Chapter Eleven
Montague stared dully at the letter. It had arrived but an hour ago, yet he’d been consumed by it from that moment.
Chetnole had been bold to write it, of course.
There was no knowing if some of the higher-ups—the brass, as Montague and the men had called them—would review a letter returning to England.
It would not do to lower morale, though the little lewd sketch at the bottom had certainly put a smile on his face.
The rest had dampened his sprits.
Montague muttered in the silence of his room. “It’s just a letter. Nothing to be afraid of. Read it properly this time.”
Shuffling in his seat and wishing to goodness he had something to eat while he read, Montague’s gaze fell once more onto the page.
It took several attempts to get all the way through.
As they had done when a child, and ever since, the words never stayed still long enough to construct a full sentence, damn them.
Still. He persevered.
Dear Caelfall,
Well here’s a rum thing—the war continues and you’re not back!
I don’t like to tell you just how greatly the French miss you, but I can reveal they keep attempting to find you here in our camp.
Fear not, we have managed to round off the blighters each time, and my colonel says I am getting rather good at it.
I know, worrying times. One day they may actually make me an infantryman!
The men do well now the days are drier. There is nothing for bringing down a man’s mood than mud, I have discovered. I hope you are steering clear of both mud and sunshine, while I cannot avoid the latter. My own mother wouldn’t recognize me, I’m so tanned.
It’s strange to think of you gallivanting about the place in London: taking tea at Twinings, dancing with the finest ladies at Almack’s, doubtless driving the mamas wild by refusing to take a wife.
Sometimes on colder nights, I think of you and the others lucky to be in England.
What a place it is. At times, I think my memory of the place is greener than reality. Write back swiftly and tell me just how dull everything is.
I suppose Lady Romeril is inviting you to all the best parties, perhaps even forcing you to host one at Caelfall Place. Now that I would pay money to see!
I can’t write for long.
Two days since I wrote the above, old chap, but fear not—I am holding up quite well. The attack was brief and we pushed them back, damned frogs.
Mustn’t waste more paper, I’ve filled up far too much space with that little drawing of a particular mademoiselle I’ve encountered. A good story to tell when you’re back.
All the best as I remain your ever affectionate and dastardly friend—
Chetnole
Old Chetnole; he hadn’t changed in ten years, and was unlikely to now. One’s personality was set after reaching adulthood. Himself, he’d always been a grump, after all. That had hardly changed.
His gaze flickered over a few of the lines, pulled back to them against his will.
Sometimes on colder nights, I think of you and the others of us still lucky enough to be in England.
A good story to tell when you’re back.
When he was back.
Montague sighed as he folded the letter, then unfolded it, smoothing it over his thigh with a small wince.
Back. Back to France.
It had been his only real goal when he had arrived in Oxford, still bed-bound with a fever. All doctors had given up on him until Doctor Walsingham had agreed to shift from London and care for him.
Return to France, and the dishonor he’d left there by permitting himself to be injured.
A dark smile crept over Montague’s lips. And now all he could think of was the next time he was going to see a certain young woman, and whether these kisses would lead to something to satisfy this craving…
A knock on the door.
“What?”
His growl was answered by the door opening and an apologetic look from Sarah. “Not a good time, then?”
Montague rose so hastily the letter from Chetnole fluttered to the floor. “Sarah! Miss Lockwood, I mean, I…hello.”
Sarah’s smile faltered. “Hello.”
If only he had known she was coming! Montague was more than a little conscious of the utter mess his room had become. That was the trouble with growing up with so many servants, he thought grimly. One forgot how to do anything for oneself.
It had been a steep learning curve, adjusting to dressing himself. But his valet was in London, at Caelfall Place. His tenants paid more to have servants about.
“Hello,” Montague said helplessly, wishing more eloquent words would come to him.
If only his heart was not racing so swiftly. If only his hands weren’t tingling with the hope of holding her. If only he could stop thinking of Sarah in his arms, kissing him furiously…
Well. Perhaps not. He liked that image.
Sarah was still standing in the doorway, as though expecting something. Montague waited for her to speak, but clearly there was something he was supposed to do.
His mind cast about wildly. What did she want from him? Had they arranged to meet here? Certainly not; he would never want her to see the state this place was in.
Did they have a fencing lesson planned? Montague’s mind whirled. What day was it?
