Miss Archer dropped her hand from his arm, her expression as buttoned-up as her useless coat. It didn’t help. She was still beautiful.

He’d noticed her beauty earlier, out on the hill. Even stripped of strategic fineries that would fool a less discerning male eye, even with her nose reddened and her hair windswept, she was beautiful. She had the timeless features that transcended fashion and rank: the graceful neck, the elegant cheekbones, the soft mouth. That mouth. The pink fullness belonged on a courtesan in Brittany, not an Englishwoman, or bluestocking, or country girl . . . He became aware that he was staring, that he was trying to place her in any one of the categories of females he knew, and, amazingly, he could not.

She still wore his scarf, and the monogrammed crest of Montgomery had settled like a badge on the swell of her left breast. A dark, hot emotion surged through him at the sight, incinerating calm and conscious thought. Possessiveness. For a moment, it beat through every part of him, a searing want, a near physical pull tugging him toward her.

Christ.

He stepped back.

Lichen-green eyes followed him suspiciously.

“I trust I will see you at dinner, miss.” The coolness of his voice turned it into a command, and her mouth gave a mutinous little twitch.

He stalked off, almost tasting the base satisfaction of sinking his teeth into her plush bottom lip.

An hour later, he was staring at his reflection in the washstand mirror, restored. A bath, a close shave, a valet who knew what he was doing, and from the outside, even he couldn’t tell that he had unboarded a ferry in Dover this morning and then chased after an impossibly stubborn female. But there was still a hollowness, an unease in his chest. Perhaps he was beginning to feel his age.

“I heard the young gentlemen are pleased to be dining with you so unexpectedly, Your Grace,” Ramsey remarked as he tapped the pin into his cravat.

Sebastian watched his mouth curve into an ironic smile. At least one young gentleman was presently not pleased at the prospect of dining with him. Peregrin aside, he was well aware that while he edified a party, he didn’t make it a more pleasant occasion for the people in attendance. When he entered a room, conversations sputtered, laughter became muted, and everything became a little more purposeful. Everyone had something to gain from a duke, and everyone had something to lose. His presence spun a web of caution around people, trapping truths and impulse like a spider’s lair with a wayward fly. There came a point in a duke’s life when he rarely encountered an honest opinion, where he could be on his way to hell in a handcart and everyone would politely step aside and wish him godspeed.

“Ramsey,” he said. The valet had begun dusting off his already pristine dinner jacket sleeve.

“Your Grace?”

“If you were to walk in on me in my study, and you saw me standing amid great chaos, and a pair of legs sticking out from under my desk, what would you do?”

Ramsey went still. Carefully raised his eyes to ascertain his mood, though he’d know by now that he wouldn’t see anything Sebastian didn’t choose to show. “Why, Your Grace,” he then said, “I would fetch a broom.”

Indeed he would.

“That will be all, Ramsey.”

He had to lead his guests into the dining room and spend the next three hours not strangling his brother.

Peregrin approached the seat next to him much as a well-bred man would approach a whipping post: collected, pale, and rather stiff in the legs. His normally wayward hair was meticulously slicked and parted. But he was evading Sebastian’s eyes like a coward. God grant him strength—if he were to fall off his horse tomorrow, eight hundred years of Montgomery history would pass into this boy’s hands. Castle Montgomery would move out of his family’s reach forever. Not strangling Peregrin would take some effort.

Scraping and shuffling ensued as people were being seated; further down the table there was a subdued commotion as Lord Hampshire and Lord Palmer batted their eyes at the men to their left, and James Tomlinson pretended to fan himself. They sat in the seat where a lady would have sat, had someone with half a brain organized the house party. As it was, the elderly aunt of Julien Greenfield and three bluestockings were scattered among thirteen young men. Sebastian wouldn’t even try to begin understanding such a thing.

“How refreshing, to have so many young people at one table,” Greenfield’s aunt said loudly from his right.

“Isn’t it just,” he replied smoothly.

Peregrin seemed deeply fascinated by his empty plate.

Footmen lined up and lifted silver domes off the first dish, revealing choice pieces of pheasant in a blood-red sauce.

Cutlery clinked; wineglasses reflected the candlelight.

Peregrin still hadn’t mustered the courage to look at him. Sebastian glared at his brother’s profile, his anger on the tipping point to wrath.

Ever so slowly, Peregrin raised his gaze to him.

A shudder ran through the young man when their gazes locked.

Sebastian gave him a thin smile. “How is the pheasant?”

Peregrin’s eyes widened. “It’s excellent, thank you.” He poked his fork at his food. “I, ah, trust your journey was uneventful, sir?”

“It was,” Sebastian said, taking a sip from his water. “It was upon my arrival that things became interesting.”

Peregrin swallowed audibly.

The guests had fallen into animated conversation. He could pick out the calm hum of Miss Archer’s alto voice from the other end of the table, followed by the too-loud laughter of the eager young men around her. He nearly scoffed. Whatever it was that would truly keep a woman like Miss Archer entertained, none of those boys could provide it.

“I will go to London tomorrow,” he said to Peregrin, “and when I’m back on Monday, I shall expect you in my study at six o’clock.”

He hadn’t thought it possible, but his brother’s face turned even whiter.

And just to see what would happen, he picked up his knife and skewered the slab of meat on his plate.

Peregrin’s fork clattered onto the table.

Sixteen heads swiveled toward them, as if a shot had been fired.

Chapter 10

Annabelle woke from a soft clanking noise she couldn’t place. She was of a mind to ignore it, for the pillow beneath her cheek was incredibly, alluringly soft, a cloud in her arms.

And . . . unfamiliar.

And it was past six o’clock; she felt it in her bones.

She had overslept.

She lurched into a sitting position, and a squeak sounded somewhere in the shadows.

The shapes of the room came into focus: opulent bedposts, high windows, the faint glint of a chandelier . . . she was in the Duke of Montgomery’s house, and there was a maid by the fireplace with a poker.

She sagged back into the pillows. There was no fire she needed to tend, no cousin or half a dozen children waiting for their breakfast . . .

She ran a hand over her face. Her forehead was damp. “What time is it?”

“About six thirty, miss,” the maid said. “Would you like me to send for some tea?”

How tempting, to have tea in bed. Despite the extra half hour of sleep, her body felt oddly sluggish. But she still had a translation to do before the activities of the day began. She forced a leg out of bed. Her foot was heavy as if filled with lead.