Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
DAPHNE
M onty’s reaction to seeing his father is immediate. He sucks in a breath, face going pale, shoulders tensing.
I turn to watch Angela bound over to a middle-aged man. He’s tall and lean with sharp features, dark hair, and a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. Just behind him stand two human figures, who I assume must be servants. A maid and butler perhaps. I see only a small resemblance between father and son, which makes me wonder if Monty takes more after his and Angela’s mother. All I know for sure is Monty is not pleased to see him.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” Monty mutters under his breath.
It occurs to me now how strange it is that Monty continues to reside in the same city as his father when he despises the man. Does he remain close for Angela’s sake? Or sheer stubbornness?
Lord Phillips greets his daughter, who speaks to him with animated gestures. Monty hasn’t taken his glare off the man, not even when Angela hurries back to us.
“Father came to fetch me from the station,” she says, still showing no sign of the disdain Monty has. Though she does lower her head slightly at the sight of Monty’s clear unease. “I’m sorry. I had no idea he’d come. I know you don’t like to see him?—”
“Angela,” Lord Phillips says, taking a step our way. Monty’s glare darkens. “Go get settled in the coach. Mr. Jones will gather your luggage.”
She gives another apologetic look to Monty. “Thank you for chaperoning me. It truly was a lovely weekend.” She turns to me next. “And it was so wonderful meeting you and getting to know you. I hope we can see more of each other in the future.”
I don’t get a chance to reply before she joins the servants, and the maid escorts her away. I’m glad for the missed opportunity to speak, for I haven’t a clue what to say or how to act in front of Lord Phillips. And Monty clearly has no desire to linger.
“Let’s go,” Monty says under his breath while his father waves at Angela.
Before we can take a step away, Lord Phillips stops Monty with a hand to his arm. “I’ll have a word.”
“You won’t,” Monty says with an air of lazy annoyance, his countenance shifting into the version of him I used to know best. Casual, flippant, arrogant. “We were just leaving.”
“I’ll have a word,” his father repeats, tone stern, his hand still clutching Monty’s forearm.
I expect Monty to shake the man off. Lord Phillips doesn’t appear to be particularly strong, and Monty doesn’t seem afraid of him. Yet instead of arguing, Monty slouches, eyes wandering around the crowded platform as if he’d rather be anywhere else. “Make it quick. I have things to do.”
Lord Phillips ushers Monty to where he stood when we disembarked. My pulse quickens as I find myself standing alone, unsure if I’m meant to follow them. I’m annoyed by Monty’s lack of attention, but perhaps it’s intentional. An act. He hasn’t so much as spared me a glance since his father spoke to him.
I shift awkwardly from foot to foot as I stare at the hem of my skirt. I know I shouldn’t care what Monty’s father thinks of me, but I’m suddenly grateful I wore my spare dress—the one not covered in smears of graphite—instead of my workday attire.
“Why are you here?” Monty asks in a lazy drawl that barely carries over the din of the crowd. His voice would be lost to me completely were it not for my keen fae hearing.
“When Angela said you were bringing a friend to the wedding, I wanted to see her for myself,” Lord Phillips says.
My cheeks blaze hot, and I consider forcing my focus away, tuning out of my hunter’s senses so as not to eavesdrop. But when he speaks again, I can’t resist listening.
“So, you’re courting someone after all. You remember your bargain?”
I frown. What bargain is he referring to? Does he somehow know about mine and Monty’s? But no, that’s not what this feels like. This feels like something I don’t have enough context for.
“Yes, I remember my fucking bargain.” Monty has lost his indifferent air now, revealing his true annoyance. “This has nothing to do with that.”
“That’s not what it looks like. Who is she?”
“She’s no one,” he says through his teeth. “She means nothing to me, so don’t get your hopes up.”
His words drive a spear through my heart. I know there’s a reason for what he says. He told me and Araminta how he refuses to further his father’s legacy. How he convinced his father he’d never marry and that courting someone would bring Lord Phillips’ unwanted attention right back to him. Not only to him, but his lover too.
“Is she from a decent family?” Lord Phillips says. “What does her father do? Is her mother a respectable woman?”
I bristle. It doesn’t take much to imagine how horrified he’d be to discover my father’s occupation is cowering after copulation and my mother is respected but not at all respectable, as far as his definition would go.
“Like you have a right to ask about one’s mother.” Monty’s tone darkens, though I don’t know what he means by that.
