The Devilish Montague (8 page)

“If I might have a word with you, Miss Carrington.” Without waiting for permission, he tugged her toward the library.

“Outside,” she insisted. Heart pounding, she resisted his pull and hurried toward the carriage entrance for the second time that day. “I must keep Percy quiet.”

“I hardly think a stable yard an appropriate setting for what I wish to say,” he objected.

She cast him a startled look. Could he possibly have changed his mind? That would be a remarkable occurrence, if so. She studied him warily.

He’d shaved. She could still see a bit of moisture glistening on his square jaw. Blake Montague could hardly be called civilized by society’s pretty standards. Still, with a blade of a nose and hollowed cheeks, and that very interesting bronzed coloring, his features were striking in a manner that stirred her interest far more than was safe.

The intensity of his gaze would have her blushing if she did not look away.

His limp was more pronounced when he limited his stride to match hers, and she felt an unusual warmth at his consideration. “On the contrary, Mr. Montague, given our inclinations, perhaps outside is the very best place for us to converse.”

“Do you plan to screech like a parrot?” he asked with suspicion.

“No more than you intend to bellow like a bull,” she said prosaically, hurrying down the outside steps. “It simply happens.”

“I do not bellow. I am considered an even-tempered man.” When she did not immediately object, he took charge of the conversational opening to continue listing his attributes. “I am ambitious, hardworking, and have access to a fine home in Chelsea, one I’m told has a conservatory suitable for birds.”

Jocelyn almost laughed aloud. Among all his annoying character traits, Mr. Montague’s cleverness was the most useful. Remarkably, he’d come to the same conclusion that she had, and he’d worked out all the benefits, disposed of the arguments, and was acting on the knowledge without hesitation. She liked a man of action—especially one who agreed with her.

A conservatory suitable for birds
? Carrington House had a conservatory. . . .

She’d had Lady Bell’s driver take her past her old home and knew it was empty, but she could not be so optimistic as to believe Mr. Montague owned it now. It didn’t seem possible that Harold would be so deep in debt as to sell it a mere six years after their father had died.

“You only have access to a fine home if your father approves of your choice of bride,” she reminded him. “And while Lady Bell has no legal authority to deny me, I am very fond of her and would not hurt her feelings by ignoring her advice. She does not approve of you.”

Still holding her arm, Montague checked the courtyard and the waiting carriage, and finding no one about, studied her face with cynical disbelief. “How can you be so blamed sure of what I want to ask?” he demanded. “We scarcely know each other.”

“I may not be as learned as a man who attended Oxford, but I am well-tutored in matters of matrimony. After this morning’s debacle, your decision is a simple matter of deduction. Society bears pressure, whether we like it or not. Gossip can ruin your chances as well as mine. Marriage might not be a palatable choice, but sometimes it’s the lesser of all evils.”

She had a tendency to prattle when nervous. She drew in a deep breath and changed the topic. It was time to learn if he could be trusted. “Will you take Percy back to London for me? I fear Lady Belden will not be in a receptive mood to my arguments should she discover I’ve purloined a duke’s pet.”

Incredulity darkened his icy eyes to nearly black. “You want
me
to steal the featherbrain?”

“He is already stolen. You need only transport him. I assume you have rooms where you may keep him until I can make other arrangements?” She checked to be certain the driver was still idling in the barn and opened the carriage door.

“Why?” he demanded. “Why would I possibly agree to this inanity?”

Well, if he was going to act all male and stupid . . . Jocelyn turned and batted her long lashes at him. Tapping a finger to her dimpled cheek, she smiled angelically. “Because you think you can tell Lady Belden about my parrot theft and blackmail me into marrying you so you can have access to my funds and join the army in the spring?”

“Of all the sapskulled . . .” He halted his insults and studied her through eyes darkened with interest and cynicism. “And I suppose you know this because you intended to blackmail me into marrying you so you could have my house with its aviary?”

His eyes turned a tarnished silver when he was angry. Jocelyn felt a dangerous thrill at the intensity of his focus. She was glad she had some experience in dealing with the results of risky behavior or she’d faint.

