Country Flirt (16 page)

The stares from the Monteith pew bristled with hostility. Monty cast a glare that would wither fruit on the vine. His mama didn’t trust herself to do more than give one sharp, rebukeful look that encompassed both mother and daughter in its condemnation. How anyone was expected to think holy thoughts in such a seething cauldron of ill will was beyond Samantha. She looked at the pretty stained glass windows and found her mind wandering to the heathen temple the nabob planned to set up on his estate. It had “naughty statues,” he had said. A rueful smile tugged at her lips. She heartily wished he had left the building in India, and himself along with it. But soon it would all be over. She’d reject Howard’s offer, and things would return to normal.

Just how far they had been diverted from the norm was borne in on her after the service, when Monteith bowed coolly and took his mother’s arm to lead her to their carriage. Lady Monteith didn’t even nod. The fact that Clifford Sutton was fast legging it toward them had something to do with that, of course.

St. Michael’s was only a short distance from the Willows, and in fine weather the Bright ladies didn’t have their horses put to. Mr. Sutton offered them a drive home, but they declined, to deflect any further hostility from the Monteiths. Whether Irene was any less furious to see Clifford walking them home than driving them was a moot point. By the time they reached the door, the Monteith carriage was well beyond view, and Clifford was invited in.

“I was never so uncomfortable in my life,” Mrs. Bright said when they sat at the table with a cold luncheon before them. “Really it is the outside of enough that Irene should cut me dead in front of all my friends. And she cut you, too, Clifford. I hope you didn’t say something rude to her.’’

“Say?” he asked, lifting his eyebrows up to his hairline. “You must know I am no longer allowed to
say
anything to Irene. The rupture occurred by post. She had the gall to write and say I might call on her, as Lord Howard would be away for a week—after I told her I wouldn’t be led by her brother-in-law.”

“Did you answer her note?” Samantha asked eagerly. Her mother’s romance was of nearly equal interest with her own.

“Certainly I did. I told her that as Lord Howard no doubt planned to return, I saw no point in resuming a friendship that would so soon be interrupted. She sent back a few baubles I gave, and all my letters,” he announced happily. “That means we are through.” A soft smile beamed on Nora, who smiled through her frowns.

“I cannot see our way clear to attending the f
ête
champ
ê
tre when the host and hostess ignore us,” Samantha announced, and looked hopefully to her elders for guidance. She didn’t want to miss the f
ê
te. It was working up to the major social event of the season, and probably the last one that Howard wouldn’t attend.

“I wouldn’t dream of going,” Clifford replied. “I shall have a f
ê
te of my own on the same day—just for us,” he said.

Three people hardly made a f
ê
te, and Mrs. Bright said, “Perhaps your sisters would come to yours.”

“They’ve already bought tickets and new bonnets for Irene’s. If they don’t attend, we won’t have firsthand news on the Monteith gala,” Clifford pointed out.

“Not have firsthand news, with the Russels and all the town attending?” Nora asked. “We shall know everything that happened, every word spoken, and every bite eaten. But I do dislike being at odds with Irene. It is so uncomfortable. We have been bosom bows for decades.”

“All that will be patched up when Sam marries the nabob,” Clifford assured her.

Samantha stirred restively in her chair. Her mother, under Clifford’s guidance, had come out in strong support of the match. Not only was it a grand connection, but it would smooth her own path to marry Mr. Sutton. Samantha hadn’t told her mother about Howard’s attack in the saloon. She was too embarrassed and too shy. Attack was really the only word to describe his leap on her. Perhaps it was how married people behaved, but if that were the case, the parties involved would have to be very much in love to tolerate it. She knew she must tell her mother that she had decided against the match, however, and this seemed the proper opening for it.

“Actually, I have decided not to marry Lord Howard,” Samantha announced calmly. The only symptoms of her discomfort were two scarlet patches splashed on her cheeks.

“Not marry him!’
1
Clifford exclaimed. “My girl, you’re mad. He’s rich as Croesus.”

“I assure you that sacrifice is not necessary, dear,” her mother said. “You must not let Irene’s sulks deter you from such an excellent parti. All will be forgiven once you are mistress of Shalimar.”