“At least she’s fae,” his father says, and I can feel Lord Phillips’ gaze on me.
Every instinct begs me to meet his eyes and bare my teeth. To snarl at him, like I did the boxer who fought Monty at the club. But I don’t.
Lord Phillips speaks again. “A fae bride is perfect. Well done?—”
“Did you not listen to a goddamn word I said? We aren’t courting. There is nothing between us. Nothing . And there never will be. So stop praising me like I’ve done a damn thing worth your admiration.”
Lord Phillips releases a heavy sigh. “You disappoint me.”
My eyes flick toward the pair in time to see Monty give his father a humorless grin. “That’s your fault for expecting anything more.”
They’re silent for a long stretch. Then Lord Phillips says, “If anything changes and you get over your rebellious stage, I expect you to take your proper place as my heir?—”
“It’s Angela’s proper place. Her place, not mine, and we both know it.”
Lord Phillips gives a disappointed shake of his head. “Take care, Son.” he says without warmth, then strides away.
Monty stands there, jaw tight, for several seconds before I force my legs to move and join him. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge the hand I place on his shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
“Let’s go,” is all he says as he marches toward the luggage car.
He’s quiet on the cab ride home, his posture tense, his gaze fixed out the window. I stare down at the hand he has curled on his thigh, tempted to place my palm over it, to give it a reassuring squeeze. We’ve given each other comforting touches before, but this is a new side of Monty. He feels like he’s a million miles away, so much colder than the version of him who held me tight outside the hotel. Still, I want him to know I’m here for him.
It takes me several minutes to gather the courage to finally speak. “I’m sorry about your father. It must have been hard seeing him so unexpectedly.”
He sucks in a breath, the only sign that he heard me, but makes no reply.
I stare at his hand again, his knuckles white from how tightly he clenches it. Then, slowly, I reach for him. He startles as I place my hand on his. “Are you all right, Monty?”
He turns to me for the first time since we entered the hansom cab. He blinks at me a few times, as if puzzled by my presence, then dons a mask of wry amusement. “I’m fine,” he says, turning his hand over to squeeze mine back.
Then he releases it. Drops it. Shifts so that we’re no longer touching.
His every move is casual. Easy. Yet his distance feels intentional.
“It was good, actually,” he says. His lips curl in a half smile, but there’s a strain in his eyes. A current of grim resignation beneath his nonchalant tone. “It served as a reminder.”
“Of what?” I ask, folding both hands in my lap to keep from touching him again.
He heaves a sigh and tilts his head against the backrest. “To not get carried away.”
“What did you get carried away with?”
Silence. Then he waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, this and that.”
“If you want to talk about it?—”
“You have a date this week, don’t you?” He angles himself toward me, extracting a cigarillo from his case and flipping it between his fingers. His buoyant mood is such a stark contrast to the cold, brooding figure who sat silently beside me for the first half of our ride. I can’t tell whether he’s trying to distract me from my line of questioning or simply feels guilty for having neglected me and is now trying to make up for it.
Regardless, his change of topic sours my stomach. “A date?”
“Patrick Wright asked to call on you this coming weekend, didn’t he? We never did discuss our plans for your next lesson demonstration, but alas it’s your turn. You owe me big time.”
“I owe you? For what?”
“For our impromptu modeling session at the hotel.” He says it without so much as a blush, which delays my understanding.
Then I realize what he’s referring to. Our mirror foreplay.
While it’s true I proposed our activities as a brief modeling session, and it certainly aided my art, hearing him speak about what we did so casually, so devoid of the flirtatious innuendo he spoke with earlier, has my heart falling.
He speaks again. “That means I modeled for you twice in a row—at your apartment the weekend before the wedding, then in your hotel room—to your single courtship lesson this past weekend.”
My cheeks blaze but I force my voice to come out even. “Wouldn’t you say what we did in my hotel room was also a lesson demonstration? Chapter Eight, remember?”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, Daffy Dear. Our bargain states our sessions can last for up to a full day. Your courtship lesson was reserved for Saturday.”
He’s right. We’d planned for our lesson to take place the day of the wedding. Which was the same day we…
Irritation ripples through me. Maybe it’s wrong of me, but I hoped he’d treat what we did together as separate from our arrangement, even though I’m the one who said it didn’t have to mean anything.
But…it meant something.
To me, at least.
Did it mean nothing to him?
