Chapter Seven
Montague exploded. “Four hundred and seventy-two!”
Heads turned. Though Wessex College was certainly quieter than term time, during which he had been forced one evening to shout out of his window that the next person to sing “Scarborough Fair” again would be hanged, drawn, and quartered, it was definitely not empty.
A pair of scoundrels knocked into him, barreling down the corridor as though they were late for the king.
“Have a care there!” Montague yelled after them.
One of them made a gesture evidently intended to be rude, though unrecognizable.
These young pups, he could not help but think. No respect for their betters. Certainly no respect for their elders!
Montague stopped up short, leaning heavily on his cane. Dear lord, when had he started thinking of himself as old? He had to get out of this college as soon as the final debt was paid. Then he could rid himself of his renters, get Caelfall Place back, and return to society.
Return to France, he reminded himself, stomach churning at the error. That was what he had meant to think.
He could not help but mutter again, “Four hundred and seventy-two!”
It was maddening. When the provost had offered him a room back at his old college, Montague had leapt at the opportunity to live quietly and cheaply while his leg healed. He had assumed the injury would take a matter of weeks. Perhaps a month, if he was supremely unlucky.
His lack of luck had extended over six months.
So he had not noticed just how far his room was from the Wessex College dining hall.
Montague breathed in deeply. He could smell the rich meaty scent on the air, yet he had not managed to traverse half of the four hundred and seventy-two steps between his chamber and the benches where he could eat.
He scowled at no one in particular and kept walking. Four hundred and seventy-two. Who would have thought a college could be so wide!
He knew the precise number after walking three times a day to the place. And back, Montague thought bitterly. All this walking, it could not be good for him! No wonder his leg was taking forever to heal.
The trouble was, when he had demanded a footman bring him food, the damned plate was cold and the food not much better.
When he had asked why, the footman had shrugged morosely. “It’s a long way to the dining hall.”
Montague would probably have said some very inappropriate words if he had not been interrupted by Doctor Walsingham. He had never demanded food brought to his room again.
So here he was, forced to walk the full idiotic four hundred and—
“Ah, Your Grace,” said a warm, pleasant voice.
Montague halted and scowled at the provost, who was absolutely beaming. What does he have to be so cheerful about?
“How marvelous to see you walking so easily,” said the provost.
Montague sniffed in response. He didn’t have to put up with comments like that.
It appeared, however, that the provost did not seem in the least offended by the duke’s reply. “I hear you are still giving fencing lessons to Miss Lockwood.”
Miss Lockwood? For a moment, Montague could not place the name, though it was familiar. Then it hit him. Of course. Sarah.
“How are you two getting along?” asked the provost blithely.
Montague bristled. He didn’t have to answer questions like this! “Well enough.”
“Good, good. Excellent. And her fencing is improving?”
It was difficult not to smile. Sarah was many things—a remarkably beautiful woman, far bolder than he had presumed, and wonderful when held in his arms.
But a fencer, she was not.
“You’re smiling.”
“No, I’m not,” said Montague instantly, face falling.
The provost looked too pleased for Montague’s liking. “Whatever you say, Your Grace.”
“I just meant—”
“You did,” the provost said smoothly. “I understand.”
Montague opened his mouth, hesitated, then shut it again. Perhaps it was best if he did not speak about Sarah—about Miss Lockwood in public. His mind was already spending far too much time dwelling on her than was good for him.
“I will see you later, Your Grace.”
Montague watched the provost walk down the corridor at a rapid pace, with absolutely no idea why. It was not as though their conversation was over, though “conversation” was perhaps too strong a term. They had spoken of almost nothing except—
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
Montague froze. Ah. That was why.
As he turned a corner, it was to see Sarah leaning against the wall just outside the Wessex College dining hall. She was eating an apple.
Montague’s stomach lurched. Dear God, he had never thought eating an apple would be a particularly erotic thing, but when Sarah did…
Her fingers delicately held it, a gleaming red in the sunlight.
Her lips were pink, glistening with the soft moisture of the fruit.
As she held his gaze, she lifted the apple to her lips and slowly allowed them to cover a portion.
As she bit down, the snap of the fruit echoed in Montague’s very soul.
He moaned, very slightly, under his breath.
“Your Grace?” Sarah said sweetly after swallowing her mouthful. “You do not appear at all well.”