“My decision has nothing to do with Lady Monteith,” Samantha said firmly.

“But why are you refusing him, then?” Clifford asked. “You’re the envy of every lady in the parish—in all of London, I daresay. Why, Howard’s the catch of the decade.”

“He is extremely eligible, Sam,” her mother added.

“But I don’t love him, you see. Nor do I particularly want to be as rich as Croesus. I’m convinced I should be quite uncomfortable in a marble palace, surrounded by foreign servants I cannot even talk to.”

“You’d soon catch on to the lingo,” Clifford assured her.

“The honeymoon in Paris, Sam!” her mother reminded her. “I thought you were looking forward to it.”

It was clear they didn’t understand. They were going to ask a million questions and pester her. “Not with Howard!” Samantha said, and fled from the table, holding her napkin to her lips.

“Well!” Clifford said, and looked to his hostess for enlightenment.

“I wonder what’s gotten into her?” Mrs. Bright mused.

“Last-minute jitters, perhaps?”

“It seemed like more than that. When Sam speaks in that prissy way, she is usually hiding something. I wonder if there is someone else....”

“Teddie was always fond of her,” Clifford mentioned. “Irene used to say that if his Uncle Hiram left him a few thousand, they might make a match of it.”

“Sam never mentions Teddie or Bert from head to toe of the week. Dear me, I wonder if it’s Monteith she has in her eye. He has been calling more often this spring than ever before.”

Clifford looked worried. “Irene won’t countenance that. She cannot bear-lead Howard, but she keeps a firm grip on her boys.”

They discussed Samantha’s inexplicable behavior till lunch was over, then moved out to the garden to enjoy the sun and flowers. From her bedroom window, Samantha looked down on them. They looked contented, like a happily married couple. Clifford was a kind, good man. He’d make an excellent husband for Mama, and she’d make him a better wife than the demanding Irene. She knew her rejecting Howard was a rub in their path, but she couldn’t face life with Howard. She’d rather marry the dustman.

At Lambrook Hall, the Monteiths were also distressed. “I expected better of the Brights,’’ Irene scolded, stabbing angrily at a plump shrimp. “Not content with stealing Howard’s fortune, they must have Clifford’s as well. It’s so unfair, Monty!”

Monteith felt like a caged lion. Roaring and gnashing his teeth ill became a grown man, however, so he attempted to be ironic instead. “If you will remember, Mama, I told you it was pointless trying to lead Howard. If Sam refused him—
1
’

A snort of incredulity greeted this. “Much chance! She trapped him into it, the sly miss, pretending butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and all the while she was making up to him behind our backs.”

Monteith’s jaws worked, and he continued, “If Sam refused him, he’d only marry someone even less eligible.’’

“He’d have to go back to India to find someone less eligible than that rustic.”

“She will make me a charming aunt.”

“Yes, when she grows up! And that doesn’t excuse Nora for stealing Clifford!”

“Well, Mama, you treated him like an old shoe. What do you expect? I have more respect for Sutton than I ever thought I would have.”

“And I’ve lost Nora, too,” she moaned, and finally shoved away the plate. The cold shrimp sat like a chip of ice in her throat, refusing to go down. “They’ll never come to the f
ê
te champ
ê
tre now. We’ve expanded the thing to last a whole day and night. I cannot face it, Monty. I shall take to my bed and claim a sick headache.”

Monteith also pushed his plate away. A black scowl rode on his brow, and his voice sounded dreadfully like his papa’s. “No, Mama. You will don your best bib and tucker and show the town what you’re made of. We Monteiths don’t buckle under that easily.”

“I wonder if Clifford would come if you asked him, Monty?” she suggested, a ray of hope lighting her eye. “I doubt he’d have the gumption to say no to you.”

“And you actually love such a gutless creature?”

“Monteith! Watch your language!” She folded her napkin in her lap and said uncertainly, “It’s not that I love him, precisely, but he is good company. He always lets me win at cards and is willing to take me anywhere. It is lonesome, Monteith. You forget I am here alone nine-tenths of the year. And I dislike the Dower House. It is so dreadfully dark, with that yew hedge shadowing the windows. And the rooms so small. Naturally, I shan’t go on living at the Hall after you bring home a wife.”

