“It is not a Deville, my lord.”
He’d ensured no one ever visited him by declining the early requests, and because he was so unpopular, no one knocked on his front door.
“Lady Challoner has called, my lord.”
Monty’s head snapped up so fast, he was sure it made a cracking sound. He stared at his butler. “Send her away,” he got out around the tightness in his throat. “At once.” He then choked on part of the peppermint stick.
“I tried that, sir. She said she has a matter of grave importance to discuss with you and will wait until you can see her.”
Monty looked down at his clothing. He wore a shirt, open at the neck, and trousers. His feet were bare. In his house, he wore as little as possible, seeing as he had to wear all that other clothing when he left it.
“Grave importance,” Monty repeated. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I’m not sure, sir, but clearly it’s grave.”
Monty narrowed his eyes at Haven. The man always spoke in the same tone, but often he was teasing, cutting, or making a joke at a person’s expense. One never quite knew what.
“Is she inside the house already?”
“I left her on the doorstep.”
“What?”
“She is in the small rose parlor, my lord. You’ll forgive my poor attempt at humor.”
“I’m going to fire you one day,” Monty said. Rising, he grabbed the bag of peppermint sticks and hurried out the door. Reaching his room, he ran inside, startling Jensen who was folding shirts.
“Hurry, I need a jacket and necktie. Shoes as well. Make haste, Jensen, someone has called.”
“Here?” his butler squawked, rushing about the room like a chicken.
“Where else would they be, as I am here?”
“No one but those handsome Devilles call, and of course, the lovely Miss Mary.”
“Well, now a lady has called. Hurry!”
He shoved his arms into the sleeves of the jacket and let his valet tie his neckcloth. “That is enough folds.” Stepping out of Jensen’s reach, he jammed his feet into his shoes.
“A lady?” His valet gasped.
“Yes, it’s a shock, I know, and yet it is the case. A childhood friend, actually,” he said without thinking.
“A childhood friend?” His valet clasped the hairbrush to his chest and sighed. “How lovely.”
“That expression is something I would wear. Stop it at once,” Monty muttered. “We are no longer friends, and in no way is it lovely.”
His valet advanced on him with the brush raised.
“There is no time for hair. I must go.” He ran back out of the room. Looking at his feet, he noticed he was once again in the plain black shoes. His jacket, however, was rose. Pushing the bag of sweets into his pocket—he would go for a walk in his garden after and eat them—he sprinted along the hall.
He’d danced with Iris three nights ago and, later that night, had convinced himself he had not felt the flare of attraction as he had inhaled her scent and felt her body brush his during the waltz. Monty couldn’t remember the last time he’d reacted to a woman that way.
And it had to be her, the woman who had once known him better than anyone. His childhood friend. Clearly, he needed to keep his distance from her, which would not prove easy as she was, at this very moment, inside his house.
Passing a mirror, he glanced and saw the scowl on his face. He attempted to school his features to a more Plunge-worthy expression.
“Why is this getting harder and harder?” he muttered.
