Chapter Five
Try as he might, Montague was unable to stop himself from glancing at his pocket watch.
The ridiculous part was that he kept trying to do it surreptitiously, as though he wouldn’t notice if he only leaned back his head and tilted the watch face upward.
The third time he caught himself doing it, Montague scoffed and forced the time piece deeper into his waistcoat pocket.
Fool!
Swallowing hard, he looked around the empty gymnasium with a scowl.
She was supposed to be here.
Worst of it all, he felt her absence keenly. As though the entire day would be lost without her presence. As if teaching Miss Sarah Lockwood fencing was his day’s highpoint.
Montague’s jaw tightened. The fact that it was…well, that was neither here nor there.
“You’re being a damned fool, and you know it,” he found himself muttering under his breath as the minutes ticked by and Miss Lockwood still did not arrive. “Pandering to her, as though you don’t have anything else to do!”
The trouble was, there were only two other things he could reasonably be doing, Montague knew, and neither were particularly appetizing. He could be going over the estate’s accounts—something that depressed him—or obeying Doctor Walsingham’s advice.
Montague snorted and the sound echoed. That doctor! He’d be the death of him, mark his words.
Footsteps. His head jerked, his heart rate increasing rapidly as she came closer…
Yet the door did not open. A gentleman walked past the large wide windows, and Montague’s heart slowed to a morose pace. It was not her.
This is getting preposterous, Montague tried to tell himself, giving into the ache in his leg and allowing himself to sit on a bench by the wall. He did not have feelings for Miss Lockwood—the very idea!
He was a duke, she a mere lady. A wallflower, really. Or a bluestocking. Montague wasn’t sure what the shyness of that woman tended toward, but the poetry suggested more of an interest in writing than wedding.
Not that he cared.
His stomach twisted, something Montague tried to quell. Whether or not he liked her—or more interestingly, she had a fancy for him—it was no use. Within a few months, a quarter of the year at the most, he would return to France.
Guilt washed through Montague as he sat, quietly fuming that Sarah—Miss Lockwood—was not there.
He shouldn’t be pining over some woman who hadn’t paid him the courtesy of arriving on time. He should be in France, alongside those who had sworn an oath to protect king and country.
“My question remains and you have not answered me. Will I fight again? Will I return to the war?”
“Probably not.”
Montague shook his head as though that could remove the memory of what the doctor had said. Not fight again—not return to France? Never.
More footsteps. Montague followed their path as he tried not to think of how prestigious and well-recommended Walsingham had been when he sought out a physician. There were few better doctors in the country, apparently. More’s the pity. He had agreed with all the other quacks the duke had seen.
He shifted on the bench, allowing the cane to twirl around his fingers. The damned thing was going to become a part of his life, he knew it. Even if the instinct to throw it away—
“I’m not late, am I?” Sarah Lockwood said in a rush as she burst through the door.
Montague quickly brought the cane down. He had been thinking of launching it across the gymnasium in a fit of pique, but embarrassment tinged his soul now that he had almost been caught.
What was he, some sort of child throwing his toys out of the perambulator?
Sarah shut the door, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. “Goodness, I had no idea of the time—you must excuse—”
“A gentleman would never be so late,” Montague said gruffly, carefully arranging his face to ensure the pain of standing did not appear as he rose. “It’s outrageous.”
More outrageous than how quickly his body responded to her presence? Damn.
The red on Sarah’s cheeks darkened. “I-I do apologize, really, I…I…”
Her voice trailed off as she stepped away to place her reticule and bonnet on the opposite bench.
Montague wished to goodness he had held his tongue. He had always spoken his mind and cared little for the consequences. What care he if he upset others? He was a duke. Most of the time, if he did offend, he never knew it.
But there was something different about making a lady flush. Montague’s heart skipped a beat. He would much rather make her color for far more nefarious reasons…
“Your Grace?”
Montague blinked. Sarah was standing before him, eagerly waiting.
He cleared his throat and found, to his dismay, he did not appear to be able to move past his opening comment. “A gentleman, as I said—”
“A gentleman would not expect a lady to turn up to their bedchamber and proposition themselves,” Sarah interrupted, her cheeks scarlet as her gaze fell to her hands. “And yet that is what you presumed of me, is it not?”
Montague opened his mouth to vilify that remark, hesitated, then closed it.
Well, yes. That was what he had thought.
