Chapter Fifteen
Montague grimaced as he lowered himself slowly onto the bench.
Damn and blast it!
Since all the excitement with Sarah a couple days ago—excitement repeating in his dreams, teasing him—his darned leg had played havoc with him. And the cramp—
He flinched as the tight ache became sharp along his thigh. He tried to ease the torture by stretching out his foot, but the awkward movement did nothing to appease the agony.
His eyes closed.
It was most infuriating. Old Chetnole would be receiving his letter soon, the one Sarah had helped him write. Despite the pain, a smile flickered across his face as he sat in the gymnasium, basking in the midday sun.
She had been kindness itself that day. He had never felt less ashamed about his difficulty with reading.
But when Chetnole read that letter, he would surely believe he, Montague, was ready for France! And though it hurt to admit, he thought as he opened his eyes and looked at his breeches, he was not ready. He was not entirely sure whether he would ever be ready.
And the trouble was, any moment now—
“Good morning—no, wait, good afternoon, I suppose,” said Sarah breezily as she entered the gymnasium with her usual flourish. “I do apologize, I don’t have a pocket watch; I am unsure whether we are past midday.”
The world softened.
Yes, he was in pain. Yes, he had no idea if he would return to France, the one goal he’d had in mind for the last seven or eight months. But somehow, all that tension, all that frustration faded when Sarah was in the room.
She beamed as she stepped forward. “Is it?”
Montague blinked. “Is it…what?”
Sarah nudged him playfully on the shoulder as she placed her reticule on the bench beside him. It made a thunk, which told him the pocketbook was in there. “Is it after midday, you dolt.”
A few months ago, he would have been pained to be described as a dolt, Montague thought ruefully as he pulled out his pocket watch. “It is.”
And now…Sarah could call him anything she wanted, Montague knew. Anything, as long as he had the privilege of being in her presence while she did it.
“You are smiling,” Sarah said in a half-accusatory voice.
Montague raised an eyebrow as she moved to stand before him. “And?”
Tempting as it was to rise, Montague hated the thought he may stumble. That his leg may not be able to hold him. It would be shameful indeed if he were to immediately collapse. Better not to risk it.
Sarah giggled, tilting her head. “When I first met you, there was no possibility of a smile on your face at any juncture in a conversation whatsoever. Now you treat me with one before I have said more than ten words!”
Montague nodded. “I suppose I was bad tempered then.”
Bad tempered? An understatement of gigantic proportions, he thought privately. Not that he would admit to as much, even to Sarah.
That did not seem to matter. Sarah laughed again, settling into the fencing stance he had taken great efforts to teach her. “I think I called you a grump.”
“I think you did,” acknowledged Montague. “Very rude to a duke, you were.”
Sarah threw him a mischievous look. “You deserved it.”
He could not help but chuckle as warm affection seeped into his bones.
Montague had not been sure what to do with himself when Sarah had slipped away from his room hours after they had made love. It had still been daylight, though late in the evening, and she had assured him there would be no awkward questions at home and that he should not concern himself.
Not concern himself?
Precisely what he should do next with the delightful and delectable woman who had now given him everything of herself had plagued his mind ever since.
Because he had not quite proposed matrimony, had he?
“If I were to marry you, and I am not saying I can offer you such a thing at this time, it would be to live in relative simplicity.”
Montague’s jaw tightened as he watched Sarah practice her stance and footwork up and down the gymnasium.
He owed her. Not in a mercenary way, far from it. Quite to the contrary.
Sarah had given herself freely, with no expectation. And that was precisely why he needed to do something. In all honor, the situation demanded it.
His jaw clenched so tightly, his temples hurt. So why was it so difficult to act?
Why did he not just stand—well, perhaps not stand, not the way his leg was feeling—and say, “Sarah Lockwood, I lo—”
“Though I suppose I am different too, from when we met.”
Montague blinked. Sarah was further down the gymnasium but moving forward with every moment. Her advance was truly starting to get better, even if her retreat was laughable.
Not that he’d told her that.
“Different?” he repeated, dazed from the thoughts he had become lost in.
Sarah nodded, eyes bright. “I would not have described myself as a wallflower—”
“It wasn’t a wallflower who tempted me into bed last week,” Montague quipped.
A flush of crimson colored her cheeks, but her eyes did not look away. “Precisely.”
Warmth spread from his toes to his cheeks as he watched her slowly come toward him. Precisely, indeed.
