“At a moment most opportune,” the duke countered, his brow raised in comical admonishment.
Torrie didn’t remember most of the scrapes he and Monty had found themselves in over the years of their friendship that were lost to him. But he had heard his fair share of tales. He knew that a concern for respectability from the duke was damned hypocritical. But then, this was Monty’s house. And he had already ruined the furiously blushing Miss Brooke last night. He hardly needed to do so again.
He cleared his throat, willing his rapidly beating heart to calm itself. “I was attempting to make amends with Miss Brooke for the unfortunate circumstances of the previous evening. You’ve interrupted before our dialogue has reached a satisfactory conclusion.”
“It appeared satisfactory enough to me when I opened the door,” Monty drawled, offering no mercy. “Indeed, if the conclusion was any more satisfactory, I shudder to think of the scene I would have walked in upon.”
Torrie ground his molars and pinned his friend with a glare. “Have a care for the lady, if you please. Miss Brooke is going to be my wife.”
“She is?” Monty asked.
“No, I am not,” Miss Brooke said.
“Yes,” Torrie answered in the same breath. “She is.”
For surely she could see the matter had been settled. There was no question of what must be done. And they most certainly suited. He slanted a look in her direction, finding her cheeks flushed and her lips darkened to a shade of crushed berry from their kisses.
Her brown stare met and held his.
And he quite forgot they were not alone in the room. The urge to kiss her again was stronger than his need for the next breath.
Monty cleared his throat, reminding him they had an unwanted audience. “It would seem the lady is not nearly as convinced as you are, old chap.”
Irritation settled over Torrie as he turned back to the duke with a frown of his own. “You seem to forget a similar occasion, when our roles were decidedly reversed.”
He was referring to the day he had caught Monty and his sister in a similar embrace during their brief courtship in the wake of his accident. On that occasion, Torrie had been playing the role of protective brother. It would seem that Monty was acting the part for Miss Brooke’s benefit. And that irked him, because he wanted to see this matter settled.
“I was a bachelor then,” Monty defended, having the grace to look shamefaced at the reminder.
Meanwhile, Miss Brooke was inching closer to her abandoned valise. Torrie caught the motion in his peripheral vision. Blast it, why did the woman insist on being so stubborn? And why had Montrose chosen to interrupt them now?
He was sorely tempted to simply toss Miss Brooke over his shoulder again and carry her away with him. Propriety could go to the devil. As could attempts at quelling the scandal he’d caused.
But he had caused this mess, and he was responsible for resolving it.
“Five minutes more,” he told Monty, before reluctantly adding, “if you please.”
Monty’s lips twitched with suppressed mirth; clearly, the devil in him found this entire tableau amusing. “I’ll allow it, but you must know that Hattie will have your hide and mine both if anything untoward occurs. She was most firm in her orders before attending Titus in the nursery.”
The mention of his nephew filled Torrie with fondness. The babe made his sister happy, and although many of the years before his accident remained shrouded in mystery, he had slowly forged a new bond with her. Torrie was pleased to see her so settled and contented, and he felt the same for his friend. Could he have the same one day? For the first time, the notion seemed not just possible but almost…pleasant.
“You have my promise as a man of honor,” he told Monty, nettled that he needed to do so.
“Five minutes,” Monty repeated, his tone bearing all the warning of a protective papa.
Christ.
Miss Brooke didn’t have a family. Or a home. And he had just managed to see her dismissed from her situation as governess.
Torrie swallowed hard against a stinging rush of shame as his friend and brother-in-law took his leave from the salon. Miss Brooke was standing behind her valise now, as if it would offer itself up as a shield.
He had five bloody minutes to persuade her that she should marry him. Perhaps if he hadn’t confused her surname at the onset, he would have fared better. Still, the kiss ought to have done something.
“Miss Brooke,” he tried again. “You must see that the only reasonable solution to your current predicament is marrying me.”
She was watching him with wide eyes. “Forgive me, my lord, but it seems far from reasonable or a solution.”
“And taking your shabby little valise and leaving here without a roof over your head or a prospective situation does?” he demanded.