“Check and checkmate. I think we shall get along very well together,” she announced. “Especially if we are a thousand miles apart.”

She leaned inside the carriage and lifted the seat to produce a box with air holes. Percy squawked,
“Africa knows!”
and shifted his weight so she nearly dropped him. “He will probably travel easier pinned on your shoulder, but the cage can be tied to your saddle.”

“You are not normal, you know that?” he asked, warily taking the box, which muffled Percy’s protests. “Women do not marry for birds.”

“Most men do not marry to get themselves killed, either,” she said cheerfully. “We must get to know each other before making a permanent decision, I suppose. Consider this preliminary negotiations to see if we will suit. Feed Percy as many fresh fruits and vegetables as you can find. Apples are good as long as you do not let him eat the seeds. Turnip and dandelion greens are excellent. His diet affects his behavior, which is why he’s been pulling out his feathers. Once he’s eating better, he’ll be better behaved.”

Mr. Montague still looked as if he’d been struck by lightning. Perhaps she had pushed too hard, but they had little time, and he seemed a decisive gentleman who would not change his course once he set upon it. That could work against her in the future, but she already knew her choices were limited. And the possibility of Carrington House . . . she must investigate that. She couldn’t expose her interest too early in the bargaining.

“If you’ve changed your mind, let me know now, and I will find another way to transport Percy,” she said with a trace of sympathy. “Perhaps by the time the Season commences in the spring, all will have forgotten our little adventure.”

“We were caught in a barn at dawn. You shot off my toe. I doubt we’ll
ever
hear the end of the ridiculous tales that are sure to spread among the
ton
.”

He glared at her, and she nearly trembled in her shoes until she gave herself another mental shake. He had proved to be an honorable man who would not harm a woman, even after she’d shot him. He didn’t look too much a pirate now that he’d shaved and fastened his neckcloth. She’d survived cutting insults all her life. She could make this work—especially if they kept their distance. And if he accepted Richard’s peculiarities. That part might be problematic. She didn’t dare mention her mother’s predilections. Besides, Mama might choose to stay in the country.

“I allow that we need further discussion before we can reach an agreement,” he continued, much to her relief. “But my horse is already saddled. I can take Percy for now.”

“If you think to strangle him if I disagree with you, do not underestimate my wrath,” she said sweetly. “There have been times when birds were my only companions, and I am a loyal friend.”

For the first time, he looked more intrigued than furious. Despite his superior education and brainpower, she thought perhaps there were a few things she could teach him.

“I trust you are as loyal to your human friends as to your feathered ones, Miss Carrington. I shall call on you upon my return to London. In the meantime, you might wish to convince Lady Bell that I am not a violent man.”

He bowed and limped away, all stiff, noble pride and resolution—a valiant, terrifying man, indeed. She heard a muffled squawk before Mr. Montague disappeared inside the stable.

Could she really be thinking of marrying Blake Montague?

Could he really be thinking of marrying Jocelyn Carrington? No, he wasn’t thinking at all. Not with his brain, leastways. Lower parts, very definitely engaged. She had only to turn those pansy blue eyes on him and all thought fled south. Words like
bewitching
and
beguiling
floated insanely in his empty head.

“Ride ’er ’ard, ride ’er wet, rider, rider, rider!” Percy squawked as Blake guided his gelding along the rural splendor of a lane bordering the Thames.

The damned obscene bird wasn’t helping direct his thoughts down intelligent paths.

He had no intention of taking the creature back to London if he could possibly unload it elsewhere. He disliked taking advantage of friends, but Fitzhugh Wyckerly, now Earl of Danecroft, had an estate nearby that was large enough to hide a herd of horses. Harboring a mangy parrot shouldn’t be a hardship for him. Blake had planned to visit anyway, although now he couldn’t dally as long as he’d intended.

Miss Carrington would be waiting in London for his return—unless he managed to talk himself out of his decision to marry.

