Chapter Three
“Blast these damned—”
“Ah, good morning, Your Grace.”
Montague looked up, chest heaving and mind raging, and tried to remember he was residing in perhaps one of the most formal locations in Britain.
Other than Almack’s, naturally. Though sometimes he thought even London could not surpass the stiffness of Oxford.
“Ah,” he said ruefully as he managed to half step, half limp to the bottom step of the staircase. “Good morning, Provost.”
“And what a delightful morning it is,” said the provost cheerfully. “Such wonderful sunshine, my orchids will be thrilled.”
Montague did his absolute best not to roll his eyes. Dear lord, was this what he would be subjected to until he could graciously thank then remove his tenants, once his debts were paid?
Orchids?
“Ah. Good. In that case, I am thrilled for you,” Montague said awkwardly. “Yes. Indeed.”
The provost smiled faintly, as though waiting for him to say something else. Montague racked his brain to try to think of something—anything! Where had his talent of conversation gone?
Left in France, he thought darkly. With that chunk of his leg they weren’t able to—
“And you are going to the gymnasium, I suppose?”
Montague nodded, grateful the older man had picked up the trails of the conversation. “Yes, to teach my class. Fencing, you know. First time in this college I’ve offered a class.”
“Ah,” said the provost knowingly. “Nervous, are we?”
The thought crossed Montague’s mind that he had never been nervous in his life.
Not when ascending to the duchy at the age of five and twenty—far younger than expected.
Not when he had faced that blaggard in that duel—besides, he had not actually bedded the man’s wife.
Just intended do. Not even when he had stepped onto the ship heading to France, unsure precisely what he would find there.
No. He had never been nervous.
He had been so frightened he thought he would—
“A little,” Montague said aloud. “New students, you know.”
The provost nodded. “Yes, yes, it comes to us all, even for someone like myself. You know, a new class or a new term can give you the strange feeling…”
All Montague had to do was let the old duffer continue on, he thought, and in that time, he could do the one thing he never thought he would ever have to stoop to.
Catch his breath.
It was not a long walk down the corridor and the stairs. A few months ago, Montague would have laughed at the mere suggestion. Run down it, perhaps, both corridor and stairs. That was more his style.
But this damned leg—it had prevented him from the most basic of exercise, and it was only now when he exerted himself that he realized just how poor his stamina had become.
Montague tried not to permit his chest to rise and fall too dramatically. The last thing he wanted was for the news to get out that the Duke of Caelfall was…well. Past it.
“I am delighted to inform you that you have barged your way into a duke’s bedchamber. My name is Montague Lancaster, Duke of Caelfall.”
It was a good thing Montague had his hand on the banister, for the sudden remembrance of the woman who had barreled her way into his room just a few days ago rocked him so thoroughly he thought he might fall.
His fingers grasped the wood tightly and the moment faded—but the memory of her beauty did not.
Dear God, he hadn’t seen a woman like that in a long time. In fact, Montague mused as the provost continued on happily, he could not recall seeing a woman like that ever before.
Hair that glistened in the light. A smile so shy it was a wonder she overcame her nerves to show it. And a figure…
Yes, it was a shame he’d had to be stern. But then, what other choice did he have?
There was no possibility of her staying in his room once the foolish error had been untangled, even if Montague had wished it. And he did. But not to discuss poetry, oh no…
Montague’s jaw tightened. He was going to be late. Between getting tied up in a conversation with the provost and distracted by thoughts of the mysterious woman—how can I fail to recall her name?—he was running very late.
“—but when the class settles, you’ll swiftly find—”
“I do apologize, sir, but I am going to be late,” Montague said stiffly.
The provost blinked, evidently thrown by the interrupting of his monologue, but then nodded sagely. “Ah, life does continue and time’s pretty passage does not prevent us from—”
“Yes, thank you,” said Montague.
Poetry. Not something he had ever felt the need to indulge in, even if that woman’s appearance had made him think about asking a footman to bring him a book of the stuff.
Just to look at. Not to read. He was not that far gone in his boredom.
“—and I often think to myself—”
“Good day, sir.”
After exchanging bows with the provost, Montague winced as he stepped forward.
It was not the pain in his leg that made him scowl. At least, not entirely. No, it was the clatter of his cane hitting the paving slabs that did it.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
A continuous reminder he was insufficient. Unable to walk without the damn thing, and unable to ignore it.
