Country Flirt (17 page)

“I see you’re chirping merry at your conquest, Sam.”

She eyed him with amusement. “What conquest is that, Monty? Oh—I daresay you’re referring to Howard’s offer. And I didn’t even have to learn to read the leaves.” She sat on the sofa and nonchalantly arranged her skirts around her. “To what am I indebted for the honor of this call?” she asked with a bland smile.

Monteith looked at the sofa a moment, and took up the chair facing it, as he didn’t want to betray any eagerness to be close to her. “Mama wished me to ascertain that you and your mother still planned to attend the f
ê
te champ
ê
tre tomorrow.”

Sam gave him a long, searching look. “I believe not, if the chilly stares received from your pew at church this morning are an indication of how we shall be received.”

He jerked his shoulders in a movement at odds with his usual composure. “Mama was in a bit of a pucker about this Clifford thing, but—”

“What accounts for
your
glares, Monteith? I made sure you would approve of any disturbance in that quarter. It wouldn’t be Howard’s offering for me that accounts for your frowns?”

“No!” he said quickly, angrily. “Although I will say I’m disgusted to hear of the settlement you demanded,”

She allowed a cool tinkle of amusement to issue from her throat. “Demanded? You misconstrue the matter! I’d be bathing in diamonds if Howard had his way. So generous,” she added, to goad him.

“You might have screwed him up to a hundred thousand if you hadn’t been so eager to have him!”

She swallowed her anger and answered with forced civility, “The eagerness was all on Howard’s side, I promise you. I haven’t quite agreed to have him, actually.” She peered to see if Monteith showed any interest in this leading speech.

His brow darkened and his jaws worked. “You’re even more grasping than I believed. You didn’t need
me
to hint that a higher dot might be managed by a little well-timed reluctance, did you?”

The unfairness of this charge was a goad to her proud spirit. Worse was Monty’s complete lack of interest in her reluctance to accept Howard. “After all, he
is
worth a million, as he is so fond of announcing. A lakh is only ten percent of a million, you must know. A lakh is a hundred thousand, Monteith. I mention it as you seem to have missed out on the trick of speaking Indian when trying to bring Howard around your thumb.”

“Unlike your cunning self!” he charged, and jumped to his feet to pace the saloon. “You work fast, Sam. I have to give you credit for that. I thought if I could get him blasted off to London before—” He came up short on this betraying speech.

She stared while a well of hot anger steamed up in her breast. She rose to her feet to confront him.
“You
urged him to go! He even
told
me so, and I never suspected why! You thought he’d forget me if you sent him away. And you accuse
me
of cunning!”

Monteith wheeled around and faced her. His livid color only accentuated the white line around his lips. His nostrils flared as he prepared his setdown. “I tell you to your face, madam, you are a cunning, conniving, vain, self-seeking, provincial fortune hunter. You set your cap at Howard to show me you could get him—to flatter your vanity and teach me a lesson.”

Samantha gasped at this outrageous charge. For a full fifteen seconds she was speechless. When she recovered her wits and tongue, she lashed out at him. “I never fully appreciated the vastness of your arrogance till this minute. You actually think my accepting him involved
you,
in some manner. I assure you, a relative stranger who shows his face in the county two or three days a year does not feature that prominently in my life.”

“Are you trying to make me believe you love him? You love that swaggering, bilious, bragging, rough-tongued old lecher?’’

“I never said I loved him.”

Monteith’s face stiffened like a starched collar. “Then you admit you’re just after the money!”

“Certainly not!”

“Are you not?” He grabbed her two arms and held them in a painful grip while his dark eyes blazed into hers. “Tell me you’re not. Tell me you love him, if you can say it without blushing, and I’ll know you’re a practiced liar. You’re marrying him for his fortune.”

This loaded command was met with a flash of violence. Samantha wrenched her arms free and turned on him like a Fury. Her breath came in quick pants. “I’ll tell you nothing, sir. Who I marry is none of your business. And why I marry him is my own affair. What does your concern amount to but a will to keep Howard’s fortune for yourself? You don’t give a Birmingham farthing whether I’m in love, or happy, or
he’s
happy, as long as the million is safe. You don’t even care whether your own mother is happy! You think you’re the center of the universe, that the whole world revolves around you. Your nose is out of joint because a better man has come along to call the tune. You’re no longer the lord and master, ruling everyone. Well, I take pleasure in telling you, Lord Monteith, you don’t rule me.”

