Country Flirt (2 page)

“I’ll be ready.” And waiting, she added silently. Really, she had been waiting since Christmas for Monteith’s brief visit home. He’d smile and flirt a little, and fly off to London or Brighton or Scotland. Like the rest of her set, she would smile blandly and say, “It was nice to see Monty again.” It must be nice to
be
Monty, she thought.

Her life was not arduous, but a single lady with no husband or children was bound to feel dull at times. There seemed no point to her existence. Her few childhood friends had married and moved away, leaving her to find a life amongst her mother’s set. She was beginning to settle in too comfortably with the older married folks and widows. Life shouldn’t be “comfortable”; it should be exciting, but outside of Monteith’s pending visit, the only excitement was the arrival of a dissolute old man home from India. She sighed and went upstairs to sew the bows on her gown.

Chapter 2

Folks in Lambrook were not so fashionable as to arrive late for a dinner party. At seven-thirty that evening, all the guests had assembled in the elegant Rose Saloon at Lambrook Hall. Samantha’s first quick survey of the room showed her that Lord Monteith wasn’t present. Even before she observed there was no one who could conceivably be Lord Howard, she noticed Monty’s absence, and her anticipation of the evening’s pleasure diminished. When the ladies were seated, Lady Monteith turned a wrathful eye to the party and exclaimed, “Now, what do you think of this, eh?”

“Lord Howard hasn’t come?” Mrs. Bright asked.

“Not come, and he hadn’t even the courtesy to write and let me know he has been delayed. I have put this party together for nothing.”

The guests blinked to hear their company was valued so low. It was Mr. Sutton who gently hinted to his beloved that she had been brusque.
“We
shall enjoy your dinner, Irene, with or without Lord Howard,” he said. It was for his sisters to twitch their shoulders in silent offense.

Lady Monteith smiled in embarrassment and patted Clifford’s fingers. Watching, Samantha marveled that Lady Monteith, about the most toplofty person she had ever met, should buckle under to Mr. Sutton, whose origins were lower than her own. He was entirely a self-made man. He was one of those good-natured gentlemen who always found some silver lining in the darkest cloud. Despite his great wealth, he had no pride at all. He was as friendly with the blacksmith as with fine lords and ladies. Everyone agreed his appearance was as amiable as his character
—he was of medium height, well built, with dark hair just turning silver around the temples.

“Will Lord Monteith be joining us?” the vicar asked, peering over his spectacles. “I saw him driving through town late this afternoon.”

“Monty will be down shortly,” his mother said.

Samantha looked down and straightened her gown, for she didn’t want anyone to notice that she was smiling. Before long, Lord Monteith appeared at the doorway of the saloon. He surveyed the dull little country party a moment before strolling in to welcome the guests individually, with a smile that was as charming as it was insincere. While he surveyed, Samantha stole a look at him.

It was not Lord Monteith’s appearance that had captured her interest. Though tall and elegant, his build was no better than Mr. Sutton’s. As he advanced into the room, she noticed that his walk was exceedingly graceful. Everything about him was smooth. There was some poetry in his fluid movements and the seemingly effortless perfection of his toilette. His black evening jacket sat like a second skin on his shoulders, and the intricately arranged cravat was impeccable. Monteith didn’t favor the raffish air of the dandy, nor the sporting style of the Corinthian. His simple elegance owed more to the influence of Beau Brummell, and the efforts of a top-notch valet who accompanied him on any overnight trip.

His straw-colored hair was as fine as silk, and as carefully brushed in place as any lady’s. Unlike the ladies’ hair, his had no curl whatsoever. Samantha watched obliquely as he bowed to the rest of the company before coming to her. Her being last was in no way a slight. As the youngest, and with no title to increase her importance, she was naturally last in precedence. When Lord Monteith bowed and smiled, she decided that she didn’t really like him at all. He merely fascinated her because he was different from the local gentlemen.

His smile was polite, no more. There was no hidden love or admiration glowing in his dark blue eyes. His nose was too thin, and his lips wore a permanent expression bordering on disdain. They wore it now as he welcomed her. He seemed to be taking particular note of her freckles, and his speech soon confirmed it.

