“Thank you again, and Lady Challoner?” he said as he reached the door.
“Yes?”
“Should you need anything, please contact me.”
“I won’t but thank you.” She gave him a cool look.
“If you feel threatened or in danger at any stage—”
“Why would I be?”
“I don’t know, and likely you won’t, and yet if you do, then contact me.”
She studied him once in control. “I assure you that will not be necessary. I have an uncle and aunt.”
Monty wanted to say more. Instead, he tucked the papers inside his jacket and made himself bow. Then he walked out the door. Inhaling deeply, he tried to relieve the tightness inside his chest. Iris bothered him; there was no getting around that. When she was close, he reacted to her nearness. Her scent, the lure of her skin and her body, and now he knew what her lips felt like pressed to his.
He wanted his old childhood friend.
Monty had wanted no one—other than for slaking his desire—in years.
“Distance,” he muttered, reaching the front door. “I must keep my distance from that woman.”
Walking down the front steps, he schooled his expression into Lord Plunge and hoped no one noticed his hair or shoes were different, and he did not have a dozen lavender-scented handkerchiefs on his person. In fact, he hoped no one saw him leaving the house of Lady Challoner.
“Goodbye, my lord.”
He found Henry to his right, standing in the middle of a bed of flowers. Face solemn, he was staring at Monty.
“Goodbye, Henry. You let me know if you want any more peppermint sticks, and I’ll send you some.”
The boy blinked and then nodded. “I will. Are you really my mother’s old friend?”
“I am. Did she speak of our childhood?”
“No, but my uncle says he is our friend, and he’s not.”
And wasn’t that a telling statement? He thought about asking him some more questions but decided that wasn’t a good idea, as it would likely anger Iris.
“Well, Henry, let me assure you I am indeed your mother’s friend, and if you will allow it, I could be yours also?”
He was subjected to another long look. Where the Deville children would have shrieked their answer at him by now, Henry simply watched Monty. Clearly coming to a conclusion, he then nodded, and Monty let the breath out he hadn’t known he was holding.
“Yes, we need more friends,” the boy said.
“Your mother and I used to do many things together, including climbing trees and running over our parents’ estates.”
“My father did not like us to run,” the boy said seriously.
“Well then, perhaps now you can?” Monty’s life might not have been what he’d thought it would be after his parents’ death, but he’d had a wonderful childhood.
“Mother sat on the floor with me to take tea yesterday, and we toasted bread in the fire.”
“That sounds like fun, Henry. Did you have jam or honey on your toast?”
“Jam,” he said with a small smile.
“I have jam usually too,” Monty said. Looking at Henry, he saw the lost boy he’d become at twelve. But at least Henry still had a mother who loved him.