“When have I ever tried to rule you?”

“You’re trying now. Why did you come here but to argue me out of accepting Howard’s offer?”

“Do you love him?” he asked, and stood firm, pinning her with his eye.

Beneath the frustration and anger that glittered there, Sam thought she discerned a glimmer of something else. If it was love... She tossed her head and looked away, waiting for him to say, or do, something. From the corner of her eye, she saw his rigid form and heard only the echo of his quick, shallow breaths. The silence stretched till she wanted to scream. When she could endure it no longer, she said, “Love isn’t born in a minute. It may take time, but no doubt it will come. Howard is a very passionate lover.”

His movement was so quick she didn’t have time to move. His arms flashed out and grabbed her fingers in his, crushing them till they ached. “Are you telling me you let that lecherous old lout get his hands on you?”

She looked at his fingers gripping hers, then looked at Monteith with a meaningful light in her eyes. “The Monteiths, in my experience, have never waited for permission before placing their hands on a woman. Howard is rough, and woos not like a babe. But then Howard may be forgiven—
his
intentions are honorable.”

Monteith heard that meaningful accent and through the cloud of anger tried to interpret it. He was on the edge of declaring his own honorable intentions. His fingers worked nervously on Samantha’s, clutching and slowly inching up toward her wrists as he braced himself for his declaration. She sensed what was in his mind, and waited.

When the silence stretched uncomfortably, Samantha spoke again to bring the issue to a head. “Naturally, I shall accept him,” she said firmly.

Jostled out of his hesitation, Monteith heard himself say in the stern accents of a judge, “You will not. I
forbid
it!”

It was not the speech she expected to hear. The moment of possible reconciliation was over. Samantha swallowed her disappointment and tried for an air of ironic levity. “Do you indeed, milord? Go ahead—forbid it till you’re blue in the face, but I will marry Howard, with or without your sanction or permission. If you wish to make an egregious ass of yourself by trying to stop us—”

Monteith dropped his hands. Unthinkingly, he ran one through his hair, disturbing its careful arrangement. “Sam, this match is not right for you!”

“No, Monteith; it’s not right for
you!
You’ve done your duty by warning me of the dangers of a good and lawful marriage. Your conscience may rest clear that you’ve done all in your power to save the family fortune. I assume that this invitation to the f
ê
te tomorrow was to cement family ties. I’m sure Howard would dislike to be at odds with his kin, so Mama and I shall attend.”

She made a graceful curtsy and said before parting, “Pray deliver my compliments to Lady Monteith, and tell her I look forward to seeing her tomorrow. She will be anxious to see my engagement ring.” On this parting shot, she swept from the room.

Monteith stood on a moment alone, wondering where he had gone wrong. At length, he went into the hall and got his hat. He remembered, before leaving, to pass Mr. Sutton’s invitation to the f
ê
te along to the butler, as he couldn’t face more company.

Samantha went to the front window to watch him leave. One lone tear oozed out of her eye and slid unnoticed down her cheek.

Chapter 14

Monteith met his mother as he went storming into Lambrook Hall. “They’re coming to the f
ê
te,” he said.

Lady Monteith regarded his glowering visage and knew that conversation was pointless. “That’s fine,” she said wearily, and their conversation was at an end.

At the Willows, Samantha reported Monteith’s invitation at more length, but her emotions were equally upset. She felt reduced to a pulp. Before long, she realized what a dreadful ordeal the f
ê
te would be. On top of everything else, she had told her mother she wasn’t marrying Lord Howard, and she had told Monteith that she was. Lord Howard’s proposal would certainly be the chief item of conversation between the two parties. She must change her story to either her mother or Monteith. Backing down in front of Monty was unthinkable. She wouldn’t do it. Yet did she want to spite him enough actually to marry Lord Howard and live a prisoner at Shalimar?

