Country Flirt (19 page)

When she saw her mother nodding and handing Clifford over to Irene for the set, she smiled in relief. “It seems we’re going to stay a little longer,” she said, and put her trembling fingers on his arm. Monteith placed his fingers over hers and gazed at her with an enigmatic look. “You never arranged the waltzing lessons you promised,” she said, to fill the piercing silence.

“I’ve been remiss, haven’t I, Sam?” His brooding eyes spoke of more than waltzing lessons.

Samantha gulped and heard her voice come out in a bleat. “I’m sure you’ve been busy. You can’t think of everything.”

“It wasn’t for lack of thinking. Merely I was too slow off the mark.” A man’s voice didn’t hum with meaning over such a picayune thing as Monteith was ostensibly discussing.

The sets were forming and they went to join one of the younger groups. Before they had taken two steps, a gruff “Halloa” was heard from the hall beyond. The next sound Samantha heard was a growling profanity from her partner. She looked to the door and saw Howard’s dark eyes scanning the room for her. Her instinct was to take to her heels and run, but Howard spotted her, and she felt nailed to the floor. She couldn’t move. She swallowed convulsively and looked a mute plea to her partner, who was frowning at her peculiar reaction.

“How did he get back so soon?” she asked, but in a purely rhetorical spirit.

Before more could be said, Howard was plunging toward her through the crowd, upsetting all the squares. His rough voice rode loud over the music. “Beating my time, eh, Nevvie? I don’t object to your keeping Sam’s feet hot for me, as long as you haven’t het up anything else. Heh, heh.” As he spoke, he put a possessive arm around Samantha’s waist.

For an awkward moment she stood pinned between the two gentlemen, each with an arm around her, while the other dancers looked their impatience.

“You’ll have to wait your turn, Uncle,” Monteith said stiffly.

“I claim the fiancé’s privilege!” Howard replied, with a truculent glare.

This was extraordinarily gauche behavior, even from Howard. Samantha suspected he had been drinking rather heavily and foresaw a regular brawl breaking out.

“Another time, Monty,” she said, and with an imploring look, she removed his hand from her waist.

With nostrils quivering and eyes narrowed to slits, Monteith replied, “As you wish.” He made a curt bow and withdrew.

Howard shook his head. “That lad’s like an egg. So full of himself there’s no room for anything else. I hope he hasn’t been pestering you during my absence.”

“The dance, Howard!” she reminded him, and with stumbling steps, Howard began to dance.

“You’re back earlier than you expected,” she mentioned.

“I couldn’t stay away from you, my dear.” He smiled. It was a loose-lipped leer. The fumes of whiskey were quite noticeable at this close range. “I finished up my business in a trice and came jauntering back. There wasn’t a woman in all of London to touch my gel.”

“You were looking, were you?” she asked stiffly.

“Nay, a man with a plate of fresh spring lamb don’t go sniffing for mutton. I was true as the North Star.”

He, she noticed, was the North Star; she a plate of lamb. Her revulsion grew. If he had been sober, she would have told him on the spot that she didn’t intend to marry him. She feared what excesses of bad behavior his insobriety might precipitate. The steps of the dance took them apart and Samantha drew a breath of relief. She noticed Howard staring at her and felt a quiver of apprehension. What outré thing would he say, or do, next?

When they came together again, he said, “I don’t see you wearing your engagement ring, my dear.”

“There is a reason, Howard. We’ll discuss it later.”

“I always seize the moment.” He laughed, and danced her out of the set.

Once free of impediments, he grabbed her hand and hauled her out of the door. Monteith, watching them from the side of the room, came to attention. Howard looked up and down the hallway that was cluttered with strolling couples and headed for a private parlor.

“Where are you going? I want to dance, Howard!” Samantha exclaimed. He paid no heed but hurried her forward. She disliked to create a commotion at Monteith’s party, and was forced to go along with him.

Monteith’s study was the closest vacant room, and it was there that Howard led her. He snatched up a candelabrum and opened the door.

“I don’t want to—”

The door closed behind her with a bang. “Howard, open that door at once!” she demanded.

“I
do
like a gel with spirit.” He chuckled and set down the candelabrum, the better to attack her.

As his head lurched above hers, she smelled the stale breath of a long drinking bout. His eyes were bloodshot, and at close range the stubble of incipient whiskers was noticeable. “You’re drunk!” she exclaimed, and tried to free herself.

