The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Read online

  “That is right. You admitted to forcing a man to drink.”

  Strangely, she sounded more curious and less outraged than he’d expected. The Miss Thorne he knew would sooner sting him with her harsh judgments than bother to ask questions. She would stare him down with a flinty gaze so cold, he would believe that the color of her irises resembled the smoke rising from a pistol after a lethal shot. Instead, her irises resembled the gray, swirling smoke of a bedside candle being blown out. And when she glanced down to his mouth, it took all of his might to keep his distance.

  “When a man has no control over his own actions, the smallest amount of persuasion is all it takes.” They were speaking of the driver, of course, yet Lucan let his own gaze drift to her mouth to serve as a warning. “Do not worry for the driver’s welfare, however. I sent him in Whitelock’s carriage, albeit marginally delayed from your departure. In the event that you do not heed my warning, I wanted time enough for you not to worry about losing your position. The driver should arrive at the manor in time to awaken and wonder how he’d reached his destination.” Lucan had left Arthur Momper in charge. The lad assured him that he could hold the reins and reach the brake well enough to see them safely back.

  “Such lengths for a whim . . . ” She adjusted her spectacles, though her eyes shifted down to his mouth once more. Then, clearing her throat, she straightened her shoulders and faced him head-on. “Foolishly, I thought I’d arrived at what would be my home, when all along I am still miles away from it.”

  Lucan breathed a sigh of relief when the less approachable Miss Thorne he knew started to come forth. Wanting to increase her ire out of pure necessity and self-preservation, he threw in an offer he knew she wouldn’t accept and that she would find offensive. “You are more than welcome to stay here at Fallow Hall with me . . . and my friends.”

  Her eyes turned flinty. “You are already going back on your word. At first, you said that I was free to leave once I heard your warning. So far, you have not convinced me of Lord Whitelock’s deception. I find nothing suspect in his actions. Yours, however, are not so easily dismissed.”

  Was she finally going to berate him for the kiss? He opened his hands in a shrug, daring her to begin. Honestly, he was waiting for the opportunity to state that it was he, and not she, who had ended the kiss.

  “You said my father did not want you to pay his debts,” she said instead, disappointing him.

  However, now that they were returning to the original reason for his bringing her to Fallow Hall, he needed to take care. What he had to tell her would be difficult to hear.

  “Your father has asked that I leave him in Fleet for three months,” Lucan said quietly and read surprise and disbelief in her expression. “He was sensible enough to know that if I’d paid his debts at that moment, he would only incur more. And he was sickened by his own behavior toward you, especially that he stole from you.”

  She gasped. “How could you know—”

  Lucan did not press his point. There was no victory in her realizing that he spoke the truth. More than anything, he wished the circumstances in her life were different, simpler. “Thorne wants to be a more deserving father to you. He’s a good man who’s lost his way, that is all.”

  Lucan had lost his way once, shortly after the news of his mother’s death reached him. Everhart and Danvers, being the decent fellows that they were, had taken him to a house of ill repute to drown his sorrows, amongst other things. An unsavory man named Richard Blight had been the proprietor at the time. The man enjoyed the drink he supplied, in addition to the favors of the women in his employ. He also used his fists in a manner that was far too familiar to Lucan.

  Watching Blight raise his hand to a woman cowering at his feet had made Lucan lose his mind. He hadn’t even known what had come over him, until Everhart and Danvers had pulled him off the man. Lucan was fortunate that they’d acted quickly. Blight had only suffered a few cuts on his face, a broken nose, and a few more missing teeth. But the truth was, Lucan could have killed him without needing to stop for a breath. It would have been easy. He’d kept seeing his father’s face. Kept hearing his mother’s whimpers. That sickening thud of her head hitting the floor.

  So yes, he’d lost his way once. But he would never lose control like that again. He wasn’t his father. Even so, because of that day, Lucan would never marry. Not with that monster lurking inside of him.

  “Now is the moment where I usually issue a remark casting the blame for my father’s circumstances on your family, for what your father did—”

  “My father,” Lucan interrupted with more vehemence than he cared to reveal. In prior encounters, he’d merely feigned a smile at her reminders, allowing her to believe what she chose. Now, with all that was at stake for her own welfare, he didn’t want to be seen as the villain. He couldn’t afford to have her believe he was the same type of cruel man. “Not me.”

  She lowered her gaze to the floor between them and drew in a breath. “True enough. And now it seems like the time to mention that my father had started to lose his way after my mother died. Not in the same manner he has of late, of course. He was a good steward, and we had a nice home. I had tutors and clothes. We even had a cook. But my father became absent, even when he came home at the end of the day.”

  “Losing your mother was hard for you both, I imagine,” he said, feeling a connection between them.

  Miss Thorne touched the brooch that held the ends of her shawl in place. “The illness took her far too quickly. Yet saying that makes me sound unforgivably selfish, doesn’t it? I should be thankful that she did not suffer long. And I am . . . but had I known that our time was so limited, I would have done things differently. I wouldn’t have left her side for an instant. I would have asked her thousands of questions. Memorized the sound of her voice . . . ” Her words drifted off, and she cleared her throat once more. “Forgive me. You were telling me about my father. I haven’t a clue as to why I began talking about my mother instead. I don’t normally talk about her.”