“I…may I come in?” Sarah hazarded.
Montague almost tripped over his own feet as he stepped forward eagerly. “In! Yes, yes come—I should have thought of—hello.”
“Hello,” she said as she stepped inside and closed the door.
He wavered as to what to do next. Part of him said he should play the part of the gentleman. Ring the bell for a servant and order tea—but then the servant would know they were alone together, unchaperoned.
And what does that matter? Montague tried to convince himself. They were alone every time they met in the gymnasium, weren’t they?
Yes, said the little irritating voice at the back of his head, which was starting to speak louder and louder. And how well is that going for your self-control?
Montague smiled weakly. “Hello.”
Sarah’s smile disappeared. “So, we kissed.”
“We did,” he said, relieved she had been the one to break the tension.
Dear God, if he could not even talk about a kiss, what had happened to him?
“Several times.”
Montague nodded, loins twisting at how much he wished to do it again. “Yes.”
Was that a twinkle in Sarah’s eyes? “I know we said we’d not make a habit of it—”
“We did,” he agreed, wishing to goodness he’d had the foresight to invite her to be seated. He couldn’t sit until she did, and his leg was starting to ache. “At least, you did.”
She hesitated at that remark. Now that Montague thought about it, perhaps it had not been necessary to point that out.
But what was necessary? He had never found himself in such a bizarre situation, had never kissed a woman that he had not either bedded immediately, or never seen again.
This was…uncomfortable.
And yet wonderful, that traitorous little voice pointed out. Have you ever felt so at home with a woman? So calm? So utterly yourself?
Montague sighed. Himself? He barely knew who he was anymore. “Please, sit.”
He fell into the armchair behind him. Sarah elegantly moved to the sofa opposite—right in the same place where they had first met. Where she had requested aid in her poetry, and he had laughed in her face.
Dear God, was he truly that callous?
“What’s that?” Sarah asked.
Montague looked to where she was pointing, and flushed as he picked up Chetnole’s letter. “A letter from one of my friends.”
“I wondered what your acquaintances thought about you staying here in Oxford, rather than London,” Sarah said. “I hope they are well.”
He shrugged. “He complains a great deal, but he always has. And he’s not in London. He’s…he’s in France.”
His heart fluttered painfully as he looked from the letter to Sarah. Somehow, revealing this simple fact was more akin to baring his very soul.
And she knew it, too. There was something altogether too knowing in that look.
“France,” she repeated.
Montague nodded. A lump had gathered in his throat, making it far more difficult than he could have predicted to speak.
France. It had always held an allure, but now the most alluring thing in his life was a woman who kissed like the devil and, as far as he knew, wrote awful poetry.
“My great-uncle is in France,” she said quietly. “He’s a colonel. It’s a dangerous life.”
He remained quiet. How could he put this into words? How could he capture what was in his heart?
“I…I don’t know how to explain,” he said helplessly, hating his voice’s feebleness.
A warm hand took his. “You don’t have anything to explain to me. I am sorry, I am curious by nature; I should not have asked—”
“No, please, do not worry yourself,” Montague said as heartily as he could manage.
He squeezed Sarah’s hand and found great comfort in the gesture. He squeezed it again. Dear lord, he could get used to this.
“I do wish to reply to my friend, but it is hard to know precisely—words, you see, they do not…blast.”
He saw Sarah’s eyebrow arch. “Have we finally discovered something that I excel at which you do not?”
Montague gave a dry laugh. “I suppose so.”
Admitting a Caelfall was not perfect was something his father had never permitted. Even now, years after his death, Montague found it hard to admit to anything of the kind.
Yet with Sarah, it was easy. Natural. As though he was merely saying it to himself. As though they were one and the same person, except she had all the power with words, and he became a quivering, gibbering wreck in her presence.
He swallowed. Not that he would permit that, naturally. He was a duke.
Sarah was examining him. “You’re the mighty warrior, the fencer. I would have thought nothing would frighten you.”
Pride prickled at Montague’s chest. “I did not say I was frightened!”
“Your lips did not,” she said softly.
Montague cleared his throat and hoped to goodness he did not look disconcerted.
How did she do it? Peer into his soul and see his personal frustrations, fears, the things he worked to keep private? As though he was an open book and all she had to do was read him?
He rather liked the take-hold-of-him idea.