Country Flirt (11 page)

“And besides,” she said knowingly, “it is perfectly clear he plans to marry as soon as he can and set up a nursery of his own. I think you would be wise to treat him like any visiting relative.”

“The problem is not precisely greed. Mama and I don’t want his gold for ourselves. It is merely our instinct, wanting to do the right thing for the boys.”

“Why can’t they just marry heiresses, like all the other younger sons?” she asked.

“We males of the Monteith line have the misfortune to marry where our hearts lead.”

Samantha knew that the late Lord Monteith had been considered unwise to marry Irene, who had no dowry worth the name. They came to a stile, and Monteith offered his hand to lead her over, but when they reached the top, he suggested they just sit on the fence instead. Before them lay the meadow, spangled with wildflowers waving lazily in the sun.

“I wonder how many
begahs
are in this meadow,” he said idly. “And how many
sicca rupees
it is worth.”

“Heed your own excellent advice, Monty. A foreign language is poor entertainment.”

“The primeval pastime of romance suggests itself, in this sylvan setting.”

“A pity you aren’t accompanied by someone other than your sister. Mrs. Armstrong, for example.”

“That chaste lady?” he asked, and laughed. “She’s already read my leaves, though rather unsatisfactorily.”

“Then I shall tell your fortune by plucking daisy petals,” she decided, and hopped down from the stile.

Monteith didn’t accompany her. He was content to watch her lithe young body bending and swaying as she garnered the blooms, with her skirt billowing occasionally when the wind caught it. He felt a hot anger building inside, to think of Howard pestering this young lady, who still seemed half a girl to him.

When she returned, Monteith took a daisy from her and said, “Why don’t I tell your future instead? I am not interested in attaching either a rich man, a poor man, a beggar man, or a thief.”

He pulled out the petals, one by one, and chanted the old saw, ending with the choice, “Rich man.”

“The fates have decreed!” she said. “There is no arguing with a daisy. Howard it is.”

“I mentally cast Howard in the role of Indian chief,” he countered. “We have more than one rich man amongst us
—Clifford, for example. And myself.”

She felt him looking at her. A coil of excitement churned inside her, but her voice remained calm. “Then we must try another daisy,” she said, and handed him one.

“Fate won’t be managed in that way,” he said, and tossed it aside.

She handed him another. “We teething infants are intractable. If you don’t pull another daisy, I shall take my toys and go home. So there.”

Monteith studied her pert smile and the clean line of her chin and neck as she tossed her shoulders playfully. When had Sam learned to flirt? Again the anger gripped him. “Are you practicing up your high spirits to tempt the Indian chief?” he asked in a thin voice.

“High spirits come naturally to a lady who is being courted.”

Monty gazed across the field and suddenly jerked to attention,

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s a carriage. I wonder if Teddie
—”

“No, it’s Mrs. Armstrong’s carriage!” Samantha said, and laughed. “Do you think Howard invited her to call?”

“Nothing would surprise me,” he said, and leaped down from the stile. He held his arms up to catch Samantha. She put her hands on his shoulders and jumped off.

The sun cast gold lights on her blond curls. Excitement lent a flush to her cheeks, and amusement danced in her eyes. Between her partially open lips, he saw the flash of white teeth. Her small body felt warm and vulnerable under his hands. My God, she’s beautiful! he thought, and held her a moment, looking up into her face.

As he swung her to the ground, he glanced a light, sliding kiss off the side of her lips. “A brother’s prerogative,” he said.

Samantha stared icily. “It felt more like
droit du seigneur
to me!” she snipped, and turned aside.

“I must be slipping,” he murmured, to cover his
g
ê
ne.

It annoyed him inordinately that someone so sweet and innocent as Sam might be sacrificed to the vulgar taste of his uncle. Willingly sacrificed, which compounded the offense. Country girls should be simple. They should be able to accept a meaningless kiss, and not suggest there was some ulterior motive in it. Most of all, they shouldn’t dangle after gentlemen old enough to be their fathers. He frowned and began walking at a brisk pace toward the Hall.

If the country was to provide no rest or pleasure, he might as well be in town. How had he allowed himself to get caught up in these country doings? Yet he was strangely interested in why Mrs. Armstrong had come to call.

