“Why did you put stars on the library ceiling?” she asked.

“The ceiling was my father’s idea,” he said. “He had a liking for that sort of thing.”

“For astronomy?”

She could feel rather than see his wry smile.

“No,” he said, “for costly, whimsical things.”

She might have quite liked the late duke. “Why the winter sky, though?”

Montgomery went quiet, in a way that said she had touched on something intimate.

“Because I was born in winter,” he finally said. “It depicts the sky over Montgomery Castle on the night of my birth.”

Something in his voice forbade a reply. Perhaps he liked it as little as she did, revealing private pieces of himself. And yet, he just had. A piece for a piece. He was a fair man, after all.

“Have you really never seen fireworks?” he asked.

“No. They are rather thin on the ground in the Kentish countryside.”

“Then stay for the house party,” he said, “if you forgive the rather spontaneous nature of the invitation.”

For a second time in the space of a few minutes, he shocked her. Her thoughts swarmed like bees; it was a ludicrous proposition, she should not even consider it. And how would she pay Gilbert if she did not work for yet another week? The dresses, perhaps; she could sell these ill-fitting, good-quality dresses to seamstresses . . .

The door the footman had closed swung open, flooding the terrace with laughter from the sitting room. Lady Lingham’s long shadow fell between them. “There you are,” she said, sounding pleased. “Duke, I must steal Miss Archer away from you. I’m having all the ladies taste the first batch of Lingham sherry.”

As the carriage jostled back to Claremont, Annabelle’s eyelids were drooping, deliciously heavy from Lingham sherry and too much mint julep. She had to send a note to Hattie tomorrow morning. She needed a dress, because holy Moses, she was going to a ball.

Montgomery’s face was as dark and brooding as on the ride to the manor, or possibly darker. Why had he invited her to the party? Why was his grimness so appealing? Her imagination drifted, pretending that they were alone in the carriage, in a different life, where she could lean across the footwell and kiss his stern mouth, gently, persistently, offering feminine warmth until his lips softened against hers and the tension left his shoulders. It had been a lifetime since she had kissed a man, but she remembered the joys of it so well when she looked at him . . . the slick brush of a tongue, the feel of hard, eager planes of muscle against her palms, her blood turning sweet and heavy like molasses . . .

He turned his head toward her as if she had whispered his name.

She smiled at him drowsily.

His eyes darkened like the skies before a storm. The sudden, heated intensity transfixed her, pulled at her, and she was falling, falling forward into the depths of him as he threw the gates wide open for a beat. She heard a soft gasp and realized it had come from her own lips. There it was, the fire she had sensed behind the ice, smoldering at a thousand degrees hotter than leaping flames. Oh, they had it wrong, the people who called him cool and aloof. He was a man who did not do things by halves, and he knew. So he leashed himself. Untether him, and he would burn as hotly as he was cold, and the dark force of her own passion would crash against his like a wave against a rock rather than pull him under.

He is my match.

The thought hit like a splash of cold water.

It was one thing to dream. But the connection between him and her didn’t feel like a dream anymore. It felt real. And that could not be.

She shivered.

On the bench across, Montgomery had clenched his hands to fists by his sides.

She was swaying on her feet with fatigue when she reached her room at Claremont. It took a moment to register the large rectangular parcel on the end of her bed.

She drew closer.

It was wrapped in green paper, tied with a red satin bow. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been given a present, but that was her name on the tag affixed to the ribbon.

She untied the bow with clumsy fingers.

The smell of new wool rose from the box when she lifted the lid.

It was a coat. Hunter green, with generous fur trimmings on cuffs and collar.

She looked at it stupidly for a moment. Then she reached for the little note.

Dear Miss Archer,

Claremont servant staff wishes you a merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year.

Your servant,

Ramsey

She slid her arms into the coat, and it enveloped her like a downy blanket. She turned back and forth in front of the vanity table mirror. Perfection. A classic, timeless cut rather than the current fashion. Rabbit fur, not mink, but excellently made, promising to keep her warm, quite possibly, forever.

Someone had really thought this through.

She sank onto the bed.

The staff had been unwaveringly polite to her, but why would they make such a gesture?

It was Montgomery who scowled every time he saw her coat. But he would have violated all the rules of propriety by giving her such a gift directly, making it impossible for her to accept.

She ran her fingers over one soft fur cuff.

This went beyond politeness. Which raised the question: what did Montgomery want?

Chapter 14

A few days earlier, after the greenhouse, it had seemed perfectly reasonable to order her a coat—hers was useless, and he was in a position to fix that, so he had. He quickened his pace, his boot heels pounding the stable’s flagstone floor. He had been deluding himself; he’d known it the moment he had wanted to take Marsden outside last night. The truth was, he wanted Annabelle Archer, commoner, bluestocking, and suffragist, in his bed, under him, with a carnal urgency he hadn’t felt since . . . he couldn’t remember.

He rounded the corner to the horse stall and stopped dead, for there she stood as if he had conjured her up. The morning light from the window behind her cast a fiery halo around her hair, and she looked tall and radiant in a hunter-green coat.

A tide of primal satisfaction filled his chest. He liked seeing her wear something he had picked, and he hadn’t been sure she would. Sure enough, she was observing him warily.

Apollo whinnied, shrill and unabashed in a bid for his attention.

“Shh.” He placed a hand on the horse’s nose without taking his eyes off her.

Only when her expression turned bemused did he realize he had not yet said a word.

“Good morning, miss.”

She curtsied. “Merry Christmas, Your Grace.”

“Ah. Yes.” Very eloquent, that. He cleared his throat. “What brings you to the stable this early?”

Somehow, they had drifted closer together, and he could smell her now, her warm floral essence that edged out dust and leather and horse. His blood began to buzz like last night in the carriage, when her sleepy smile had gone straight to his cock . . . when he had nearly made a grab for her like a Neanderthal.

She took a small step back. “I received a Christmas gift from the staff.” She gestured over the coat.

“I see,” he said. “It suits you.”

She clasped her hands before her primly, but there was a heat in the depths of her eyes that warmed him all over.

“Would you please thank them on my behalf,” she said. “It’s too generous. It’s exactly what I need.”