Chapter Eight #2
Sarah swallowed. Try as she might, she not recall anyone in her circle of intimate friends—certainly not her mother—who’d had any real interest in her poetry.
Oh, they permitted her to talk a little about it, once per visit, but it was usually a very brief mention. That she was still writing her epic poem. That was usually it.
It was most unusual to have a receptive audience.
Her gaze flickered over the duke’s broad shoulders, his strong hands clasped in his lap. Hands which had once—
“Yes, the poem,” Sarah said hastily. “In truth, I am finding it difficult to progress. The words…they do not capture the vision in my mind. Even that flickers, dances just out of view.”
For some reason, Montague nodded. “Retreating.”
The fencing term caught her off guard. “Yes, I suppose so. And there is so much I have to guess at, so much I wish to write of which I myself have never experienced.”
A wistful note appeared in her voice as Sarah tried to explain it.
“You see, I wish to write of—of great love, power, kings, battles, wars, adventure. It turns out it is curiously difficult to write of a battle without…without having ever been in one.”
Her voice had almost trailed off by the end as her gaze flickered to the cane leaning against the bench beside him. She could not, would not put him in the position where he felt he had to confide in her merely to satiate her curiosity.
“Yes, I can see how that would be a pickle,” said Montague slowly.
Sarah stifled a laugh. “A pickle?”
He looked affronted. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing! Nothing, it’s just…well. Not the sort of thing I would expect a duke to say,” Sarah said lamely.
Now he was smiling. “Oh, and you are a great expert on dukes?”
“No! I just meant…never mind,” she said, flushing horribly, she was sure.
In truth, he was the first duke she had ever met, or seen! But she would not admit that.
“So there are a few areas of the poem that are proving difficult,” Montague said after a moment of silence. “But the rest is easy?”
Sarah looked at her hands, still clutched tightly around her reticule. She forced them to relax.
If only her cheeks did not have to flush! It was certainly not something she had inherited from her mother, who could have calmly lied to the Pope without a single blush.
A gentle breeze moved through the Christ Church Meadows and Sarah hoped to goodness it would cool her.
“Well, I…I have never been in love either, but somehow, that is easier to imagine.”
Despite all her better judgment, knowing this would undoubtedly be a mistake, Sarah lifted her gaze from her reticule to look at Montague.
He met her gaze calmly.
Had she been too forward? She had said nothing, confirmed none of her own feelings, only hinted at emotions she could not name and would not describe. But they were affectionate, weren’t they?
Sarah thought it was impossible to know anything of Montague and not feel affection. He drew it from her with no demands, no promises, but there it was.
Montague cleared his throat. “Well. I suppose no one ever has to know which parts of the poem you have struggled with and which have come naturally if you never finish it.”
Nettled by his remark, Sarah’s heart stung at the suggestion. “I will finish it!”
“I did not say you—”
“You said no one will ever read it!” It was difficult to keep away her accusatory tone.
Evidently Montague heard it, for he said tersely, “I did not actually say—”
“And I will finish it, I assure you,” Sarah said with firmness, though her certainty did not resonate. “I will! And even if then no one reads it, well…”
She did not intend her voice to trail off, but it was difficult to know what to say. The thought that no one would ever read her poem frightened and exhilarated at the same time.
If no one read it, they would never need to know how awful it was.
But if no one read it, she would never know if it was any good.
“I just—oh!”
Sarah’s eyes widened as she found a third hand in her lap. Montague’s hand.
He had taken hers and intertwined their fingers, causing shots of quivering heat to rocket throughout her body. How did he manage to do this to her with such a simple touch? How was it possible that something so innocent in others could feel so wild and rebellious?
Sarah met his gaze and her lips parted unconsciously, unable to understand what he meant by this gesture. Why, if they were in company, it would suggest something as tangible as an engagement between them!
But they were alone here, with no one to see or presume, so only she could guess at what he intended. If he intended anything!
And then he released her hand. The moment was past.
Sarah wondered if she had dreamt it, though the memory of his skin still burned her palm.
“I-I’ve submitted my name to read part of my poem at a poetry recital,” she said in a rush.
Montague nodded. “Excellent. I will be there.”
“No, don’t come,” Sarah said on instinct.
It was the wrong thing to say. Instantly, a cloud of disappointment rushed across his face, though Montague managed to brush it aside at once. But Sarah knew what she’d seen.
In all formality, he was only her fencing instructor! A duke, yes, but their intimacy, if she could call it such a thing, was naught but that of pupil and teacher.
So why did that cause a thrill in her heart?
“You don’t want me there.”
It was not a question, merely a statement, and it caused Sarah’s chest to tighten. She had not intended it that way—in truth, she hoped no one she knew would catch wind of the recital. She certainly had not told her mother.
And besides, she told herself sternly, Montague Lancaster is a duke. He was gruff, and grumpy, and nothing like the sort of man she might have wished to…
And that kiss was a mistake. Dukes probably kissed people all the time.
“It’s not that I don’t want you—I mean, I don’t really want anyone to attend,” Sarah said awkwardly, wishing to goodness she had never raised the topic in the first place. “Of course if you want to come, you can. I mean, it’s open to anyone.”
Montague nodded, but a strange sort of smile twisted his lips as he said, “Yes, I presumed it was open to the public, but…well. I rather wanted you to want me to be there.”
Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. He could not mean—could he?
Heavy bells chiming in the nearby college made Sarah jump and rise to her feet. She could not stay here any longer—who knew what Montague’s continued presence would do? Before she knew it, she may find herself admitting—
“I have to go,” she blurted out. “The chimes, my mother, she—”
“And you have no pocket watch,” said Montague dryly.
“Sadly not. Good day, Your—Montague.”
His blazing eye seemed to twinkle. “Your Montague indeed.”