Indeed, the mind boggled. A Covent Garden brothel, perhaps? A gaming hell in St. James’s Street? His mistress’s bedchamber? She set the pen aside and rose to her feet with a smothered sigh. She’d best stop him now, before he launched into a lurid description of his debauchery. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I’mnotthe Duke of Basingstoke.”
One would think that would be obvious, but here they were.
Montford peered over his shoulder, but when he caught sight of her, he leapt to his feet and whirled around to face her. “You!”
“Me, indeed. Miss Prudence Thorne, Your Grace.” She offered him a reluctant curtsy. “We met at the theater at the end of last season,” she added, as he certainly wouldn’t remember someone as insignificant asher.
He let out an impatient huff. “I know who youare, Miss Thorne. What I don’t know is where the devil you came from, and what you’re doinghere.”
“I came from Wiltshire, and I was writing a letter, if you must know.”
“In Basingstoke’s study? How singular.” He threw himself back into his chair, his boots landing atop the table with a thud. “Where’s Basingstoke? He might have warned me you were coming to London.”
Yes, it would be disconcerting to have one’s nemesis spring upon you from cover of darkness, wouldn’t it? Goodness only knew what he’d nearly just confessed to.
Then again, Montford likely hadn’t any notion shewashis nemesis. Fifteen hundred pounds was a mere pittance to him, and nothing to bear a grudge over. “The duke and duchess have retired already. I believe they gave up on you when you didn’t turn up for dinner this evening.”
He blinked. “Was that tonight?”
The sweep of his long, dark lashes against his cheeks was irrationally irritating, and her reply was sharper than it needed to be. “It was, indeed. If you’d turned up as you’d said you would, you might have avoided being so startled by my presence, and—”
“Is this going to be a long lecture, Miss Thorne?” He flopped his head back against the chair with a yawn. “If so, you won’t mind if I have a nap, will you?”
Odious man! “It’s nothing to me what you do, Your Grace, though one might ask why, if you’re so fatigued, you don’t return to your own house.”
He peered up at her for a moment, then a slow, infuriating grin curved his lips, and he settled himself more comfortably in the chair, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. “No, I’m quite content as I am. So, Miss Thorne, what brings you to London? I trust you had a comfortable journey from . . . er, from . . .”
“Wiltshire, Your Grace, as I said. It’s a small county in southwest England, near Trowbridge. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“It sounds vaguely familiar, yes. I believe I visited some ancient stones there once that used to be some sort of burial ground or other. Dreadfully dull, really. I do hope you didn’t come all the way from Trowbridge just for Basingstoke’s dinner party.”
Why, how absurd. “It’s a two-day journey from Trowbridge to London, Your Grace. You can’t truly think I’d come all that way for a plate of roasted fowl.”
He shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Basingstoke’s cook does a very nice roasted fowl.”
She glanced down at her unfinished letter sitting on top of the desk and stifled an impatient sigh. For pity’s sake, did he really intend to make her stand about while he chatted about the merits of roasted fowl? “I’ve come at Franny’s . . . that is, at Her Grace’s invitation, though why that should matter to you—”
“Your timing is a bit off, Miss Thorne.” He eyed her, one long leg crossed over the other knee. “London’s as dull as a tomb, now the season’s ended.”
“I’ve no interest in the season, Your Grace.” To put it mildly. It was closer to the truth to say she’d rather die than ever set foot in another London ballroom. Franny had offered to sponsor her for a second season, but she’d refused, not only because she wouldn’t put her friend to such an expense for her sake, but also because the mere thought of it tied her stomach in knots.
“Perhaps not, but if you’re on the hunt for a husband, Miss Thorne, you’ve quite missed your chance. You should have come weeks ago.”
Goodness, that was rather too close to the truth for comfort, wasn’t it? “I just told you I’ve come to London to visit the duchess. How curious that you should take that to mean I’ve come to London to hunt for a husband. I can’t think of any reason why you should make such an assumption.”
A lie, of course. She could think of fifteen hundred reasons, and if the duke had any sense at all, he’d wish her luck in her matrimonial endeavors. If she didn’t make an advantageous match, he may as well have set fire to the last five hundred of his fifteen hundred pounds, as he’d never see a penny of it again.
Her father was a proud man and would never willingly default on a debt of honor. He’d already sold the property that surrounded their small estate to a neighboring squire, who’d bought it as a favor to them. But the land had only fetched a thousand pounds. They still owed Montford the remaining five hundred, and there was nothing left to sell but their home and their cherished possessions.
Even if they could sell it, it might not bring in enough money to settle the debt. What would become of them, then? One couldn’t get blood from a stone, no matter how hard they squeezed. And once Thornewood was gone, then what? Where would they go?
It didn’t bear thinking about.
“Come now, Miss Thorne. There’s no need to be coy. Every unmarried lady in England is on the hunt for a husband. Preferably a wealthy, titled one.”
“On the contrary, Your Grace. I can think of few things more troublesome than a husband.” That was true enough, but that she didn’t want a husband, wealthy or otherwise, mattered not a whit. She’d be obliged to have one, and it was all the Duke of Montford’s fault.
“Unless it’s a wife.” He tipped his head back against his chair again and scowled at the ceiling. “It’s odd, Miss Thorne, but those ladies who claim a disinclination for the married state inevitably change their minds once they’ve sunk their claws into you.”