He enjoyed his independence. He didn’t like the notion of having to dance attendance on anyone. But once the courtship period was over, he would be free to go his own way. Married couples did not live in each other’s pockets. He’d keep his rooms in London. She’d have the pestilent house in the backwater of Chelsea.

Marriage meant he would not only have the wherewithal to buy his colors, but he might finally have peace from his parents’ nagging.

The dome of the sprawling Danecroft mansion came into view as his horse cantered down the treelined lane and Blake contemplated Miss Carrington’s moonlit hair, violet eyes, and taunting pink lips. She was gentle, softspoken, feminine—and a scheming bit of baggage. He detested deceit, but he had to admit, the lady certainly wasn’t a whey-faced miss who sat back and waited for the world to come to her.

Percy squawking obscenities from his saddle was a firm mark against her.

He winced at the house ahead spilling children as he rode up—and he marked another firm demerit on the negative side of his marriage ledger. He didn’t have any interest in children. Wives, of necessity, meant children—although most of these urchins were the countess’s siblings and not Fitz’s progeny.

Eyeing the gaggle of innocents, he entertained second thoughts about leaving the obscene bird with them—until a cat dashed into the drive. Avoiding damage to a family pet, Blake leaned back and pulled up on the reins. His usually steady mount whinnied, reared, and tossed him off. His backside met the hard road with an impact that stole his breath.

Well, blast,
Blake thought morosely as he stared up at the sky and waited for pain to tell him what part of him had been maimed this time.

Audience to his incompetence, children and nursemaids flew down the drive, screaming and crying.
Well, double blast
. Now he would have to stand up and pretend all was well. He glanced toward the gelding to be certain it would not stampede the little ones, but the irrational creature was calmly nipping grass. Blake grabbed a rein and hauled himself into an upright position while a shaken Percy caterwauled louder than the approaching army.

A stout nanny ran after the little hooligans, but she did not capture them before Percy burst into a seaman’s chantey. Fortunately, the most intelligible verse seemed to be
hey-ho, and a nonny-nonny no.
Delighted, the children grabbed Blake’s hands and tugged him up and toward the house, happily singing Percy’s chorus and attempting to investigate the covered cage hanging from his saddle.

Limping badly, Blake could barely keep up with the short legs of the youngest toddler, but he seemed to have survived the accident without any broken ribs.

Blake let the oldest boy and Fitz’s daughter fight over carrying the cage, while the oldest girl held the hand of a chubby toddler singing off-key as they returned up the long set of outside stairs to the portico. That left one solemn four-year-old proudly marching up alone, until Blake was forced to grab the boy’s hand when the little one teetered and nearly fell backward.

At the sight of a tear of humiliation spilling down a grubby cheek, Blake sighed, threw the boy up to his shoulder, and, wincing, paraded up the stairs to meet the Countess of Danecroft waiting at the top, rocking the new heir to the earldom in her arms and staring at him as if he’d grown an extra appendage.

Really, if Fitz weren’t his closest friend, Blake would have turned and fled back to London at the sight of all this domesticity.

 

“My father’s willing to give up the house in Chelsea for the chit, but not provide funds to buy colors!” Blake protested, prowling the extensive floor of Danecroft’s library later that evening. Every bruise ached, but he was damned lucky he hadn’t broken his neck from his earlier fall. “He’s doddering into senility.”

The two stories of library shelves had been empty when Fitz had first acquired the title and estate, but despite the earldom’s near bankruptcy, the shelves seemed to be slowly filling. Blake thought he ought to contribute his own collection before he marched off to war. Which brought his thoughts right back around to Miss Carrington. Could she even read? Considering the eyelash-flapping performances she’d given at the party, he doubted it.

“No more brandy for you, old boy. You’re being churlish now.” Fitz leaned back in one of the old cracked leather chairs and regarded him with amusement.

“Trapped animals snarl and bite. Churlish is my idea of being civilized.” Blake glared at the finger Percy had bitten when he’d attempted to feed the wretched creature. He almost sympathized with the bird’s plight. Parrots, like men, were meant to roam free.