Nathanial glanced up with a frown. He’d expected this visit, but it didn’t displease him any less for having been anticipated. “Send him in.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Montague, in a blue coat and tan buckskins, entered the room with a hand outstretched. “Nathanial, glad to see you’ve finally come into your title.”
Nathanial declined the hand. “Is that right?”
“And to hear you’ve married.” Montague laughed with his customary, and irritating, charm. “I must congratulate you. The Duchess is a remarkably pretty woman.”
“I noticed you found her so.”
He laughed again and sat, though Nathanial had neglected to offer him the seat. “You can glare at me all you like, but I wasn’t the only one entranced. She is remarkably refreshing.”
Nathanial had known she would have no shortage of gentlemen interested in her charms now her status had been elevated; and he had meant it when he had said he would not mind if she took a lover.
He had not, however, anticipated his cousin taking an interest.
“Tell me why you’re back in London,” he said abruptly. “I was under the impression you were planning on staying on the Continent.”
“Not forever. Paris is charming, but nothing can compare to London.”
“If you even consider—”
“As enjoyable as your righteous anger is,” Montague interrupted, “I did not come here to discuss your wife.”
Nathanial raised an eyebrow. “Why, then? Are your pockets to let?”
“Do you think I have no shame?” Montague spread his hands wide. “You are my cousin. I’m calling to pay my respects to the new Duke.”
“You had better stayed away.”
“You wound me.”
“I rather think you can bear it,” Nathanial said dryly.
For the first time, Montague tilted his head, his smile fading. “Is seven years not enough time to soften your grudge, Hardinge?”
No amount of time would persuade Nathanial to soften his grudge. He no longer cared for Lucy—indeed, now he was older, he suspected he never had—but that did not absolve Montague of responsibility. Not only had he compromised the girl, but he had pursued her despite knowing Nathanial had taken an interest—or perhaps solely for that reason. He had taken her and he had ruined her, and while Nathanial was in general an even-tempered man, there was nothing he detested more than betrayal.
His father’s title could never go to Montague. He would do everything in his power to prevent it.
“It is not,” Nathanial said, leaning back in his chair. “Nor should it be. I have no doubt you are here to prevent my marriage, but I’m afraid you were too late.”
“I would never dream of doing such a thing.”
Nathanial almost snorted. Montague’s interest in Theo may partly be due to her sweetness, her blunt charm, but the main reason was no doubt because she was his wife.
An odd possessiveness gripped him. He had lost Lucy to a man who did not care for her; he would not lose Theo.
“Let me make myself plain,” he said. “You may trifle with every other girl in London. Do what you will, live how you choose. But my wife is out of bounds. Do you understand?”
Montague’s smile was amused and cruel. “So the rumours are true. You did make a love match.”
If Nathanial agreed, Montague would hound Theo still more securely. If he denied it, Montague would be tempted to test the theory. Although they had known each other a longtime ago, they had been close, once. Montague could read him the way few people could.
Nathanial stood abruptly. “Thank you for calling, but this conversation is over. Do not visit my house again.”
“Seven years is too long to hold onto grudges,” Montague said as he, too, rose. “You would find me more pleasant company if you remembered our friendship.”