“That isn’t about to happen in the near future.”

“You never know when the arrow may strike,” she warned.

The footmen began placing dishes on the table. The very smell of hot meat was like an emetic to Monteith. He actually felt ill.
You never know when the arrow may strike.
It had struck sometime within the past week; he had acknowledged it even more recently. When Howard came home boasting of having “snatched the prettiest little lady in Kent” was when the shaft entered his heart.

Monteith had begun feeling ill at that moment. Ill and angry and desolate, “She hasn’t accepted!” he had exclaimed, before he got a rein on his temper.

“You may consider the bargain settled,” Howard had said, smiling. Monteith had willed down the urge to strike that gloating old face. “And a hard bargain they drove, too, but I consider her worth every penny.”

A satirical gleam from his nephew’s eyes was all that was required to elicit the exact sum. She had sold herself for sixty thousand pounds. That was the sum and the total of it. Sam, with her innocent freckles and her quaint manners, was just another fortune hunter when all was said and done.

He was furious with himself as well as her. He had been too slow, had had too high an opinion of himself. In his pride he couldn’t believe he had fallen in love with Sammie Bright, who had loved him forever—well, liked him anyway—and would certainly have snatched at an offer. His having fallen victim to her provincial charms should have been a boon to her. He should be playing the role of knight on a white charger, carrying her out of anonymity to a life of wealth and privilege. What did the wretched girl do but find herself a knight who could carry her higher and faster. He couldn’t compete with white marble palaces and a million pounds.

“When is the event to take place?” he had asked Lord Howard, through stiff lips.

“As soon as I get back from London. I am taking your advice and going there this very day to arrange for the architect. But don’t fret I mean to saddle you with my bride. We’ll tour Europe on our honeymoon while the castle is abuilding. Sammie wants to see Paris.”

Monteith was stirred from these unpleasant memories by his mother’s voice. “I’ll write the note, and you deliver it,” she said, looking at him with a curious eye.

“I beg your pardon? I was woolgathering.”

“The note—to Clifford. I wonder if he’s left the Brights’ yet. I know perfectly well Nora would urge him to stay for lunch.”

Monteith’s aversion to asking Clifford to attend the f
ê
te champ
ê
tre began to fade. “I could hardly deliver such a note while he’s at the Brights’ without asking them as well,” he pointed out.

Irene gave a
tsk
of annoyance. “We might as well face facts. Sam has got him; there’s no point cutting off our nose to spite our face. I have no wish to be excluded from the doings at Shalimar. The whole world will be down to visit them. Urge Nora and Sam to come to the f
ê
te as well. It will only fuel the rumor factory if they aren’t here.”

Lord Monteith spent fifteen minutes in the arrangement of his cravat and put on his best jacket before going to pay the call. He felt as nervous as a bride when he lifted the brass acorn knocker at the front door of the Willows.

“Good afternoon, milord.” The butler smiled. “The mistress is entertaining in the garden. I’ll take you out.”

“Is Miss Bright there as well?” Monteith asked.

“Miss Bright is upstairs, sir. Was it the young lady you wished to see?’’

“No! That is—yes, if you please.” He hadn’t foreseen the possibility of being alone with Sam, but it was not an opportunity to be missed when it occurred so naturally. “I’d like a word with her as well, if she is not indisposed.”

Samantha heard the bell and hopped up from her bed to hang over the banister, from which vantage point she could hear without seeing or being seen. The voice she heard set her heart pounding eagerly. Her curiosity and hope soared together to great heights as she scampered back to her chamber to make hasty repairs to her toilette.

When she descended the stairs a moment later, her hair had been brushed till it shone, and a smattering of powder subdued the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Now that she had the opportunity to meet Monteith face-to-face and alone, her former pessimism was blended with a pleasant, tingling excitement. She assumed he had come to hint her out of accepting Howard’s offer, and meant to pay off a few old scores. It was a change for her to have the advantage of him, for once! She’d make him squirm before telling him her decision. How angry he’d be that he had lowered himself to come, once he learned it wasn’t necessary.

As soon as Monteith saw the glitter of mischief in her eye and the pert smile on her lips, he stiffened to a ramrod. His lips thinned and he spoke harshly.