“You’ve been out doing battle with the aphids and black rot, I see. You should get yourself a sunbonnet, Sam.”

She was mistaken in thinking this denoted disapproval. Monteith was nearly as fond of ladies as his infamous uncle, Lord Howard. He had arranged his circuit of welcome to finish at Samantha’s side, that he might flirt with her till dinner was served. That light dusting of freckles put the finishing touch on Sam
—what was a country girl without a touch of rusticity? Miss Bright, his sharp eye observed, had other touches of the country as well. Those blue bows, for example, would set a city drawing room to smirking, but they suited Samantha’s simple gown admirably.

Samantha ignored his comment. “Well, Monty, I hear you have actually seen Lord Howard. What is he like, and why isn’t he here?”

He lifted a well-shaped finger and wagged it playfully. “No, no! First you must tell me how happy you are to see me again. My pride demands it.”

“Naturally we are all
aux anges
at the condescension of your sojourn.”

“Say, rather, ‘visit.’ ‘Sojourn’ implies an indefinite stay. I shall definitely be removing
aussit
ô
t que possible,
As soon as Uncle Howard deigns to appear, that is to say. One must not be behindhand in welcoming the family ancients.”

“One might even go so far as to stay a few days.”

“That is overdoing it, surely. I want to make him feel welcome, not honored. And by the by, you haven’t asked me to take a seat.”

“Take all you want. They’re yours.”

“Why do I feel you’re doing me a favor, I wonder?” he asked, and drew a petit-point chair close to hers.

“Your London flirts are more effusive, I assume?”

“Effusive suggests to me an overflowing, almost a gushing. Your welcome is mean-spirited at best. And now that I have been made to feel
de trop
in my own saloon, you may inquire for the guest of honor.”

“Thank you. I am dying to
—”

Monteith lifted his hand, palm down, to stop her. “My manners have already begun to fall off. Before we proceed to Lord Howard, I must compliment you on your appearance.” He regarded her closely, his eyes falling from her face to study her toilette. “Not the gown
—that would be doing it too brown,” he said with a mischievous twinkle; then his eyes returned to her face. “Ah, I have it! You’re ageless, Sam. You always look the same.”

“You make me sound like a mountain, or an octogenarian! If that is your notion of a compliment, I thank you for the intention.”

“It was meant as one, I promise you.”

“At my advanced years to ‘always look the same’ must be a great consolation. After going to the bother of wearing a strawberry mask for two mornings running and visiting the coiffeur last week, however, I rather expected some such inanity as looking ‘better than usual.’ “

“We shall blame it on the provincial coiffeur. I stick by my original assessment
—always the same, in both appearance and tartness of tongue.”

Her lips quivered in amusement. “You’re still the same, too, Monteith.”

He regarded her warily. “Thank you, I think. That will teach me to tell a lady the truth. I should have been prattling of ‘charming new hairdo’ and gown ‘in the highest kick of fashion,’ I daresay.”

“No, no, such barefaced lies are unnecessary. Only a little ingenuity in coating the pill of truth is all I ask. We expect no less of the parish’s most eligible bachelor.”

“What will you do for a compliment when I’m shackled, Sam?”

She hunched her shoulders in indifference. “Fade away to a shadow, cock up my toes, and die.”

“You should have gone to London when you were still
—that is—”

She looked at him wide-eyed. “I was going to, but it was considered unsafe. The roads were menaced by Vikings and Goths in those days.”

Monteith touched her chin with one long finger. “Don’t go overboard on the sarcasm, Sammie. You’re not old enough to be playing Madame de Sta
ë
l. Only established matrons who wear blue stockings are permitted to be clever. You must find yourself a husband first. It is a sine qua non in polite society. Ladies still on the catch for a man must simper and smile. It would help if you could learn to blush.”

“Difficult! You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” She laughed.

“And you must not reveal that you find us gentlemen absurd.”

“Impossible!”

“Then you’re doomed to the shelf for life.”

“Fine. Are we all finished with the
compliments
now? I am dying to hear what Lord Howard is like and why he isn’t here.”

He shook his head. “Much must be missing in your life, when you encroach on the death metaphor for such a paltry excuse. Young maidens are allowed to be ‘dying’ only in the cause of romance. He’s as tanned as a blackamoor, and has wretched manners. I believe that answers your two questions. But never mind Howard.
I
am here to entertain you.”