“Our bargain also states,” Monty says, oblivious to my ire, to the lump that rises in my throat, “that you must perform a courtship lesson for every session I pose for. Which means it’s your turn. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to be with you for this one, but you’re ready. After all, he isn’t a stranger anymore.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the unexpected tears at bay. What happened to the overprotective male who stared daggers at Patrick every time he spoke to me? What happened to the man who held me so tightly, as if he yearned to merge me with his soul?
“You feel it too, don’t you?” His easy smile remains etched on his lips, but there’s a wild quality to his eyes that reminds me of cornered prey. A creature resigned to death yet desperate for an impossible rescue. One that will never come. “This is the grand finale. The happy ending to my case study, and the solution to both of our problems.”
How is this a happy ending? I want to shout it at him, but I don’t trust myself to speak.
“I never did tell you the reason I need to secure the publishing contract, did I?”
My pulse quickens and hope sparks inside me. Is he going to divulge something? I remember the desperation he showed the night we made our bargain. I recall thinking he had more reasons for needing our arrangement than he’d let on. But I never pried. Never asked for more than what he gave.
He flips his cigarillo around and around. “I’m in debt. Massive, massive debt. When I was first disinherited, I took out a loan for living expenses and spent it immediately. Clothes, food, entertainment, and a year-long lease in a luxury apartment. This wouldn’t have been too life-altering had I secured a loan from a regular lender. But I hadn’t, because trustworthy banks wouldn’t work with me. Instead, I went into debt with a shady loan shark who charges interest at illegal rates. Interest so high I stopped being able to afford my luxury lease as soon as the first year was up, which is why I’ve lived in a shithole apartment the last two years. And now the interest is so high, I can’t afford my weekly loan payments. So I pay by fighting in fixed matches. You remember the club? That fight you witnessed was meant to be a fixed match. Bare-knuckle boxing used to be fun for me, but now it’s a hobby I participate in out of necessity. I get beaten out of necessity. I beat people out of necessity. Pain is akin to pleasure for me, but bloody hell, I miss when it was fun. I want that back.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“So you understand my priorities. My life is a mess. I’m a mess. My family is a mess. But if I get this publishing deal, I receive a long-term contract to continue writing as Gladys at the Gazette , along with a signing bonus from my boss. I’ll have a chance to secure a legitimate loan to pay off my lender. Finishing this case study the way we always intended is the most important thing to me right now.”
The most important thing.
Not me.
Not us.
Not taking a chance on what this might be.
Shouldn’t that be my priority too? I need to get out of my handfasting, or I’ll have no future in Jasper. I’ll be mated to a honey badger who will never agree to leave Cypress Hollow, a town inhabited by unseelie creatures, not humanoid artists with a love for illustration and a deep respect for opposable thumbs. To sever that bond, I need a husband.
Don’t I?
But what if…
“Be a good girl and give Patrick a chance, all right?” His smile falters the slightest bit, a crack rending his voice. “Just stay true to the two most important lessons. Lesson Two: don’t waste your time on suitors who don’t put in effort to pursue you. If he likes you, he’ll prove it. He’ll move heaven and earth to secure your affections. If he doesn’t pursue you, it means he’s uninterested, not that he needs encouragement from you. Remember?”
I nod, averting my gaze out the window so he can’t see my expression fall. I know what he’s doing. I know what he’s trying to convey. This isn’t about Patrick. It’s about him. I don’t need to tell him how I feel or make the first move. He already knows. And he’s reminding me that he’s not pursuing me.
“What’s Lesson Four?” His voice is soft now. Painfully so.
I swallow hard before answering. “A man’s actions must align with his words.”
Monty says nothing, and he doesn’t need to. Because I remember what he said the night he first relayed this lesson, as we sat upon my roof and he told me about his first love.
If he says one thing but he does another, don’t waste your time…
Do not try to fix him. You’ll both only get hurt in the end .
I’d been so focused on what this lesson meant regarding his past, I hadn’t taken it for the warning it was meant to be.
…if a potential partner states he is not seeking marriage, only sex, but you feel like he’s falling for you, do not give him your heart.
Monty made it plain from the beginning. He is not seeking marriage. He can’t, because of whatever is going on with his family. The secrets he won’t tell me.
I, on the other hand, am seeking marriage. We’ve both known it all along.
I watch the city streets of Jasper roll past the window of our cab, the sounds of horse hooves on cobblestones drowning out the crash of my sinking, crumbling heart. The heart that didn’t heed Monty’s warning.
The heart I already gave to him, whether he wants it or not.