“Sarah. Sarah Lockwood. We…I spoke with the…we have an appointment.”
When Sarah—Miss Lockwood, he must recall her proper name—had arrived at his room, gibbering about an appointment, and he had seen the curve of her mouth and the swell of…
Well, what was he supposed to think?
“I…ahh…” To his great outrage, Montague appeared unable to speak. Him! It was ridiculous!
Perhaps not so ridiculous, as he took in her delicate shy yet direct gaze.
Her words had made them both flush, Montague thought wryly, which at least put them on an equal footing. She was a bold one, to be sure, bringing that up. It did not make sense. At times, she was one of the shyest women of his acquaintance…and at others…
At others, she would reveal she knew he thought she was offering herself to him. Why on earth would she say that if—no, he would not permit himself to think it.
A flash. Just a flash, something he only caught from the corner of his eye, but it was enough. There was something about Sarah Lockwood, and if he were staying in England, he would undoubtedly seek it out.
Montague cleared his throat. If he were staying. But he wasn’t. So any ideas he may or may not have about seducing Sarah had to remain that way. An idea.
“Ready?”
Sarah nodded, eyes bright. “I’m ready to fight.”
He could not help but smile at her enthusiasm—and her na?veté. “Let’s not attempt to run before we can walk.”
Disappointment clouded her expression. “You do not believe me ready for a duel?”
It was all Montague could do not to laugh. “Duel? Miss Lock—may I call you Sarah?”
There it was again. A flash of something in her eyes, something she immediately quelled. Montague could not help his curiosity. What was it about her that she was constantly forcing down, forbidding herself to express?
“Sarah?” she repeated hesitantly.
“It is your name,” Montague pointed out, trying to remain nonchalant. He mustn’t let her see how desperate he was to call her Sarah… “You can call me…Caelfall, if you like.”
It was a great concession. Which was why her nervous smile did not make any sense. She should be honored at the very idea of her calling him something so intimate. Why, only his close gentlemen friends were permitted to call him something so personal!
“Caelfall? Don’t you have a first name—Montague, wasn’t it?”
Montague swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, as the sun came out at that moment and gave Sarah a halo that illuminated her beauty. Dear God, how had he not noticed—
No. This was neither the time nor the place to realize he was alone with a beautiful woman.
Oh, blast.
“Caelfall will be sufficient, Sarah,” he managed to force himself to say, ignoring the squirming in his chest. “Now, we will be practicing your stance today, and—what?”
Montague snapped the last word, despite his better judgment. But she’d had such a look of despondency as he spoke. Was he truly that bad? Was practicing with him so awful?
“I just thought—well, we have been over the stance again and again; I had hoped we would be moving on to something more interesting,” said Sarah, a little breathlessly, as though disagreeing with a duke was an improper thing to do.
Which it was, in Montague’s opinion. “Why on earth is getting to fighting so important to you?”
As he spoke the words, a sudden rush of memory made him gasp. Shouts and cries, screams in the distance, a smell of gunpowder—
“Montague? Montague, can you hear—”
“I am quite alright, thank you, I’m fine.” Montague stumbled over his words pouring from his tongue in an attempt to keep her back.
Sarah had stepped forward, concerned, and he could not bear it if she touched him.
“It’s because of my poem.”
Montague blinked. Had he misheard?
Sarah pushed hair back behind her ear as her gaze flickered between his own and the floor. “I…my poem. It’s about two men fighting over a woman. They both love her, of course, and when they cannot both have her, they go to war.”
It was impossible not to roll his eyes. “What an original story.”
The words had slipped out before he could stop them, and so it was no surprise that Montague saw he had injured her. Hurt flashed in her eyes, but she moved past it almost immediately.
Almost as though she were accustomed to it, Montague thought uncomfortably.
“The war starts to take over their countries, and eventually, they realize the battle over a woman’s heart will destroy them all,” Sarah said in a low voice.
“And yes, I know there are similarities between this and Helen of Troy. You are not the first to notice it. Would you believe me if I told you that I had never read the tale until someone pointed this out?”
Montague hesitated, the hackles of the back of his neck raised. This felt like a trap, for it was difficult to believe.
Sarah shook her head. “You men, you think all received the same level of education as you. I never went to school. I had a governess who was far more interested in decorum than declaiming Latin, in marriage over mathematics.”
Something swooped in Montague’s stomach.