She could, however, stay away from Montgomery. Yesterday in the greenhouse, he had wanted to kiss her. She knew the look he had got on his face by the terrarium, the fixed stare, the singular male intent. Such intensity was usually followed by a grab for her person and a slap to the man’s face. But Montgomery hadn’t made a grab for her. Even more shocking, she was fairly certain she wouldn’t have slapped him. No, she had gone back for more of his company this morning. It hadn’t helped to learn that he kept his moth-eaten horses, as if a generous, caring heart were beating in his hard chest . . .
She’d find ways to avoid him until the Christmas dinner; no more breakfasting with him, no more letters and walks and intimate talks. What had she been thinking?
* * *
The journey to Lady Lingham’s Christmas dinner was awkward. Perhaps for efficiency reasons, Montgomery had all four of them travel in the same carriage—himself, Peregrin, Aunty Greenfield, and her. Aunty kept sagging against her as she slipped in and out of her nap, and the two men opposite looked terribly stern, which was owed only in part to their sharp dark twin topcoats. They seemed right cross with each other, staring determinedly into nothingness, a look that suited Montgomery but not Peregrin. She had spent a lot of hours with the young lord in the past few days, first to avoid the duke, but soon because Peregrin turned out to be exceptionally friendly, quick-witted company. Higher powers are forcing me to revise Plato’s Republic during my Christmas break, he had confessed. Would you happen to know anything about that particular book? Tutoring him had been so delightful, it had—briefly—distracted her from her ludicrous attraction to Montgomery.
The attraction was now firmly back in place, yes, she was beyond denying it: she was hopelessly preoccupied with the grim-faced aristocrat across the footwell. Even now, despite his coldly bored expression, his nearness warmed her body like a bonfire right to her core.
She forced her eyes away from him to study her hands in her lap. Still, she saw him, like the glow of a fire spilling into her field of vision. Good lord. Perhaps dining with his arrangement would douse the flare of infatuation.
Her stomach gave a queasy twist when Lingham Hall came into view. Admittedly, the house itself was lovely, a conveniently sized manor with a smooth Georgian sandstone façade. Leafless vines ranked around the pillared entrance, where the butler was already waiting.
The moment they entered the foyer, a tall, slim woman in her early forties strode toward them, her heels click-clacking confidently on the marble floor.
“Montgomery,” she exclaimed softly. Her slender hand lingered on his arm just a fraction too long.
Annabelle could not blame her. Montgomery’s straight shoulders filled the black evening jacket perfectly, and the pale gray of his waistcoat made his eyes gleam like polished silver. He was a picture of masculine elegance that would compel any woman who was entitled to do so to steal second touches.
“And you must be Miss Archer.” The countess’s expression was mildly curious. “Poor thing, how ghastly to be taken ill at such a merry time.”
Lady Lingham had that look that her father used to describe as “long of face and large of tooth,” a look that was considered appealing chiefly because it spoke of centuries of wealth and good breeding. She had also mastered the art of effortless elegance—her sleek gray gown clung to her lithe figure in all the right places and the knot of blond hair atop her head looked deceptively simple. A maid could spend an hour on creating such a knot. It would never work with Annabelle’s mass of wavy hair.
When they entered the sitting room, a dozen pairs of eyes shifted to the duke like metal to a magnet. Lady Lingham detached herself from his arm as people began drifting toward them, and then she alarmed Annabelle by taking her elbow as if they were old confidantes. “Take a turn around the room with me, Miss Archer.”
Warily, Annabelle fell into step beside her. They were of similar height, but the countess was fine boned like a bird, the touch of her gloved hand hardly registering on her arm. Delicate lines rayed from the corners of her cool blue eyes. Intelligent eyes. Montgomery had not picked a simpering miss for his arrangement, and she wasn’t sure whether she found this good or bad.
“Thank you for inviting me tonight, my lady,” she said.
Lady Lingham’s eyes twinkled. “The pleasure is mine. The neighborhood was abuzz about you.” She gave a little laugh. “Oh, no need to look startled. Of course there will be gossip, and all of it too ludicrous to be borne. My lady’s maid was adamant that Montgomery was seen with you up on his horse, riding across the fields like a knight in shining armor with his princess.”
What?
“Goodness,” she managed.
“Precisely,” Lady Lingham said, shaking her head, “so do not fret. Everyone knows Montgomery would never contemplate such a display. He tells me you are from a clergy family?”
“Yes, my lady.” What else had Montgomery told the countess about her?
“How charming,” Lady Lingham said, “and so I have just the table partner for you.”
They had reached a slight, dark-haired man who stood by himself next to a large potted plant.
“Miss Archer, meet Peter Humphrys, the curate on my estate.”
Peter Humphrys’s blush was instant and fierce when he bowed far too low. “What a pleasure, Miss Archer,” he exclaimed. “This splendid evening has just become even more splendid.” He promptly followed them around the room for the remaining introductions to Lady Lingham’s other neighbors.
There was the Earl of Marsden, a heavyset older nobleman with florid cheeks who looked straight through her. His wife kept touching her bony fingers to the egg-sized ruby pendant that looked too heavy for her thin neck. A Viscount Easton, who had brought his adolescent son and daughter, and an elderly couple, the Richmonds, whose two daughters gave Annabelle’s blue dress a sweeping glance of pity.
Matters did not improve in the dining hall. She was seated at the nether end of the table across from the young Easton siblings. Montgomery was at the other end, the guest of honor to Lady Lingham’s right. His blond hair flashed in the periphery of Annabelle’s vision whenever he attentively leaned closer to the countess.
Peter Humphrys lifted the metal cup next to his wineglass to his nose and inhaled. “Mint julep,” he announced, and happily smacked his lips. “Careful, miss. This cocktail contains a hearty dash of bourbon.”
She picked up her cup. It was cold to the touch and the contents smelled like peppermint.
At the far end of the table, Lady Lingham’s tinkling laugh said the countess was having a fabulous time. They looked good together, she and Montgomery. Toothy or not, she was the female to his male, equally austere, refined, inscrutable; they were the Adam and Eve of the aristocracy.
Annabelle’s hesitant nip of mint julep quickly turned into a hearty sip. Icy sweetness trickled down her throat, treacherous because she couldn’t taste even a trace of liqueur. Perfect.