“Neither do I, Sir Horace.” Althea stepped around him. Might Lord Churton have spoken to him? She hoped to learn something from his lordship with which to turn this situation in her favor.
Crowthorne’s derisive laugh followed her as she moved away.
As she looked for Lord Churton and Lady Margery, Althea threaded her way through the perfumed, chattering crowd. Ladies called to her from chairs along the walls, gentlemen, drinks in hand, stood deep in conversation near the fireplaces at each end of the room. There was no sign of the Churton’s. The Ormolu clock on the mantel showed ten. Still early. Her mind only half engaged, Althea paused to talk to acquaintances but kept an eye on the guests filing through the door.
Montsimon entered, wearing a fitted marine blue coat adorned with gold buttons, which molded to his broad shoulders and trim waist. Gold fobs decorated his gray silk waistcoat, his long legs encased in powder gray trousers.No man should look that good, she thought, as every woman in the room turned to observe him. When he headed toward her, she stiffened and grappled with a way to avoid him, but her mind had deserted her.
She came to her senses when Mrs. Montgomery repeated her question a good deal louder, while her mother, Mrs. Pinkerton, studied Althea with a shrewd expression. Althea murmured a nonsensical reply. She offered what she hoped was a charming smile. Montsimon would draw every eye to them should he approach her. He would be a distraction when she must find Churton, so she could retire for the evening with the knowledge that Sir Horace would trouble her no more.
Althea spun around searching the crowd. Where were the Churtons? Might she have overlooked them in one of the other reception rooms? “I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Montgomery,” she said, interrupting the lady in mid-sentence. “I’ve just seen someone I simply must speak to who appears to be about to leave.”
With a swish of her ice-blue net gown worn over white satin, she hurried away, leaving Mrs. Pinkerton peering through her lorgnette after her. It was an appalling lack of manners and Althea was sure her ears were burning.
A moment later, she’d forgotten the ladies entirely, for Montsimon, a determined expression in his gray eyes, made his way steadily through the guests.
She could not talk to him now. Heart thudding, she searched around for anyone free to engage in conversation, but those close to her were deep in discussion and it would be rude to interrupt.
“Lady Brookwood.” Montsimon had reached her. He bowed before her.
There was nothing for it. “Lord Montsimon.” She curtsied. It was extraordinary. Simply because she’d considered a possible affair with him albeit briefly, it had become difficult to meet his eyes, made bluer tonight by the coat he wore.
“I didn’t expect to find you in London,” he said in his pleasant tenor voice. “Wasn’t it your intention to remain in the country until spring?”
“It was.” She nodded. “But an important matter has brought me back to Town.”
A waiter approached. Montsimon took two flutes of champagne from his tray and offered her one. Althea accepted it with a nod of thanks. She sipped the cold fizzy wine, relieved when it lubricated her tight throat.
“It’s dreadfully crowded tonight,” Montsimon said, bending his head closer to hers.
“The Gossards’ affairs are always so. Does your dog wait for you at home tonight?”
“No, he’s guarding my carriage,” Montsimon said, a glint of humor in his eyes.
“Is he a good guard dog?” Her gaze swept the room, searching for Lord Churton again without success.
“Spot is very thorough. Even my friends are barred from the vehicle.” Montsimon frowned. “But something disturbs you tonight, Lady Brookwood. May I be of help?”
“You must pardon me, my lord.” She took a step away. “There’s someone I must speak to, but I can’t seem to locate them in this crowd.”
He followed, bringing them close again. “Who might that be?”
“Lord Churton. Have you seen him?”
The expression in Montsimon’s eyes sharpened. Without explanation, he removed her glass, which was still half-full of champagne from her nerveless fingers.
Conscious of those around them, she murmured a surprised protest. He placed her glass with his on a console table. “Shall we take a stroll on the terrace?” He slipped her arm through his.
“Ibegyour pardon?” Althea shook free, but he firmly tucked her gloved fingers back into the crook of his arm and moved forward, propelling her along, while apologizing right and left to those forced to make way for them. One man had the effrontery to wink at him! She gasped. He was manhandling her right under the gaze of theton.
“I must speak to you where I can make myself heard without getting a crick in my neck,” he said in a low voice.
Hardly a satisfactory explanation! Astonished, Althea huffed out a breath while helplessly caught up in the momentum caused by his long stride. “I must say I’m surprised, my lord,” she muttered, afraid of creating a scene. “You can’t just drag me off….”
A footman opened the French doors, and Montsimon swept her through them.
At a click of the door behind them, silence fell. The brazier’s glow did nothing to warm the frigid air. The terrace was deserted, for no other guest braved the outdoors during a winter’s night. And certainly not without many layers of warm clothing, which she lacked. Goose pimples sprung up along her arms and she shivered violently.
Montsimon drew her farther away into the shadows as the cold breeze slapped like a hand across her face and décolletage. She mourned the absence of her fur-lined cloak. Her teeth chattered. “This had better be important, my lord,” she stuttered through cold lips.
