Lord Phillips releases a heavy sigh. “You disappoint me.”
My eyes flick toward the pair in time to see Monty give his father a humorless grin. “That’s your fault for expecting anything more.”
They’re silent for a long stretch. Then Lord Phillips says, “If anything changes and you get over your rebellious stage, I expect you to take your proper place as my heir?—”
“It’s Angela’s proper place.Herplace, not mine, and we both know it.”
Lord Phillips gives a disappointed shake of his head. “Take care, Son.” he says without warmth, then strides away.
Monty stands there, jaw tight, for several seconds before I force my legs to move and join him. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge the hand I place on his shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
“Let’s go,” is all he says as he marches toward the luggage car.
He’squiet on the cab ride home, his posture tense, his gaze fixed out the window. I stare down at the hand he has curled on his thigh, tempted to place my palm over it, to give it a reassuring squeeze. We’ve given each other comforting touches before, but this is a new side of Monty. He feels like he’s a million miles away, so much colder than the version of him who held me tight outside the hotel. Still, I want him to know I’m here for him.
It takes me several minutes to gather the courage to finally speak. “I’m sorry about your father. It must have been hard seeing him so unexpectedly.”
He sucks in a breath, the only sign that he heard me, but makes no reply.
I stare at his hand again, his knuckles white from how tightly he clenches it. Then, slowly, I reach for him. He startles as I place my hand on his. “Are you all right, Monty?”
He turns to me for the first time since we entered the hansom cab. He blinks at me a few times, as if puzzled by my presence, then dons a mask of wry amusement. “I’m fine,” he says, turning his hand over to squeeze mine back.
Then he releases it. Drops it. Shifts so that we’re no longer touching.
His every move is casual. Easy. Yet his distance feels intentional.
“It was good, actually,” he says. His lips curl in a half smile, but there’s a strain in his eyes. A current of grim resignation beneath his nonchalant tone. “It served as a reminder.”
“Of what?” I ask, folding both hands in my lap to keep from touching him again.
He heaves a sigh and tilts his head against the backrest. “To not get carried away.”
“What did you get carried away with?”
Silence. Then he waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, this and that.”
“If you want to talk about it?—”
“You have a date this week, don’t you?” He angles himself toward me, extracting a cigarillo from his case and flipping it between his fingers. His buoyant mood is such a stark contrast to the cold, brooding figure who sat silently beside me for the first half of our ride. I can’t tell whether he’s trying to distract me from my line of questioning or simply feels guilty for having neglected me and is now trying to make up for it.
Regardless, his change of topic sours my stomach. “A date?”
“Patrick Wright asked to call on you this coming weekend, didn’t he? We never did discuss our plans for your next lesson demonstration, but alas it’s your turn. You owe me big time.”
“I owe you? For what?”
“For our impromptu modeling session at the hotel.” He says it without so much as a blush, which delays my understanding.
Then I realize what he’s referring to. Our mirror foreplay.
While it’s true I proposed our activities as a brief modeling session, and it certainly aided my art, hearing him speak about what we did so casually, so devoid of the flirtatious innuendo he spoke with earlier, has my heart falling.
He speaks again. “That means I modeled for you twice in a row—at your apartment the weekend before the wedding, then in your hotel room—to your single courtship lesson this past weekend.”
My cheeks blaze but I force my voice to come out even. “Wouldn’t you say what we did in my hotel room was also a lesson demonstration? Chapter Eight, remember?”
