I want Monty.
I…more than want him.
The dance comes to an end, and Monty still hasn’t interrupted us, though his shoulders are tense, his stare fierce.
I curtsy, thanking Mr. Wright for the dance. I already know what he’s going to say before he asks the next question.
“About the next dance?”
My stomach plummets, even as I reply, “Of course.”
Monty looks mutinous as we get into our places for the cotillion. The music starts. We exchange curtsies and bows, first with each other, then the other dancers. Mr. Wright takes my hand and we step from side to side, then do a skip and a hop, before joining hands with the others to skip in a circle.
“I’d like to call on you next Friday,” Mr. Wright says as we stand side by side, waiting our turn to perform the next steps.
I glance at him with wide eyes. “Pardon?”
“I’ll be in Jasper next weekend for work. I’d like to call on you then, if you don’t mind.”
My words stick in my throat. This is all moving so fast. I only met him an hour ago. Now he wants to call on me? There’s no convincing myself it isn’t out of romantic interest. This is how I always expected a courtship to go. I was taught they move fast. It’s why I thought my marriage solution was such a feasible one.
I open my mouth but I still don’t know what to say. Monty and I never got this far in our lessons. I only expected to engage in Lesson Three tonight, if anything. Though I suppose this is where Lesson Four comes in—waiting to see if his words align with his actions. Even if I allow him to call on me, there’s no guarantee he’ll follow through with it.
It’s our turn to skip forward and dance in a circle, which is when I catch sight of Monty again. Thorne is at his side, but Monty doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes watch only me.
Why doesn’t he move?
Move, Monty.
Don’t leave me to answer Mr. Wright’s question on my own. Not that he can hear our conversation. Not that he knows what’s running through my head. The wish that’s begun to burn in my heart.
Finally…he moves, taking a step onto the dance floor.
But Thorne stills him with a hand on his shoulder. Whispers something in his ear, expression serious.
Monty freezes.
His shoulders fall.
He watches me for a few beats longer, then marches out of sight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MONTY
Idon’t stop walking until I exit the lobby doors, filling my lungs with crisp night air. There’s nothing but quiet all around me, nothing but the sleeping countryside surrounding the hotel, and the music from the ballroom too distant to hear. No guests funnel through the lobby doors and no coaches circle the courtyard, as most of the hotel’s guests are either sleeping, dining, or attending the wedding.
Yet not even the silence and solitude set me at ease. With tense fingers, I extract a cigarillo from the case in my jacket pocket and place it between my lips. It takes me three tries to light it with my igniter, with how my hands shake, but soon floral smoke fills my mouth. The scent, the taste, the routine, all serve to calm my racing pulse.
After another soothing drag of my herbal remedy, I drop myself onto a bench at the edge of the cobblestone courtyard. I flick the ash from the end of my cigarillo, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
Why did I so badly want to stop Daphne from dancing with Patrick Wright? Why did it enrage me to see them settling in for another dance? Patrick’s interest in her shouldn’t come as a surprise. He asked me to introduce him. He talked to her throughout dinner like she was the only person at the table. But that’s not what has me riled, is it?
No, it’s what Thorne said to me just as I was about to cut in.
He’s looking for a wife, not a fling. He’s exactly the kind of person you’d want to match her with. A good man. He won’t hurt her.
He won’t hurt her.