“Drunk with love for you, my pretty,” he said softly, and clamped her head with one hand as before, to hold it steady. With the other hand, he pressed her against him.

She watched in horror as his bloodshot eyes and grizzled head swooped down. The prickle of whiskers was immediately followed by the taste of his lustful, whiskey-soaked lips. She shoved at his chest with all her might. Despite his condition, Howard was plenty strong enough to hold her. The dread of interrupting Monteith’s party was forgotten. Samantha wrenched her head aside, opened her lips, and hollered, “Help!”

Almost before the word left her mouth, the door was flung open and Monteith lunged into the room. His face was white with fury as he glanced at the wrestling couple before him. “Get your paws off her!
”
he growled, hurrying forward.

“Damme, she’s my woman. I’ll do as I please with her.”

Monteith’s eyes glittered dangerously, and his hand flashed to Lord Howard’s shoulder to fling him back. Samantha watched in horror as Howard gave a sly, challenging grin.

“Fisticuffs, eh, Nevvie?” he said, and clenched his hands to fists, then began dancing in circles around Monteith.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Monteith snarled. “I don’t fight old men!”

The hated slur incited Howard to such a fit of passion that he let fly with his right. Monteith was caught on the chin and sent reeling back against a chair.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” he said, and blinked in shock. In a flash, he lifted his fists and landed his uncle a facer. Lord Howard went falling backwards, hitting his head on the corner of Monteith’s desk as he fell. A hollow crack echoed in the room.

Sam clutched her mouth. “My God, you’ve killed him,” she gasped.

Monteith rounded on her. “I hope you’re satisfied!” He paced forward to examine his uncle.

Sam hurried to his side and they both leaned over the prostrate form that lay sprawled on the floor. Lord Howard wore a loose-lipped smile of stupefaction. He was still breathing, but he had never looked unlovelier. And this was the monster she was engaged to marry!

“What happened?” Monteith demanded, after he had examined his uncle and decided he was more drunk than wounded.

“He attacked me.”

“What did you expect from your passionate lover? Hand holding? Sweet nothings in your ear? This was only an appetizer to what will come after the wedding.”

“I shan’t marry him! I never intended to!”

Monteith stared as though listening to a lunatic. “Then you shouldn’t have accepted his ring!”

“I didn’t! He sent it to the house—I didn’t receive it till he was halfway to London. I never said I’d marry him.”

“By God, you never said you wouldn’t!”

They both turned to the door at the sound of running footsteps in the hallway. “Better close the door,” Monteith said, and hopped up.

As it was Mrs. Bright in the lead, they let her in. Hot on her heels came Lady Monteith and Clifford Sutton.

“What happened?” Mrs. Bright demanded. “I saw Lord Howard dragging you off, Sam.”

“I heard the scream,” Lady Monteith added. She espied Lord Howard on the floor and flew forward to tend him. “Close the door, Clifford,” she called over her shoulder. Clifford, long accustomed to do her bidding, closed the door.

“Is he drunk?” Lady Monteith asked.

Monteith said, “Yes,” at the same moment as Sam said “No.”

Monteith gave her a quelling stare, which his mother noticed. “Drunk, is it? And what, may I ask, accounts for the bruise on his chin? What really happened?”

“He attacked Sam,” Monty told her, with an apologetic glance at her mother.

“The man’s a monster!” Mrs. Bright said, and went to console her daughter.

Lady Monteith shook her head and gave a brisk
tsk.
“He is a rake. I thought my husband was bad. Well, he
was,
Monty, but not even Ernest ever attacked an innocent girl. Not to say that you are blameless, Samantha, leading him on. What did you expect, my girl, that he’d wrap you up in cotton wool? He’s no Clifford Sutton, to be satisfied with a hug and a squeeze,” she added, with a satirical squint at her former beau.

“We’d best get him to bed,” Monteith said.

“I’ll not have his carcass hauled through the house with the whole neighborhood gawking,” his mother decreed. “We’ll bundle him in blankets and leave him here.”

“I’ll tie and gag him, in case he comes to,” her son added, pulling out his handkerchief to begin the job.

“Too farouche, Monty,” his mother objected. “Put the brandy decanter on the floor beside him. If he comes to, he’ll drink himself into a stupor.”