Samantha was caught off guard by that kiss. Monty had never shown this brotherly regard for her before, and she knew perfectly well why he was showing it now. Despite his fine talk, he was just afraid she’d marry the nabob. As she hadn’t shown any interest in Teddie or Bert, perhaps he’d been hinted to court her himself? Not to the extent that he might really be expected to offer for her
—Monty was too much the gentleman to behave in such a scaly manner. No, he was just distracting her a little.

His long strides carried him a few yards in front of her, and rather than run to keep pace, she stayed behind. She admitted to a grudging admiration for his broad shoulders, the proud set of his head, and his manly vigor. Finally he stopped and waited for her. The carriage proceeded more quickly, but the shorter route lay through the meadow, and they reached the house just seconds after the carriage.

“Mrs. Armstrong isn’t in it,” Samantha said, peering into the carriage. “She’s just sent her footman. What can it be? I wonder if he’s bringing an invitation.”

“No, a parcel,” Monty pointed out, as the footman lifted a large square package wrapped in brown paper.

“The cat!” they exclaimed, and both hastened to the door.

The footman saw them, recognized Monteith, and handed the parcel to him. “Mrs. Armstrong says this is for Lord Howard, and here’s a note to go with it,” he said.

Monteith thanked him and took the package inside, where his mother flew into a pelter. “The sly wench,” she snorted, when her son explained its arrival.

“She hinted she had given it to a charity bazaar in London,” Samantha remembered.

“The cunning of her!” Lady Monteith scolded. “Let me see that note, Monty. I believe I shall hide it and say I found the cat in the attic.”

Monty didn’t reply, but he took the parcel to the hall and let out a “Holloa” in a creditable imitation of his uncle. It was used to summon not his own servants but one of the burra sahib’s ghosts.

“For your master,” Monteith said, and pointed to Lord Howard’s hat, which had taken up semi
-
permanent residence on the table in the front hall, much to Lady Monteith’s chagrin.

His mother followed Monteith into the hall to complain. “Why don’t you run upstairs and see what Howard has to say?” she suggested, by which he understood her completely: see if you can find out what is in the letter.

“I’m not that interested, Mama,” he said, and returned to the parlor.

Lady Monteith was so consumed with curiosity and anxiety that she went upstairs herself, and was soon down with the whole story.

“I knew it!” she exclaimed, her fine hazel eyes snapping. “It was the cursed cat! She ‘found’ it in a closet, by means of emanations, if you please. I managed to get a glance at the note while he unwrapped it. These emanations, it seems, occur regularly when they are together. What the devil is she talking about?”

Mrs. Tucker nodded wisely. “The only other customer who generates these emanations is Mr. Beazely, the rich old widower who owns the drapery shop and that row of apartments on High Street.
That
is the sort of emanations they are.”

“Surely Lord Howard doesn’t believe in that occult foolishness!” Mrs. Bright exclaimed.

“He’d believe anything a bold hussy like Armstrong tells him. And she signs herself Serena, if you please,” Lady Monteith advised the company. “I thought her name was Nancy.”

“I see you got a close glance at the note, Mama,” Monty said with a satirical shake of his head.

The low cunning of Mrs. Armstrong’s returning the cat and its probable consequences were discussed for several minutes.

“The likeliest outcome is that Lord Howard will call on her in person to thank her,” Mrs. Bright suggested.

“Certainly he will,” Lady Monteith agreed. “That is the only reason she sent it, and he will know I gave the cat away. I shall say the servants did it in error.”

“The worst outcome,” Monteith announced, “is that he’ll expect to put the horror in the saloon with the elephant’s foot and the sword collection. I shall forbid it. I refuse to share the room with that monstrosity.”

Mrs. Tucker, who was fond of propriety, said, “I believe cats were considered sacred in Egypt. I wonder if that is also an Indian belief.”

“Let him build a temple for it on the Langford property, then,” Monteith said firmly. “This is where I draw the line. The cat does not go into the saloon.”

“Think of your brothers, Monteith,” his mother chided.

“Lacking in taste as they are, I cannot believe that either Ted or Bert will be offended at the lack of a stuffed cat in the saloon, Mama. They have survived without one all these years.”

