Chapter Nineteen
“You are very kind, sir,” said Montague stiffly.
Far kinder than he had expected, to tell the truth.
Not that he presumed the worst of people. Not always. But when one was told you were about to meet a Colonel Markham, it was easy to slip into the assumption he was a gruff, boring old fogey.
As it was…
“Oh, nothing at all, nothing at all,” barked the colonel, slapping Montague on the back with a hearty hand. “I knew I wouldn’t be asked to meet with you unless you were a top notch chap—and a duke to boot!”
Montague tried to smile, but his features did not unstiffen.
The oak-lined, leather-armchair-strewn, and most importantly, whiskey-scented room was packed. No one had told him he was not merely meeting a colonel but also a few brigadiers as well.
He had shaken hands with more people than he thought possible. His wrist ached, though that was nothing to his leg.
“Still giving you discomfort, is it?”
Montague raised his eyes and met the stern, firm gaze of Colonel Markham. “Yes.”
It was only a few months ago that he would feign admit to anyone he was in any sort of pain, he reasoned. “Yes” was still a great achievement, if one thought about it.
Though he would be careful not to mention it to Sarah.
“Well, we will have you in France before the month is out,” said Colonel Markham with a bark of a laugh. “Feels to me that’s where you belong, what?”
Montague nodded, though kept his counsel.
It had been a difficult road. Sarah had been most insistent, and he had hardly liked to argue with her—not that he had been able to. Her wit was far swifter than anything he could manage, verbally or written down.
And after her poetry recital triumph, her words were in great demand.
Publishers! Montague grinned at what Mrs. Lockwood had said when the first letter from a publisher had arrived.
“Oh, what a sweet gesture,” she had said, firmly yanking the letter from her daughter’s hand. “Ten guineas? Is that all!”
She had been singing a more triumphant tune when the fourth publisher had written, offering fifty guineas for the right to purchase and publish Miss Sarah Lockwood’s first poem.
But that was then, and this was now. Montague shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He was supposed to be paying attention to the conversation, but that was easier said than done.
His thigh twitched. If only he could manage to make his way to an armchair…
“Well then, what say you?” barked Colonel Markham.
Montague blinked. “To…?”
“To the offer you have been presented with, man; what else could I possibly mean?”
Ah, yes. The offer. Montague offered out his hand. “I accept, of course.”
It was a discomforting handshake. Though it was not precisely offered from pity, Montague knew if he had no personal connection with the colonel, this opportunity would certainly not have come his way.
Probably. One could never tell.
But, as Sarah had pointed out countless times, a well-worded letter could go a long way to achieving something unexpected.
The colonel took his hand, shook it hard, and grinned. “Mum’s the word, eh?”
Montague smiled weakly.
Yes, he would do his best not to discuss this with all and sundry—but there was still one person he must speak to…
“We had better head out, another damned meeting with the Council of War,” the colonel said heavily. “Give her my best, won’t you, old chap?”
Montague’s jaw tightened, but only for a moment. He was a duke, one of the highest nobility in all England and Ireland. The colonel, though of a superior rank in the army, had been born nothing more than a Mr. Markham.
But he was learning, wasn’t he?
“Yes, old chap,” Montague said, testing out the waters.
The colonel roared with laughter. “Dear me, not sure I expected that—I’ll be seeing you, Y’Grace. I’ll have a letter sent round with all the details. Servants you should take, formal dinners, bottles of wine, number of cigars, that sort of thing…”
Montague’s head whirled. This was all happening so quickly—just as Sarah had said. He had not expected her to be correct.
Another habit that would have to change.
The colonel and his friends started meandering out of the room. Montague’s chest heaved a sigh of relief. The place had started to become a little claustrophobic.
Besides, it meant that one person who had been waiting patiently—or not so patiently, Montague thought with a dry laugh as he saw her face—was now able to come inside.
“Well?” asked Sarah as she reached him, her hands clasping his. “Well?”
The door shut behind her. Montague glanced up and saw that, much against the odds, they were alone.
They were unlikely to remain so for long, so he said swiftly, “It’s done.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Done? Done? Is that all you can say?”
Montague sighed. The discomfort had not yet left his chest, and he believed it would not do so for some time. There was something about being examined by a colonel, especially when he was about to become a very important person in one’s life, that shook one.
Even a duke.
“Your great-uncle,” he said ruefully, “is very kind.”