Montague gritted his teeth as he limped stiffly down the corridor, around the corner and along to the gymnasium door.
Once he was inside, surrounded by gentlemen who respected him, with far too much deference to ask about the nature of his injury, he could start to feel more himself again. Start giving orders, and see them obeyed. Lose himself in the cut and thrust of the beauty of fencing.
A wry smile crept over his face. Who would have thought, all those years ago when he’d learned the art of fencing in this very college, that he would cling to it so desperately now?
Well, no matter. He’d had a few private clients, gentlemen who had no wish to embarrass themselves with their shameful displays—old Dulverton in particular was most hysterical—but Montague had been persuaded by the provost not a week ago to open a class for undergraduates.
“Those without the pennies for private tuition,” the man had said.
Montague had winced. A duke did not speak of such odious things as money.
Still. Though he did not speak of it, he had to admit earning a little more coin would then cover his entire expenses at Wessex College, increasing the speed at which the Caelfall debts could be repaid. And that was not to be sniffed at.
So it was with a certain amount of grace and fortitude that Montague opened the door to the gymnasium and stepped inside.
“You are here to learn fencing,” he said aloud, closing the door before turning to look at his students. “And that means—dear God, what are you doing here?”
Perhaps he was dreaming. Montague certainly felt he was, as though he had slipped from waking to sleeping without noticing. For he could not be seeing what was before him…
It was because, he told himself firmly as he blinked a few times, he had been thinking of her just moments ago. The memory of that woman, the woman with the poetry, her bold eye yet nervous voice intoxicating his heart as he tried not to listen to the provost.
But no matter how many times Montague blinked, the same image presented itself.
The gymnasium, empty. And the woman.
She appeared to be as astonished. “What do you mean, what am I doing here?”
Montague managed to collect himself. The poor thing was lost, that was all. “I would have thought that self-evident.”
He had not intended his voice to be so sharp, so utterly devoid of emotion—but then, he supposed it was better than revealing his true feelings.
Whatever they were.
The woman shook back her head and looked at him defiantly, causing a rush of desire to surge through Montague’s body.
Well. He knew what they were.
“My name is Miss Sarah Lockwood, and—”
“Miss Lockwood, you are lost, which is to be expected as you do not belong here,” Montague interrupted before she could say any more.
This was intolerable. Never before had a woman spoken to him so—so boldly. So without care for his title, his rank. So utterly calm, as though it was not scandalous that a woman was standing here, in the gymnasium of Wessex College!
Miss Lockwood, however, appeared to disagree. “I have permission to attend the fencing class. I have just as much right to be here as you.”
Montague stared. Right to be—oh, she thought him attending the class also.
Well, perhaps that was all to the good. The poor thing evidently had her mind touched; there was no possibility she was permitted to—
“The provost himself,” Miss Lockwood said in a ringing, proud voice, “has given me his permission.”
Montague’s heart sank. It was not possible…yet the provost had an odd sense of humor. There was a possibility, small but one that existed nonetheless, that the provost had indeed thought fit to give the poor girl permission to embarrass herself.
“The provost,” Montague repeated, finding quite against his will that he had stepped forward. “The provost of this college?”
Miss Lockwood raised an eyebrow, as though he were the one acting strangely. “You think I would be foolish enough to receive permission from the provost of another college?”
Montague bit back the retort—that she was foolish enough to even think of such a scheme, so there was no knowing what she might do.
Oh, she was a firebrand, this one.
You might not be able to tell just to look at her. Montague could not help but look: the genteel elegance of her gown, the reticule clasped tightly in her fingers, the defiant glint in those dark eyes, and that entirely kissable mouth.
Montague swallowed. Not that he was thinking of such things.
Her boldness was all underneath. In what she did. Turning up at his door assuming he was a professor, trying to get his help with her poetry! Signing up for this class, gaining the provost’s permission to be here!
“And what are you doing here?”
Perhaps if Miss Lockwood had not spoken so brashly, Montague would not have been incited to snap in reply, “I’m teaching the damn class.”
She blinked, eyes wide. “You?”
And her gaze slid, as Montague knew it would, to the cane on which he was leaning.
God’s teeth!