  “Would you like to talk about her?” Listening just now, Lucan almost admitted to having had those same thoughts about his own mother and all the things he would change if he could.

  Miss Thorne stared at him for a moment before turning away, issuing an awkward laugh, as if uncomfortable. “I almost believe you are in earnest, my lord.”

  “My lord?” Now it was his turn to laugh, albeit wryly. “You would be so formal, even now?”

  She found the stopper for the ink and secured it in place. “Especially now.”

  “Good,” he said with a nod. The last thing he needed was for her to make it easy for him to want another taste. “Now, returning to what I was saying about Whitelock.”

  “If you must,” she grumbled. “But since you allotted me a small amount of time before I should be missed, would it be a terrible bother if I suffered through another one of your diatribes after a cup of tea and perhaps a small crust of bread? Or am I to be forced into submission by starvation?”

  He enjoyed her wicked wit almost as much as he enjoyed steaming up her spectacles. “A choice between the two is a difficult one, indeed, but I prefer willing participants.”

  By the faint tinge to her cheeks, she understood his double meaning. Unfortunately, whatever response she would have made was left unsaid because in the next instant, he needed to warn her that they were about to have visitors.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Do you like dogs, Miss Thorne?”

  Puzzled by the sudden changes of their conversation, from her parents, to food, and then to domestic animals, Frances took a small moment to answer Lucan. “I do. In fact, I had a dog when I was much younger. Petunia Wrigglebottom was her name.”

  Though why she admitted the last embarrassing tidbit, she wasn’t sure. In fact, she was speaking more freely than she ever did. It was almost as if his kiss had unraveled her as much as it had rattled her.

  “Not simply Petunia?” He didn’t bother to hide his amu
sement.

  Frances pretended that the display of his dimple had no effect on her whatsoever. “I believe that any dog of distinction deserves at least two names.”

  His grin broadened, though why, she could not guess. “Earlier, when you were exiting the carriage, I wasn’t sure if you would be afraid of the Beast of Fallow Hall, so I asked him to behave. Now, however, I’m certain he will want to make a proper introduction.”

  In the next instant, the large gray dog that she’d seen when she first arrived came bounding into the study, ears and tongue flapping and heading directly toward her. Since his head was as high as her elbow, and he likely weighed as much as she did, Frances doubted she would be standing for much longer. She braced herself, feet apart, but then Lucan stepped between them.

  “I still expect you to be a gentleman,” he warned, lowering down to his haunches to pet the beast, who in turn answered with a woof before licking the side of Lucan’s face.

  The low, robust laugh that followed surprised Frances. This was not the practiced laugh of a charmer or even the seductive laugh from moments ago. This was unguarded. She’d noticed how flawlessly he controlled his actions. He rarely revealed the inner workings of the man behind those amber eyes, like a true gambler. Which was the reason she’d never trusted him.

  But hearing his laugh just now filled her with the peculiar impulse to know more about him. More than the fact that he kissed remarkably well.

  The sound of feminine voices broke through her thoughts. Lucan stood. The tails of his coat fell into place. Only then did she realize she’d been staring quite fixedly at the strong lines of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips, and his backside. Again.

  Keeping a hand draped over the dog’s scruff, he gently thrummed his fingers in time with ticking clock stand in the corner. “Miss Thorne, I do not mean to alarm you, but you are about to meet two of the most determined young women of my acquaintance.”

  Curious, her gaze locked on the open doorway. “Determined for what, precisely?”

  “To see me married by year’s end.” He said the words with such gravity that a streak of alarm did indeed shoot through her. “They will see you here and begin plotting instantly, especially if you continue to ogle my person when my back is turned.”

  She started. There was no way he could have known—but then she noticed the reflective glass in the door of the clock stand and felt her cheeks betray her. “I was not ogling you. Not at all. You have a . . . a spot on your coat, and I was debating whether or not to tell you.”

  “Is it a large spot or a small spot?” He grinned.

  She narrowed her eyes, feeling the tips of her lashes brush against her lenses. “Hideously large, like your ego.”

  “There. That is a better,” he said, his voice low as the sound of conversation in the hall approached. “Keep in mind how much you despise me, and you will save us both.”

  The task would not be difficult in the least.

  Two women stopped abruptly in the doorway and looked from her to Lucan before the weighted sound of a single syllable escaped them both. “Oh.”

  They stood there for an instant before crossing the threshold. They were of the same height but different in figure and coloring. The first woman had hair the color of honey and a more slender figure, albeit with a slight rounding at her middle, where she rested a hand. The second was paler, her figure more voluptuous, and her eyes a bright, captivating blue. She spoke first.

  “Montwood, you have returned.” She beamed. “I’d worried that the diversion of London would keep you away.”

  This woman’s evident fondness for Lucan caused a strange, dark stirring inside Frances for which she could not account.

  “And miss an opportunity to gloat? I think not. There will be time enough for that later, however. For now, I would like to make an introduction.” He glanced at Frances. Then his brows drew together in apparent puzzlement as if he were attempting to read her thoughts.

