Chapter Eighteen #2
Sarah managed to collect herself, gaze firmly away from the man, as her chest tightened painfully. Montague? What on earth is he doing here?
There was no reason she could surmise. Their acquaintance, for want of a better word, had certainly ended badly enough. She could not conceive of any words that would create a new understanding between them.
Certainly not one that would allow him to stay here. In England. In safety.
“But the duel was not over, it was not yet won,
“And our hero lay bleeding as no help did come…”
Sarah swallowed, taking a much needed breath before continuing.
She was not going to freeze. She was not going to be a fool right before all these people, and certainly not Montague.
So it was most unaccountable when her gaze slipped back to him. He was smiling, and nodded in encouragement when their eyes met.
Sarah managed to continue with the poem. Simply turning up to her poetry recital was no apology—she had not even wanted him here to begin with. Even if she had. Maybe.
Complicated did not quite cover it, and she was starting to approach the difficult section of the poem. Sarah’s fingers tightened around the pommel of her Great Uncle Rupert’s sword as tension spread throughout her body.
Letting Montague disrupt her poetry recital was not going to happen.
“So he picked up his blade…”
And that was when she faltered. Just for a moment. A heartbeat. An audience member who was not paying full attention probably would not have noticed it.
Sarah’s voice caught on the words that she had gained from her fencing lessons. From Montague. The things he had taught her.
“So he picked up his blade…”
Her voice died completely.
Sarah’s cheeks burned as she stood in the now terribly awkward silence of the bookshop. All eyes were fixed on her, some confused, others seemingly disappointed.
Despite herself, she looked at the doorway where Montague had been standing.
He was not there.
Despair sank into her chest. If he could not even stand to watch her disgrace herself, she was right to break with him. She could not bear to—
“So he picked up his blade!” said a voice.
Sarah blinked. She turned, and there was…
Montague. Standing on the stage beside her, holding a foil—holding it aloft, as though threatening to attack her! What was he—
Then she saw his expression. An encouraging nod.
“Come on, Sarah,” he whispered, eyes not leaving hers. “So he picked up his blade?”
The sword in her hand lifted, as though by itself. Sarah thought she had been overcome by the muse of poetry herself, for suddenly bravery rushed through her.
Her sword and Montague’s foil clashed together. The audience gasped, a few ladies putting their hands to their chests—and Montague smiled.
Sarah returned his smile as excitement soared through her. This was what her poem had been missing: passion.
“So he picked up his blade with a defiant roar,” she continued, pretending to advance on Montague then retreating—it was, after all, a very small stage. “And lunged at his enemy and fought on once more…”
Every footstep corresponded perfectly with her poem, and though Montague had never heard it before, he seemed to know precisely what was to come.
Anticipating her every movement, but only to make the pretend stage fight look even more impressive, Sarah struggled to concentrate on the following stanza as he whirled around, coattails flying.
The audience gasped. Their attention was now fixed, agog. A rush of pleasure Sarah had never known before filled her to her very toes.
Was this what it was to be…a poet?
“Almost there?” Montague muttered under his breath, slightly short with exertion.
Sarah nodded as she continued to recite. “The victory glorious, the heavens declared, there’d never again be a battle that fared…”
It was a wonder he was still standing. She had become so accustomed to Montague with his cane, it was a marvel to see him leap about the place without it. No wonder he was eager to return to France!
“But Montague—I love—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
And it all seemed so…so meaningless now. Their argument.
How had it managed to separate them?
All they had been saying was that they worried for each other. As Sarah reached the last three final stanzas with a certain amount of relief, it dawned upon her that the only disagreement they had was how to keep Montague safe.
Not that she did not care for him, or that he felt no affection.
Montague stepped close, the two blades clashing before their eyes. “I’m proud of you.”
His whispered words were heard only by her, but for Sarah, they were enough.
“And thus ends the tale of the duel that was won,” she finished with a flourish.
And it would have been a wonderful flourish too, if Montague had not ruined it.
Well. Ruined it. Harsh words, Sarah thought afterward, for a kiss that made her toes curl and her hand drop the sword to cling to him.
Oh, this was where she belonged, with Montague’s lips on hers and his hands around her, pulling her close, as aching desire erupted within her.
And then the kiss was over.
Absolute silence. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Could she just disappear at the back of the stage and out the back door of the bookshop? Anything to avoid the contempt of—
Every single audience member rose to their feet, applauding and cheering. The noise was raucous, filling the small bookshop, and though Sarah could see Montague was attempting to speak, it was impossible to make out a single word.
“I beg your pardon?” Sarah shouted over the noise, cupping her ear.
She had to hear his words—for they had looked very much like—
“Oh, my darling girl, that was wonderful!” Her mother rushed onto the stage and swept Sarah up into an embrace. “To think, all that scribbling in that pocketbook of yours and you have created such—”
“Mama, I must speak to—”
“Absolutely marvelous, well done, Miss Lockwood,” said Mr. Norton, beaming as he joined them, pulling Sarah from her mother’s embrace but only to shake her violently by the hand. “You must tell me when you publish, I simply must—”
“Montague,” Sarah said distractedly, pulling her hand from the bookseller’s grasp and turning to Montague.
There was a wry look on his face. “Famous, I see. You’ll be forgetting me then.”
Mrs. Lockwood was looking between them with an arched expression. “Your Grace? Forgetting you, why would she—”
“I could never forget you,” Sarah said amidst all the commotion, wishing to goodness her mother and the bookshop owner would go away. “Never, not after all we—”
“Does that mean you have forgiven me?”
Sarah stared into dark eyes and saw passion and confusion and hope all mingled together. And found she had. “Is there anything to forgive?”
Montague groaned, and ignoring the multitude who was staring, swept Sarah back into his arms again.
She willingly lifted up her lips to be kissed and whimpered as his hand tilted her head, allowing him to part her lips and—
“Your Grace! Unhand my daughter this instant!”
Sarah opened her eyes. Though still standing in Montague’s embrace, she could see her mother had hit him none too gently on the arm.
She was just about to try to explain—not that she particularly knew what was going on—when Montague instead spoke in his calm, low voice.
“Madam, I will not release my future bride to you nor anyone else.”
Sarah’s heart skipped a beat as her mother spluttered, “F-Future bride?”
“Truly?” Sarah said to Montague, ignoring her mother’s sudden hysterics. “You…you wish to marry me?”
Montague lowered his head and growled, for her hearing only, “You were the one to beg me into bed—please don’t tell me I have to beg you to marry me.”