Sarah beamed. “Oh, Great-Uncle Rupert is an absolute treasure. My mother always said when she was a girl and went to visit, he would drill her in battle formations across the croquet lawn.”
A vision swept across Montague’s mind of a younger Mrs. Lockwood holding a sword and a pistol, staring sternly across a vast expanse of lawn.
It was a chilling thought.
“Now that I do not doubt,” he said with a wry laugh. “I owe you a debt, Sarah, for asking him to—”
He had expected the tap on the arm, and smiled to receive it.
“Don’t you even think about thanking me,” Sarah said sternly, waggling a teasing finger before him. “You have achieved this on your own merits.”
“But—but you asked if that was all I could say!” spluttered Montague with mock outrage. “What do you want from me, woman?”
It was quite clear what she wanted, and he was more than happy to oblige.
The searing kiss took his breath away. In truth, Montague’s head spun and his legs quivered at the hint of promise beneath the pleasure of their kiss.
How long could they have alone here in this room? Was it possible they had time to—
“Absolutely not.”
Montague blinked. “How did you—”
“The thought was written all over your face, you rascal,” Sarah said with a laugh. “I can read it like a book.”
That, at least, was true. Montague was discovering with each passing day that it was a wonder he could keep anything secret from his future bride. It would not be long now and they would be married—and he would be able to bed her whenever he wished.
“So, you will take the position?”
Sarah was looking with curious eyes, all teasing gone, and Montague knew why.
It was certainly not what he’d expected. Returning to France was one thing, but like this…
Well, if he had not been encouraged by Colonel Markham beforehand, he would have said it was dishonorable. Montague had never sought a luxurious lifestyle; his time had instead been dedicated to honor and hard work.
“You’re not sure.”
His gaze caught hers. “How on earth do you read me so easily?”
“Simple. You are taller than me,” Sarah said breezily.
Montague snorted. “What on earth has my height got to do with it?”
“I thought you would have worked that out,” came the retort with a cheeky grin. “You’re in a larger font than I am—Montague!”
He gloried in her shriek of delight as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her neck.
“Montague…” she breathed, her voice hitching as his kisses trailed lower.
“What was that you were saying?” Montague growled, his fingers slipping to her buttocks, pulling her closer into his broad chest.
No reply—at least, not in words. Delight filled him as he saw Sarah’s eyelashes fluttering shut, her breath short as her fingers found his lapels and pulled him closer.
“Sarah?” he teased, lips just brushing her décolletage.
“Hmmm?”
Montague released her suddenly.
Sarah’s eyes snapped open. “Why aren’t you—”
The door opened and Montague bowed formally as Mrs. Lockwood entered. “Madam.”
“Oh, you don’t have to call me that, Your Grace,” fluttered his future mother-in-law. “Sarah, I was wondering if I could borrow you. I simply must show you—”
“In ten minutes, if you do not mind, Mrs. Lockwood,” Montague said smoothly, drawing on all his experience as a duke to drip formality on every syllable. “I wish to ascertain precisely how your dear daughter would like the wedding reception to be completed.”
He heard Sarah snort by his side, but thankfully, she was able to stifle the noise.
Mrs. Lockwood, however, did not appear to have picked up on the double entendre. “Ah, very well, very well. Send her out when you’re finished with her.”
And with a wave of her hand, she left the room.
Montague groaned as Sarah immediately placed a hand on his manhood.
“You see, she said you should finish me—”
“She said finished with you, you harlot,” quipped Montague as he tried to ignore the temptation.
Really, his future bride was absolutely outrageous! Beneath that delicate manner and pretty elegance was a voracious woman who could not keep her hands off him.
Precisely what he had always wanted.
Sarah sighed, then meandered to the fireplace, picked up a poker, and assumed the standard fencing stance. “You are not angry that I introduced you to Great-Uncle Rupert?”
Montague could hear the tension in her voice, but saw it far more clearly in her posture. She was truly concerned she had overstepped.
Affection for the young woman who had already done so much for him, and had opened his eyes to so much, filled his heart to the brim.
How could he ever thank her? How could he ever make her understand just what change she wrought in him? Where were the words to describe the impact she’d already had?
Montague swallowed. “Your left foot is out of alignment.”
It was not perhaps precisely what he wanted to say. But it was a start.
“Glad to see my fencing tutor hasn’t disappeared into the duke,” Sarah said with a laugh as she adjusted her foot then stepped forward, poker held aloft.