  She assured herself that he couldn’t.

  “Calliope, Hedley, this is Miss Thorne, lately of London and new resident of Lincolnshire,” he continued, studying her. “Miss Thorne, allow me to introduce Lady Everhart and Mrs. Danvers.”

  Frances exhaled. That dark stirring subsided as if it were nothing more than a breath waiting for release. She decided that was precisely what it had been. She also decided to ignore Lucan’s uncalled for smirk.

  Not only that, but his introduction intimated that they were all part of the gentry or aristocracy and that she belonged here, amongst them. While at one time that might have been the case, Frances did not want to deceive anyone. Her circumstances were much different now. Therefore, she dipped into a proper curtsy. “Lady Everhart—”

  The one with the darker shade of hair lifted the hand hovering over her middle and smiled. “Call me Calliope, please.”

  “And you must call me Hedley,” said the woman with the apparent attachment to Lucan. “Although I must admit, I rather enjoy hearing the special emphasis that Montwood placed on Mrs. Danvers.”

  Ah, so Frances wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

  Just then a man with dark, wavy hair and rakishly cut side whiskers appeared in the doorway. “And Mrs. Danvers you shall always be, sweeting,” he said, his eyes locking on Hedley’s as if there was no one else in the room.

  Another gentleman followed closely, carrying a large basket. He was just as handsome as the first, but with pale, ash blond hair and an intense gaze that sought out Calliope, leaving no doubt that he was Lord Everhart.

  Lucan politely cleared his throat before introducing her once more. Like their wives, the gentlemen gave her leave to address them with familiarity, as Everhart and Danvers. When she was younger and her father had worked for the Marquess of Camdonbury, Lucan had never offered a specific address for her use. He’d merely stated that she could address him in a manner of her choosing. Since Montwood had seemed too friendly, she’d settled on my lord and sir, as was proper and in no way intimated more than a mere acquaintance.

  She would feel better if she could adhere to a more proper way of addressing his friends, as well, but to go against their wishes would be insupportable. Therefore, she gave them leave to call her by her given name, if they so desired.

  The mystery of who she was and how she came to be here at Fallow Hall hung in the awkward silence that followed. Should she simply blurt out that she was to be the companion to Lady Whitelock?

  “Lately of London?” Calliope asked, saving Frances the bother of blurting. “Then you must have traveled . . . this morning?”

  “Yes, from the inn at Stampton.”

  Calliope nodded. “Are you famished? Traveling always increases my appetite. Though lately, I find that is the case whether I’m traveling or not.” She laughed as her hand strayed to her middle once more. Then, slipping down onto one cushion of the sofa, she patted the place beside her in invitation.

  Frances moved away from the desk. After the first step, a peculiar sense of separation came over her. She realized that she’d been standing beside Lucan all this while. Never once had she thought to move away. Yet she could not help but be drawn in by the easy manners of his friends and soon found herself sitting beside Calliope.

  “After the walk from the market just now, I am fully prepared for the biscuits from Mrs. Dudley’s teashop,” Hedley said. She sat opposite the sofa, with her husband standing behind her curved chair, his fingertips resting lightly at her shoulder. They seemed to share a secret smile between them that spoke of contentment not only with each other but amongst their friends as well.

  “I believe I have been nudged sufficiently,” Everhart said as he moved toward the low oval table between them and set down the basket. Lifting the lid, he peered inside. “We have scones, pies, tarts, and biscuits enough to feed all of Lincolnshire.”

  “Or one rather large dog,” Danvers added when the beast in question loped forward, sniffing the air.

  Just then, two maids in apron
s and ruffled caps entered the study from a side door. One brought in a tray of tea, cups, saucers, silverware, and serviettes, while the other carried a silver platter and a cake stand. Together, they made quick work of arranging the table.

  “Thank you, Edith and Grace,” Calliope said before they curtsied and left the room.

  The dog sniffed the air once more, his tail wagging.

  Calliope clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry, Duke, but I completely forgot your cheese.”

  When the dog lowered his head and issued a mournful groan, Hedley laughed. “You shouldn’t tease Boris so. Look at the poor fellow.”

  Frances was puzzled by the different names they called the dog. Was it Duke or Boris?

  “I suppose not.” Calliope grinned mischievously and unwrapped a wedge of blue veined cheese. Instantly, the dog perked up. Then, to Frances, Calliope said, “Since he is closest to you, would you like to give it to him?”

  Frances did not hesitate. She took the cheese. Only now, she wasn’t sure how to proceed. She was already confused by which name to use. Turning to the dog, Frances held out her hand. The beast abruptly sat at Lucan’s side and lifted his eyes to the man in question, as if waiting for permission.

  “It’s all right. You can have it,” she said.

  Even though the dog looked at the cheese with longing practically vibrating from him, he remained stubbornly fixed to the spot.

  “Why, you sly devil,” Calliope murmured. “Apparently, he is waiting for a proper introduction. Very well. Miss Thorne, might I introduce Boris Reginald James Brutus, also known as Duke.”

  That helped explain the different names. “Quite a mouthful,” Frances said with a small laugh.

  “Rafe and I call him Boris,” Hedley added.