They had changed each other; or perhaps more accurately, they had drawn out of each other the parts of themselves which never received much of an airing.
He had softened. She had been emboldened.
Montague’s stomach lurched. He wanted more, that was the trouble. Not more of her body—he’d seen all and approved of every inch. He wouldn’t say no to see it again.
But he wanted to see Sarah continue to grow in confidence, see the world with her moving boldly in it. He wanted to hear the poetry, partake in the debates, see her declaim her position on matters without concern.
His traitorous heart skipped a beat before he reminded himself, before I go to France.
And that was the rub, wasn’t it?
Montague shifted awkwardly on the bench, not trusting his leg but needing to move.
Damn his treacherous mind. If he did enjoy Sarah’s company to the fullest, what if he was called back? What if he did return to France?
He’d leave her behind. In Oxford. Ripe and ready to be plucked by another man—
“En guarde!” Sarah launched at him with an imaginary foil. “Touché!”
“Hang about, you would never have gained a point there!” Montague protested, finer feelings forgotten in the face of such injustice. “How dare you attack an unarmed man!”
Sarah’s eyes gleamed. “What are you talking about, Your Grace? Why, I can see the sword—sorry, foil in your hand, clear as day!”
Montague looked at his hands. There were completely devoid of foil. They were devoid of anything, completely empty.
Looking at Sarah in astonishment, he was about to speak when she rolled her eyes.
“Where is your sense of imagination, Montague? Come on, play with me!”
A smile teased across his lips. Dear God, it was tempting. There was something artless yet artful in Sarah’s manner, a mischievousness mingled with innocence.
Something so alluring, it was all he could do to keep his manhood in check.
But even as he shifted his weight on the bench to attempt to rise, a stabbing pain rendered that plan obsolete.
“Argh!”
Montague had tried not to cry out. It was not in his nature to reveal weakness, even before he had been injured. But the sudden pain had been impossible to hide.
Sarah rushed to his side. “Your leg?”
He nodded, grimacing with pain. Perhaps it would be best, just for a moment, if he did not try to speak. He had no wish to curse before a lady, let alone Sarah.
Yet the spike of shame he had expected…never came.
Her hand reached out to his thigh. “Can I do anything?”
Montague swallowed. Just her touch seemed to be doing wonders, though it would be difficult to admit that, let alone explain it. How was a woman’s touch, through his breeches, supposed to calm an old wound?
And yet it was. As she knelt by him, her expression serious and full of affection, Montague found himself relaxing, tension dissipating, pain lessening. As though her very presence was a tonic, not to be found in Doctor Walsingham’s bag.
“Montague?” Sarah said quietly.
Montague caught her eye and his breath left him. She was so precious. Far too precious to toy with—not that it had been his intention.
“If you do not take me right now, Montague Lancaster, I will take you.”
It was at her instigation—but no, Montague could not lie to himself. That desire had been in his heart for days, perhaps weeks. It was her boldness, her determination, which had brought it to fruition, but he had wanted her just as deeply. Perhaps more.
But now, what were they to each other? What could he offer her that would suffice?
Montague tried to smile. “It is nothing, only a—”
“Do not tell me it is nothing when I hear you cry in pain and see agony in your features,” Sarah said fiercely. “Tell me the truth. Please.”
How could he deny her? “It did hurt, but I feel better now.”
She did not have to say she did not believe him. Her arched eyebrow did that for her.
“I speak the truth, honestly,” said Montague with a dry laugh. “It…oh hang it, you’ll think this the soppiest thing, but…but I feel better having you close. Having you touching me. And don’t put that in your damned poem!” he added, seeing the light in her eyes.
Sarah opened her mouth in mock outrage. “I wasn’t going to!”
“Yes, you were,” he said sternly, exulting in the heady tension between them.
She had the good grace to look bashful. But when she spoke, it was not the admission of guilt he expected. “No, I…Montague, I could never put something that intimate about us in a poem. That’s just for us. You and me.”
Oh, dear God, he was undone.
Montague had never thought himself the sort of fool who would fall in love.
That weakness was for other men, lesser men. Dukes did not fall in love with their wives. Certainly not at first—they were chosen by mothers, or fathers, or matchmakers. If you were fortunate, you liked her. If you were very fortunate, you were attracted to her.
But love? Whoever heard of such a thing?
But as his gaze took in the untidy curls of hair, the worried eyes, the luscious mouth, Montague knew himself to be lost…