After Clifford Sutton’s departure, she began to smooth the thorny path before her. “About Howard’s offer, Mama,” she said hesitantly, “perhaps I was a little hasty. I don’t mean that I shall have him, necessarily,” she added quickly, when her mother broke into a hopeful smile. “It is only that—well, Monteith was so arrogant, there was no bearing it. He practically demanded that I not accept, so I let him believe I would marry his uncle.”

“Oh, Sam,” her mother said, and shook her head in reluctant sympathy. “You can’t go on like this. You must settle the matter one way or the other. What was the nature of Monty’s concern?” she asked, and gave her daughter a thorough scrutiny.

“Fear of seeing Howard’s fortune go out of the family, of course. What else would it be?” she asked with a shrug of brassy indifference.

“I have wondered—he seems to come here very often recently. I thought perhaps there was something between you two.”

“Oh, there is, Mama. There is a great deal of animosity. He despises me nearly as much as I despise him,” Sam replied.

But despising didn’t bring a choking sob to a girl’s throat and tears welling up in her eyes. Mrs. Bright watched ruefully as Sam darted upstairs. So that was it—the poor child had developed a tendre for Monty. How very complicated life became when men entered the picture. And how interesting!

* * * *

The day of the f
ê
te dawned warm and bright. From her bed, Sam looked at the cloudless sky with loathing. She had hoped for a torrential downpour to postpone the great day. Intricate plans had been laid regarding the Brights’ attendance. Their visit was to be more than a courtesy call, less than full involvement. They would arrive in mid-afternoon to watch the races and take tea, but not remain for the alfresco dinner. For the first half of the affair, Clifford would not accompany them, though he would be there. There was no reason to rub Irene’s nose in her defeat. Clifford would, however, escort the ladies to the Hall for the first half of the ball that evening. By that time, Irene would be accustomed to Mrs. Bright’s victory, and not create a scene. At the intermission, all three would leave. The only maneuver not settled was whether they would leave before or after the late supper.

Lambrook was a hive of activity in the morning as everyone darted to the shops, picking up a last-minute piece of ribbon or pair of hosiery. To get in the early part of the day, Samantha and her mother joined the throng on High Street. After lunch, they went upstairs to make their toilettes. Samantha’s finger was nearly worn out putting the great, ugly engagement ring on and off. She had no wish or real intention of marrying Howard. No announcement had been made. To appear in public wearing the ring would definitely confirm the engagement, and this idea was repulsive. Yet she had boasted to Monteith that she would wear it.

When she left the house, the ring sat in her reticule. It was much too large to fit under her gloves. By mid-afternoon, Monteith and his mother were on thorns wondering whether the Brights would come.

“Where are they?” at one o’clock had changed to “They’re pretty late,” by two. By three, Lady Monteith had wandered off to the shade of an awning for some peace and quiet, to distance herself from the high-pitched squeals of the smock races. When her son joined her, she said, “They’re not coming. Are you sure they said they would?’’

“Yes.”

“Clifford, too?”

“He’ll come if the Brights come.”

“I wish he would come without them. I wager Nora has him cornered in her saloon this minute. They’re in league together to snub us.”

“It’s just as well,” Monteith said, and looked through the throng again for the only one of the party that interested him. When he realized—or imagined—that his mother was suffering, too, he remembered Samantha’s accusation of selfishness and regarded her with a sympathetic eye.

“Do you really mind very much about Clifford, Mama?’’

“I mind the shame of losing him to her.”

“Yes, but has losing him inflicted a heart-wound?”

“Heart-wound?” she asked, staring. “Where do you pick up such sentimental rubbish? Heart-wound, indeed! I have been amidst gentlemen long enough not to have any heart. I was hoping for a good set-to with the pair of them. If I can’t have a husband,
I
shall at least have the pleasure of a juicy scandal. I intend to be extremely rude to the senile young couple. A few playful sallies about limping down the aisle—perhaps a hint that Sam’s fiancé is a decade older than her mother—well, half a decade.”

Monteith looked at her in wonder. Here he had been pitying her! His own intention was to behave impeccably toward Samantha, to make up for his former boorishness in her saloon. Blighted love had dulled his claws, it seemed, while spiteful pique had sharpened his mother’s. It was himself he should be pitying.