Chapter Nine #2
Montague blinked, leaning on his cane. She could not have intended that phrase for him, could she? He was a duke. A very eligible bachelor, old Sedley had once called him.
He’d punched him none-too-gently for that, but his friend hadn’t been wrong.
The other companion looked over. Her expression was even darker than the first. “Don’t look now, Sarah, but we’re being approached by—I said don’t look!”
There was such disgust in her tone, Montague’s forehead creased in confusion. Even if they did not know he was a duke—he had to suppose there were some ignorant of his title—he was at the very least a gentleman. He was hardly a vagabond, clutching their skirts for coin!
Sarah looked up and smiled. Montague returned the smile, tension in his chest starting to melt. She at least would not—
“I said go away,” the first woman said stiffly. “We don’t want your kind here!”
Montague blinked. Dear God, his kind? Had dukes lost their place in society, or—
“—and that cane of his,” the second said in a mock whisper as Sarah’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “What a creature!”
He looked down.
Without a valet, he appeared to have slid into poor habits without realizing it.
Unkempt was probably the best word for it; he was hardly dirty, but his shirt was not ironed, cravat tied, and he had not bothered with a cravat pin.
There was a rip on the corner of his jacket sleeve, now he came to look at it.
Dear God, they saw him as nothing but a ruffian!
Anguish coursed through his veins and, for a moment, Montague thought his legs would give way and he would fall.
Oh, this was awful. Not just pity, but spite. Worse, Sarah was here to witness it! And it was her friends who spoke so, who looked at him with naught but venom!
Before he could move, Sarah pulled herself free of the ladies and strode toward him.
Montague flinched, hating he had brought her dishonor by mere association, but she ignored the movement. She took his arm. Relief started to spread through his lungs.
“Come on,” Sarah said quietly under the gasps of her companions.
She said nothing as she pulled him along the pavement, away from the haberdashery. Her pace was a little faster than Montague was accustomed to, but he dared not say, merely relieved to be escaping the tortuous situation he had somehow managed to find himself in.
They turned a corner, walked along another street, crossed over, then turned down a quieter one.
Only then did Montague say, “Could—if we can walk slower, it would—”
“Of course,” Sarah said, instantly slowing.
Even that exchange felt stilted, he thought wretchedly, unable to look at her. Dear God, was this what he was reduced to? Feeling ashamed as ladies with no title nor position in society, he’d be bound, mocked him on the street?
“I apologize most profusely.”
Montague stiffened. “You did nothing wrong.”
“And yet I feel guilty by association,” Sarah said, her gaze averted. “I had never before—I do not actually know them. They are the daughters of a friend of my mother’s. I promised I would attempt to socialize.”
“You do not speak as though you enjoyed it,” he said quietly.
The panic was fading now. Just being in Sarah’s presence, far from the curious and scathing looks of those ladies—Montague hoped no one watched the exchange—was making him feel better.
Sarah sighed as their slow, gentle pace meandered down the quiet street. “I did not enjoy their company really. Even when I told the poorest joke I know, they laughed as though I was a great wit. No sincerity. But I did promise my mother.”
The taut ache in his heart started to dissipate. Montague breathed more freely now he knew the impertinent ladies were not her bosom companions. Somehow, that made the situation easier to bear.
Still. It was mortifying.
“You…you do not have to tell me,” came Sarah’s quiet voice.
Montague delighted in the way her hand fit in his arm so perfectly, and saw both nervousness and curiosity mingled on her brow.
Ah. He knew what this was going to be.
As though to confirm his suspicion, he watched her gaze flicker to his cane.
“Tell me about it,” she urged softly. “How you came by your cane.”
Montague said stiffly, “I found a wonderful craftsman in Regents Street who—”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it.”
There was just a hint of forcefulness in Sarah’s voice which Montague could not help but respect. He did know what she meant. Anything to avoid the tale.
But if there was one person he would tell, it would be her. No one else had taken so long to ask about it, or inquired with such gentleness and grace.
Montague sighed. “I was raised to have a strong sense of duty. I suppose most men were, but as a duke—”
“I can imagine.”
“I don’t think you can,” he said quietly as they turned a corner.
“It is no comment on your imagination, I assure you, but I think unless you have been raised in that environment, that pressure…nothing compares. When I was grown, I felt there was only one way to satisfy this need. I volunteered to serve. France beckoned.”
The bitterness was expected. He had not known then what would await him, yet even now, he could not regret it. He had served his country.
“I saw battles, but I was arrogant, presumptuous my knowledge with a foil would keep me safe—or a sword, as you call it,” Montague added, and saw with delight he made Sarah smile. “And it did, for a time.”
“You are talented with a blade.”
“I am good with strategy, when it can be written on a piece of paper or examined on a board,” said Montague heavily. “But then I was shot.”
Her gaze moved, as he had known it would, to his leg. “Your thigh?”
It was ridiculous to grow warm just knowing a woman was looking at his thigh. He was wearing breeches! He was hardly naked! “Yes.”
Sarah nodded, as though that explained a great deal. Perhaps it did. “I suppose even fencing cannot prepare one for real battles. Even if you were the best strategist there, you could not command armies.”
Montague breathed a heavy laugh. “No, I suppose not. And when I go back—”
“Y-You’re going back?”
His heart skipped a beat as he heard the surprise in her voice. He had to ensure he did not entangle himself, Montague told himself sternly. Any more than you already are, a wry voice from the back of his mind added.
“I feel safe here, and that is good, I suppose,” he said. “But I feel a duty to go back. Return and serve alongside those who are risking their lives.”
“But you’re a duke!” Sarah’s eyes were wide. “Do you not have responsibilities and duties here in England? Do you not have people who…who care about you?”
Montague swallowed. He could have told her the reason he was starting to question his desire to return to France was because of her, but he did not have the words.
It did not seem to matter. Sarah’s hand squeezed his arm, causing flutterings of desire.
“Well, I hope you do not plan to leave Oxford for France today,” she said softly. “I had hoped we could walk a little longer. If you wish.”
Montague opened his mouth to say he couldn’t as his leg hurt. Then he realized, to his astonishment, he had not felt a twinge in his leg from the moment Sarah’s hand had slipped into his arm.
“I…yes,” he said. “I would like that.”