Clifford looked on in disapproving amazement. “Perhaps we should call a doctor....” he suggested.

Lady Monteith took a closer look at the body on the floor. She tapped Howard’s cheeks, then lifted his eyelids to peer in at his eyes. “Not necessary,” she announced. “Some blankets and a pillow, Clifford. Get the throw from my little parlor, and the embroidered pillows—the old ones I use to brace my back. I don’t want him casting up his accounts on the new ones.”

Again, Clifford went off to do as he was told. Within minutes, Lord Howard was the most comfortable one in the room. He was beginning to murmur in a way that indicated no serious damage.

Lady Monteith rubbed her hands. “That’s that, then. Shall we return to the dance?”

“Samantha will want to go home,” Clifford said. “We’ll take her.”

Monteith looked at Samantha. Samantha looked at Howard. Mrs. Bright looked at Monteith looking at her daughter. “Perhaps it will look more natural if we remain awhile, Clifford. You were having your dance with Irene. Why don’t you go on with it? I was just going to the refreshment parlor for a glass of wine.”

They went about their interrupted pleasures. Monteith and Samantha were the last to go. He blew out the candles and turned the key in the lock as he left. He looked a question at Samantha. “I don’t imagine you want to return to the dance,” he said.

“I think not.”

“You’re looking a little pale. Can I get you—” But Mrs. Bright was in the refreshment parlor. “A breath of air, perhaps?”

“That would be nice,” she said, and smiled her gratitude.

They went out through the library to avoid the crowds, into the moonlit rose garden. They strolled toward the rippling fountain, with a foot of space between them, not speaking. Now that they were alone, a dreadful constraint had fallen over them. At the first bench, they stopped, as if by prearrangement. The scent of roses perfumed the air. The ghastly paleness of each blossom was limned against black leaves in the shadowy night.

“I expect it’s for me to apologize for my uncle,” Monteith said stiffly.

“It wasn’t your fault. Monty, what should I do? Would it be cowardly to turn him off with a note?”

“There’s no need for you to have any further connection with him. Let your mother write the note. Howard was raised a gentleman, whatever he has become since. He’ll know the romance is terminated.”

“I have to return his ring.”

“I’ll do it.”

“I can’t go on avoiding him forever. He plans to settle in the neighborhood. I want it finished with the least ill will possible.”

“Some hostility is bound to linger after tonight’s proceedings. With luck, Howard might have forgotten the details by morning.”

“Oh, dear, then he’ll think we’re still engaged!”

His jaw stiffened and one eyebrow rose. “Did I misunderstand you earlier? You said you hadn’t accepted him.”

“I didn’t accept! I just didn’t refuse—exactly.”

“No wonder the poor man was confused. I really can’t understand your actions in this matter, Sam. You led me to believe you had accepted him when I—when I spoke to you at the Willows.”

“When you forbade the match, you mean!” Her voice became hot at the memory of that ill-fated visit.

“Now you see the wisdom of my trying to discourage you.”

“I never dreamed he would be this bad! Oh, I wish he had never come home!” she said, and blinked a tear from the corner of her eye.

Monteith stood a moment, thinking. Then he drew out a handkerchief. “Come now, it’s not that bad,” he said. “Howard was only alone with you a moment.” He gently dabbed at the tear and smiled. “One can hardly blame him, you know, for wanting to kiss you.” He lifted her chin till she was gazing at him. The moonlight caressed her troubled young face and reflected from the depths of her dark eyes. An encouraging smile trembled on her lips. “I’d like to myself, if I could be sure you wouldn’t holler for help. Folks say the only thing to do after being thrown from a horse is to remount at once, or you’ll have a lifelong fear of riding. I expect the same applies to being mauled by an Indian.”

Her nervous quiver encouraged Monteith to try his luck. Fearful of frightening her, he pulled her into his arms gently, waiting to see if she objected. When she voluntarily lifted her arms and placed them on his shoulders, he crushed her against him and sought her lips. The careful gentleness swiftly escalated to passion, as all memory of Lord Howard’s awful attack was washed clean by Monteith’s scalding embrace. She felt a pulsating weakness invade her body, yet discovered strength to return the pressure of his lips. Her hands found the proud column of his neck, reveled in the masculine texture of sinew and bone and flesh. For a long moment they clung together; then Monteith lifted his head and gazed at her.