“Our friendship was over the moment you pursued Lucy.”
“Still hung up on her?”
“Seven years is a long time,” Nathanial returned, a guilty feeling arising at the thought he had not considered Lucy, or her fate, in almost that long. He pushed it aside. “Stay away from Theo.”
Montague gave a sardonic bow and left the room. Nathanial remained standing, staring at the ajar door.
It was damned bad luck that Theo had taken a shine to the one man who could turn her out of the house if Nathanial died. Of all the gentlemen in the world, Theo had chosen to allow his cousin and heir to charm her. If Montague had stayed away, or if she had taken him in violent dislike, Nathanial might not have needed to interfere or keep an eye on her.
But he did not trust Montague, and especially not when he, at present, stood to inherit.
A sure way to prevent that was to produce heirs of his own. A boy. Yet that was not a given, and the process was hardly a quick one. And it would involve—
Nathanial did not let himself think about what it would involve. He had made a pledge to her that he would not visit her bed any time soon, and the hesitancy with which she had looked at him that first night had assured him she was not expecting his advances.
He would merely have to ensure that she was not taken in by Montague, through whatever means possible. That wouldprove a challenge given their arrangement allowed them to take lovers, provided they were discreet.
But Theo would not be taking Montague as a lover if he could help it. Even if that meant taking a more active role in his marriage than he had intended.
He poured himself a glass of claret. He had a feeling he was going to need it.
Chapter Eight
There were few pleasures in London that Montague, over the course of his thirty-two years, had not sought. He’d had his fill of opera singers and dancers; now he was older, his tastes ran a little differently.
Which was why, when he found himself at the residence of Juliet Stanton, he had every intention of accepting the offer she presented.
The card party, held only for a select few, was conducted in a lavishly furnished drawing room; a parlour, similarly furnished, held the few that wanted to play deep. Juliet Stanton catered to all.
Montague did not play deep—he did not have the pockets for it, and although as a young blade he had gambled heavily, as all young men did, it wasn’t in his blood. Instead, he played whist with a small party of like-minded gentlemen while Juliet Stanton held the bank. She courted interest with smiles and batted eyelashes and quiet murmurs of appreciation and encouragement. Montague had been playing the game long enough to know an expert player. She was not young,Mrs Stanton, but she played off her charms to perfection; her forest green dress brought out the copper in her hair, and her shoulders were bare to expose her elegant neck. Her smile, too, was practised, and when she leant forwards, it was to reveal the swell of her breasts.
Juliet Stanton was a woman, Montague mused, who was accustomed to dealing with men’s desires.
She glanced up, blue-green eyes holding a hint of amusement. “It is your turn to play, Sir Montague.”
He placed his card on the table with deliberation. “Do you consider yourself a gamester, Mrs Stanton?”
“Why, not particularly.”
“A shame.” He paused, letting her lean into the silence, and glanced away, to a single table lying unused. “I thought perhaps I might challenge you to a game.”
“I fear I may not be a worthy opponent.”
“On the contrary, I assure you. I think you can provide me with everything I need.” He let his gaze drop across her body. There were other men here, but judging from the smiles she occasionally flashed them, like bait to the fish, they were already enjoying her charms.
Indeed, this entire affair was not just to boost her income—as he knew it would be doing with her playing bank—it was to advertise herself. And she was an appealing prospect.
She met his gaze with a boldness he appreciated. “Perhaps, then, we should play.”
The process of setting up a table was a quick one, and he challenged her to a game of piquet. She dealt, retaining the honour of holding bank. He didn’t care; this entire endeavour was not about the cards and both of them knew it.
“I had no notion you were planning on returning to London,” she said, glancing at her hand. “It was my understanding you intended to be away for a long while.”
“Seven years is a long while by my estimation, Mrs Stanton.” He glanced around. “You have a tidy establishment here. Might you have room for another patron?”
A smile touched her mouth as she glanced at her cards. “Perhaps. I should warn you, I have exquisite tastes.”
“I should expect nothing less from such an exquisite lady.”
