

Not until he watched Miss Carrington’s dainty feet dancing up the stairs did Blake fully comprehend the danger of being entirely, inappropriately alone with her. If anyone walked in on them now, their fates were sealed. He might call witnesses to dismiss and override the house party gossip, but he was fully responsible for his actions at this moment.

He was courting fate. Unfortunately, living dangerously had its appeal. He followed the swaying temptation of her nicely rounded derriere.

“The guest rooms are in excellent shape!” she cried, flinging open doors right and left on the next floor. “Your family could stay with us whenever they’re in London.”

“I’d rather they not,” he growled, knowing he sounded surly as he peered into furnished rooms draped in faded flowered fabrics, laces, and frippery. The enormity of what they were doing was finally sinking in. He’d spent his life plotting and planning, but marriage was a foreign concept. He knew how to face pistols at dawn, but not
lace.

He propped his arm on the doorjamb and leaned over her shoulder to examine the next room. Her lavender scent seeped into his brain, and he was exceedingly aware of the vulnerability of her bare nape beneath her foolish bonnet. Pale blond wisps adorned her neck, and he no longer noticed the dusty chamber she was admiring. He wanted to wrap those wisps around his fingers and pull her toward him. . . .

“It’s an
enormous
house. We won’t even know your family is here.” With a happy cry, she whirled to kiss his cheek again, oblivious of his wayward thoughts.

This time, instead of letting her flit away like an exotic butterfly, Blake slid his arms around her waist and lifted her to him, meaning to teach her the consequences of flirting with danger.

Or so he told himself.

She gasped, and he took advantage to ravish her soft lips as he’d been dying to do since the first time she’d opened them in his presence. This was what mouths were made for—taming, taunting, and melting resistance. Her tongue eagerly met his, and his doubts fled, replaced by the certainty that he could teach her pleasure and offer her more security than any of her other suitors could do.

She clung to his shoulders, and
finally
, her perfect breasts were pressed into his coat front as she responded eagerly to his plundering. A woman who enjoyed kissing would suit him well.

Blake adjusted his stance to fully support her, then lowered one hand to press her bottom until her skirts and his trousers were all that separated them. She didn’t seem aware of the impropriety but returned his kisses with gratifying enthusiasm.

He, on the other hand, was stiff and ready to roger her against the damned wall. He was actually maneuvering her in that direction, nuzzling her throat, lost in her moans of pleasure, when feminine voices broke through his cloud of bliss.