There was no doing anything with Monty in this mood, and his mother let the matter drop. She had already set on a nice, dark, inconspicuous corner of the saloon for the feline, just to the left of the front window. It was as dark as the coal hole. Monty would never see it.

The guests were strongly inclined to remain till Lord Howard returned belowstairs, but a luncheon invitation was a luncheon invitation after all, and in due time they took their reluctant departure.

“Let us know what happens about the cat,” Samantha said to Monteith before leaving.

“I have already told you what will happen. The cat remains in Howard’s bedchamber. I am cured of the Indian fever. Of more interest will be to see what happens with yourself, Sam. I’ll drop in this evening, if I may?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll monitor the curtain and time him in and out of Mrs. Armstrong’s house. That was your reason for calling, was it not?”

He touched her chin with one finger. “No, the excuse. I fear he may slip across the street to visit you after. I shall be there to defend my sister.”

Samantha didn’t return his playful smile. She just gazed from her deep, dark eyes. “Turning doctor, are you? You think to cure me of the fever by playing chaperon? Come if you like. You won’t deter your uncle a jot
—nor me, either. He’ll do just as he wishes, as he always does. I wager I’ll see the cat in the saloon next time I come.”

“What do you wager, Sam?”

“What it’s worth to me. Tuppence.” She laughed, and left.

Chapter 10

As feared, Lord Howard expected the stuffed cat that saved his life to be enshrined in the saloon, and as promised, Lord Monteith forbade it. Nor did he soften the blow by any excuse whatsoever.

“I hope you’re not planning to put that thing in my saloon,” he said curtly, when Lord Howard descended for dinner that evening. One of his white-clad servants walked behind him, carrying the glass case. “The room is already overcrowded with Indian gewgaws.”

The nabob’s brow puckered in quick anger. He gave Monteith a killing shot from his dark eyes, but after a moment, a smile broke. “It was my intention,” he admitted, “but I can see the thing from your point of view, lad. These are
my
treasures; they’d mean nothing to you
— why should they? They don’t suit your more refined style.” He spoke to the servant in some Indian dialect. The servant bowed a few times and disappeared back up the stairs.

Lord Howard turned an approving eye on Monteith and said, “It’s high time you took hold of matters in your own house, lad. There’s hope for you yet. I was beginning to fear you was tied to Irene’s apron strings. It happens when a fully grown man still lives with his mama.”

“My mother lives with me,” Monteith said stiffly. “There is a difference.”

“I daresay you’d get her blasted off if you was to take  wife. I
do
like to see gentlemen married. It sets a good example to the countryside.”

“You may be sure I’ll marry when I meet the lady who suits me.”

Lord Howard gave him a cunning look. “If someone else don’t beat you to her,” he said, and laughed as they went toward the dining room.

The speech conjured up the image of Samantha Bright. Monteith suppressed a sharp reply, but the warning rankled. Miss Bright was not the sort of young lady he intended to marry. She was rustic, not well dowered and not well connected. He could do a deal better for himself than a simple country miss. Yet he felt an intense aversion to her marrying this old yahoo.

After dinner, Lord Howard went upstairs and came down reeking of Steeke’s lavender water. “I’d like to garner a bouquet from your conservatory, Monteith,” he said. “You don’t mind if I have my lads pluck a few blooms?”

“Lambrook is your home, Howard,” Lady Monteith told him. “You must do just as you wish, mustn’t he, Monty?”

“Help yourself to the flowers,” Monteith said.

“Whom are you calling on, Howard dear?” Lady Monteith asked, her eyes kindling with apprehension.

“I am going to thank Mrs. Armstrong for returning the cat. And to discover how she comes to have it.”

Lady Monteith flushed. “Some dreadful misunderstanding
—the servants—I asked them to make up a bundle for the church bazaar from the things in the attic. The idiots must have ... You won’t be long, I hope?”

“There is no saying. Don’t fret over me, Irene. I ain’t seven years old. I’m used to coming and going as I please.”

As Lord Howard drove into town, he decided it was time to remove to the inn. If he reached an understanding with Serena, he would want to be closer to her, and Irene’s good nature was beginning to cloy.