Page 10 of The Trouble with a Dare

“Wait!” Grace said, leaping to her feet to follow him. He stopped and turned so abruptly she almost ran into him and gasped. They stood very close. Mr Oak looked down at her and her breath caught as she raised her face. His eyes were a very dark brown, but flecked with gold and bronze and copper. She admired his thick black eyelashes and then noticed how his eyes grew darker and his gaze dropped to her mouth. Oh. She recognised that look. He was thinking about kissing her. Panicked, Grace took a step back.

He straightened abruptly. “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, then.”

They were to be married the day after tomorrow.

“Wait!” Grace said again, rather desperately now.

He stopped again, his hand resting on the doorknob, but he did not turn. “Miss Weston?”

“I just… I don’t know you at all, nor you me. Should we not spend a little time together, conversing, just so that—”

“We’ll be a long time married, Miss Weston,” he said. “Reckon there’s time enough for that. Good day to you.”

The Marquess of Montagu sat at his desk in the library of Dern Palace. The sun slanted through the window, shining on hair that was still the fairest shade of blond, almost white, glinting like platinum in the glow of the late afternoon. If you looked very carefully a scattering of true white highlighted his temples, but it did nothing to diminish his beauty. Indeed, most would agree that age had only improved what had seemed perfection in his youth.

The past years had been happy, and his expression leaned towards laughter more often than it once had, so that those who knew him well hardly recognised the description of a cold, remote aristocrat. Those who were mere acquaintances recognised it only too well and treated him with the same amount of respect one would accord a discontented boa constrictor. A strict regime of physical activity had kept him as lean and fit as a man half his age. His son’s fencing master, a wiry Frenchman by the name of Dupont, insisted they had kept him in employment long after the marquess’ sons had ceased to require his tutelage, because he had been very wicked in a previous incarnation. He would tell anyone who wished to listen that he was of the unshakeable belief the marquess’ daily attempts on his life were his punishment for whatever deeds he’d been responsible for, and must atone for before meeting the Almighty. The familiar statement was always accompanied with a lively twinkle in his eye, but even if the daily attempts were made with cork tipped blades, Dupont truly did not seem to think this made his employer much less dangerous.

The marquess looked up at the sound of a knock at the door. An interruption would be most welcome at this point, as the correspondent was not only tedious, but a damned nuisance. He’d much rather be outside with his wife. Matilda was looking for Cat, who had probably fallen asleep in the shrubbery by now, and he wondered at what point his daughter was going to admit to him she’d defied him by reading the book he’d forbidden her to read and given herself nightmares. He’d almost given in and confronted her this morning the sight of her wan little face had troubled him so. However, having dealt with a headstrong daughter before now—one who was now fully grown and respectably married thank the lord—he knew better than to give in too early. It would only lead to bigger and worse trouble in the future. The idea made his heart quail with anxiety.

“Come,” he said, in response to the knock.

The hope that either his wilful minx of a daughter or his beautiful wife had come to disturb him was dashed as his butler appeared. Denton’s face was old and craggy nowadays, and nothing like as welcome as Matilda’s lovely visage, but at this point Montagu would take it over another hour of tedium.

“Forgive me for the interruption, my lord, but Baron Rothborn is here.”

“Rothborn?” Montagu said in surprise. Though the two men had become good friends over the years, they were not so close that they popped in on each other without notice, despite living relatively nearby. “Well, send him in.”

Montagu got to his feet and decided it was certainly late enough in the day for a glass of brandy. He turned as Rothborn came in.

“Drink?” he suggested, raising the decanter towards the baron.

“What a marvellous idea,” Rothborn replied.

“Do sit down,” Montagu added whilst he poured the drinks. Whilst he knew the man would never complain, his leg pained him if he stood for too long unmoving. Taking the fine crystal glasses in hand, Montagu passed one to Rothborn and raised his in a toast. “Good health.”

Rothborn seconded that and drank, making an appreciative sound.

“Don’t ask me where I got it. I’ll never tell,” Montagu replied with a slight smile. Rothborn laughed and looked slightly more at ease than when he’d walked in.

Montagu studied him surreptitiously as he settled himself in the opposite chair. The fellow had something on his mind, he was certain. They had no business interests in common that he was aware of, so it was more likely personal. His children? Grace had seemed somewhat out of sorts when he’d seen her last. The young woman was always quiet but never reserved, more… watchful. Yet he’d thought her withdrawn and rather pale. Was that it? He hoped nothing was amiss.

“I’d never betray a confidence,” Montagu said quietly.

Rothborn looked up and gave a soft huff of laughter. “Perspicacious devil, aren’t you?”

“For my sins,” Montagu replied with a slight smile.

“It’s… It is personal,” Rothborn ventured, and studied the rug beneath his feet for a long moment before he spoke again. “Do you know a Mr Sterling Oak?”

Montagu frowned, not having expected that. “Yes, actually. Not well, but I was advised to speak to him… about sheep,” he added. “He’s quite the expert in these parts and has a very progressive breeding program. My man was getting a bit long in the tooth, and I was concerned by the problems we’d had in the past years.”

“Ah.” Rothborn nodded but added nothing, just sipped at his brandy.

Montagu waited.

“What did you make of him?”

Unsure of where this conversation was going, Montagu considered Mr Oak. “Well, I can only give my impression of him, you understand, but I found him an intelligent and serious young man. A little too serious perhaps, too stiff and formal to be amiable. The kind who never speaks before thinking about his words. In my estimation I would judge him an honourable chap, dependable I would think.” He paused and sipped his brandy, adding, “Altissima quaeque flumina minimo sono labi.”