On this speech, he drew his chair a little closer and lowered his voice. “Tell me all the
on-dits,”
he ordered, and seemed truly interested to hear them.

Samantha didn’t want to make the summer assembly the first item of priority, and said, “Reverend Russel is having the summer fête next week. A f
ê
te champ
ê
tre we are calling it this year, as he’s upped the price to a crown. We’re holding it here at the Hall.”

He nodded approvingly. “We wouldn’t want to cheapen the Hall by letting them in for pennies. It all sounds very French. Champagne and strawberries, I expect? Flower-strewn swings and ladies with broad-brimmed hats. Young couples dallying along the riverbanks. Charming. Someone should paint it. A pity Fragonard is no longer alive.”

“Strawberries and clotted cream, actually, and of course the smock race and egg race and three-legged race. You don’t have a river on the estate, but the children will likely be wading for frog spawn in the stream.”

Monteith lowered his brow and frowned in mock anger. “You
haven’t
changed a bit, Miss Bright. Still playing the country lumpkin to the top of your bent, to make me appear a fop. Tell me, am I having a ball afterward?”

“No, a barn dance, milord.”

The flash of amusement in his dark eyes reminded Samantha what it was she liked about Monty. He was always willing to laugh at himself and anyone else who deserved it. But it wasn’t a mean laugh. He merely enjoyed the oddities of the world.

“What other earthly delights await me in the country? No need to take me literally and inform me of worms and toads and dandelions.”

“The summer assembly is at the end of the month, if you’re still here. I doubt that would appeal to one of your jaded appetites. No doubt Brighton would provide a better party than Lambrook. On the other hand,” she added with exaggerated importance, “they’ve put a new coat of paint on the raised platform in the assembly room at the inn. Can Brighton boast of a green raised platform?”

“Not even Prinney’s Pavilion has such magnificence! And the music?”

“Jed Flood and his Fiddlers Three, with Mrs. Flood at the pianoforte, as usual.”

“Tempting! But enough of these paltry details. What of the ladies? Has Lambrook any new pulchritude to tempt a jaded palate? If there’s one thing dearer to my heart than money, it is the ladies. Not just any old woman, mind you, but a prime piece of pulchritude.”

Samantha shook her head in sad resignation. So far as she could tell, Monty cared not a fig for money or virtue or character or any of the items the generality of mankind admired. She couldn’t count the number of items she had heard him say, “Yes, but is she pretty?” when a deb had been nudged forward for his consideration. “How are her eyes, her teeth, her ankles?”

Excellence in any of the above was always sufficient recommendation. The lady need not be incomparable. Indeed, from what she had seen of some of his “beauties” at the Hall, he could discover charms invisible to a less keen eye. A certain Mrs. Higgs, for example, was a butter-toothed widow with a dumpy frame, but Monty saw only her long lashes and dimples. The eyes were well enough, but as for the dimples, they weren’t on her face or arms.

She scoured her mind and said, “Well, there’s Mrs. Armstrong, a new widow lady who has rented the old brick house across from us on High Street.”

“Is she pretty?” he asked, with every appearance of interest.

“She’ll be at your barn dance, Monty. Why don’t you go and see for yourself?”

“Will you save me a waltz?”

“I feel safe in promising you every waltz. That city dissipation hasn’t reached Lambrook yet.”

“That explains your unusual generosity! Perhaps I’ll have a waltzing party and teach it to the locals. This Mrs. Armstrong
—where is she from?”

“What does it matter? She has lovely black hair and long lashes.”

Monteith tilted his head and massaged his chin. It was at Samantha’s long lashes that he gazed, smiling softly. What a pretty girl she was! And what would her dowry be? She might make an excellent wife for one of his brothers. She would be a lively addition to the family gatherings. He might even bring her into fashion in London.

The butler announced dinner, and Monteith went to do his duty in escorting ladies to the dining room. They were one gentleman short. The vicar had his wife, Mr. Sutton’s sisters each had a husband with them, and Lady Monteith had Mr. Sutton, which permitted Monteith to escort both the Brights.