Nigel made a noise a turkey would be proud of, but he did not retreat. Instead, he angled his body slightly, so Lord Sinclair was now behind him. Not a direct snub. The man was not brave enough to do that. Sinclair was connected to some powerful men.
“Introduce me.”
“To whom?” Monty asked, wide-eyed.
“Lady Challoner, you fool. Woman’s a widow, from what I hear has money—”
The anger was swift and surprised him. It seemed Monty was, in fact, protective of his childhood friend.
“This is our dance, Lord Plunge,” Mary said, holding out her hand. Clearly, she had seen his anger. “I must drag you from Sir Nigel’s scintillating company.”
“As you can imagine,” Monty simpered, “I am desolate.” He stepped forward, stumbled, and rammed his shoulder into Nigel’s chest, sending him backward.
“Oh dear, begging your pardon.” While the man’s friends rushed to pick him up off the floor, he walked away with Mary.
“What’s going on?” Mary said as he swung her into his arms for the first waltz of the evening.
“I thought you had to dance all these with your husband?” Monty said.
“You’re the exception.”
“As you can imagine, I am flattered,” he said.
“Yes, yes, no need for sarcasm. Now talk. What’s going on with you, and why do you have flat shoes on your large feet?”
“The heels pinch,” he said, sounding like a child again.
“I’m sure they do, but as you’ve been having them pinch you for years, I’m wondering why the change now?”
A wave of exhaustion swept over Monty. Like he was at least one hundred years old and had been awake for three weeks.
“Monty, talk to me.”
He looked into the face of the woman who had become his friend when he hadn’t realized how much he’d needed one. He’d always believed he was a lone wolf, but Mary had made him question that.
“I can’t talk here. But there are things afoot, it’s true. Things I will tell you. I promise.”
“What things?” Her brows rose as she studied him. He knew that powerful brain of hers would be hard at work, forming and dismissing thoughts, trying to work out what he wasn’t telling her.
“What part of ‘I can’t talk here,’ did you not understand?” Monty smiled as he muttered the words.
She harrumphed, which she’d perfected by listening to the Duchess of Yardly.
“She’s nice, your Iris.”
Monty was usually used to Mary’s conversational changes, but this one took him a few seconds.
“Lady Challoner is notmyanything. We were friends as children. I haven’t seen her since she was ten years old.”
“She told me you were her best friend, but that you were nothing like you are now.”
He felt a stab of pain in the region of his heart and ignored it. “I was thirteen when we last saw each other, Mary. Even if I was not playing the idiot I am, I would still be a great deal different.”
“You’re tense. You’re never tense.”
“Conversing with you is exhausting,” Monty said.
“Why are you tense?”