Montague tried to smile. What woman could loiter here, in a college in Oxford of all places, yet do such devastating damage to his psyche with just an apple?
An apple, for God’s sake!
Forcing himself to speak, Montague managed to say, “Apple.”
Sarah blinked. Then she looked at the fruit in her hands. “Yes. Yes, it’s an apple.”
Montague could have cursed aloud at his own ineptitude. What was wrong with him?
After their laughter and jesting just a few days ago, he had found it difficult not to think of Sarah Lockwood with a certain amount of…well. He would have called it fondness, if it had not also included some calamitous imaginings of her without any of her clothes.
But to find her here, when he least expected it…
“You have been practicing, I assume?” Yes, fencing. That was a safe topic.
Sarah nodded. “It turns out that the breakfast room is an excellent room for lunges.”
Montague allowed his eyes to close just for a moment while he got a grip on himself. Then he opened them again. What man was supposed to stand such speeches?
“Lunges?” he managed.
She nodded again. “Yes, for practicing, as you said. I admit, I think I am getting good now. At least, better than I was.”
That, Montague could not help but think, was not saying much. Still. She was smiling in a way that made his insides lunge just as she said. Most disconcerting.
Not half as perplexing, however, as how much he liked it.
“Well, I think I will wait to see the evidence of your practice before I start putting your apple on my head and allowing you to have at it with a foil,” he jested.
Sarah’s eyes widened. “Did…did you just make a joke, Your Grace?”
Montague’s heart fluttered. He desperately wanted her to call him “Montague” again, but he supposed she was keeping to formalities as they were in public.
That still did not change the fact, however, that he had made a joke. A bad one, admittedly, and one he almost wished she hadn’t heard.
Damn. What was getting into him?
“Wh-What are you doing here?” he asked.
It was not the most commanding and impressive of speeches, but Montague decided he would only hold himself to that ducal standard when not wishing to pull the apple from Sarah’s hands and taste the fruit on her lips.
“We have our fencing lesson later and I did not wish to stay at home for luncheon, so…” She lifted the apple, as though showing him a priceless jewel, then took another bite.
Montague shivered. He would never be able to look at an apple in the same way again.
“But…why here?” he asked, confused. His gaze flickered to the dining hall. The door was slightly ajar and he could just make out one of the long benches. “It smells good—you do not care for a hot meal?”
For some reason, his words caused her to look at the half finished apple, discomfort in her eyes.
“Sarah?”
Montague had stepped forward—which was a mistake. Now he could smell not only the sweet flesh of apple, but also the heady lavender scent Sarah so often wore.
It made his head dizzy. The world faded, then came back into focus. Sarah was still standing there, and she still looked embarrassed. Why, he could not tell.
“I’m not allowed.”
“What do you mean, not allowed? Here, I invite you in as my guest.”
Much against his better judgment, but finding he was unable to stop himself, Montague held out his arm.
She did not take it.
“I hate to be the one to remind you of this, Your Grace,” Sarah said quietly, elucidating the truth with a gentle sigh. “But the university does not permit ladies in their dining halls.”
It was so easy to focus on the tantalizing physical appeal of Sarah that he had quite forgotten himself.
She was right. Ladies were not permitted in the dining halls. Even Wessex College held to that, and he saw no chance of the rule changing anytime soon.
But he could not lose an opportunity to spend more time with her. Montague jerked his arm, tempting her to take it. “You’re no lady, Sarah—Miss Lockwood, I mean. You are my guest. I am sure no one here will throw you out.”
He had expected her to blush furiously, to be delighted, and take his arm.
For some strange reason, Sarah did flush—but she did not take his arm. A flicker of sadness appeared in her eyes, though it was gone before Montague could establish its existence.
What had he said now?
“You are sure you are prepared for the consequences?” she said quietly.
Montague had no choice in the matter. His instinct, his desire to be close, won out over his sense.
Throwing the apple core into the wooden garden he had always thought needed an apple tree, he placed her hand in his arm and ignored how swiftly his breath caught in his throat.
“You are my guest. That should be sufficient for the whole pack of them,” he said quietly, gazing deep into her eyes. “Come on. I’m ravenous.”
Perhaps ravenous was the wrong word to choose, Montague thought wretchedly as a dark crimson stained Sarah’s décolletage. Not that he minded. It was a wonderful excuse to look at it.