The Wicked Lord Montague. Кэрол Мортимер

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      The beautiful young woman she undoubtedly still was….

      Her hair was just as black and abundant as it had ever been, but without her bonnet it was visibly tamed into becoming curls at her crown, with several of those shorter curls left to frame the delicate beauty of her face which boasted smooth, ivory skin, moss-green eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes, a tiny upturned nose, high cheekbones and full and sensual lips above her pointed and very determined chin.

      She wore a dark brown velvet pelisse over a cream and fashionably high-waisted gown; her tall body was slender, the swell of her breasts covered by a wisp of delicate cream lace, matching lace gloves upon her hands, and tiny boots of brown leather upon her feet, the latter obviously out of deference to her walk about the countryside rather than fashion.

      Yes, that wild and seemingly untameable child had grown into this beautiful and alluring woman of composure and grace. But, nevertheless, she was still one who had been, and always would be, a foundling of questionable ancestry and who was, and would ever remain, socially inferior to each and every member of the Montague family. It was an indisputable fact she still resented having heard from Giles’s own lips a year ago, if the anger that now burned so brightly in Miss Lily Seagrove’s moss-green eyes was any indication!

      He gave a haughty inclination of his head. ‘I am sure your prayers this evening will not be quite so full of gratitude on the subject.’

      ‘I might always pray for your visit to be of short duration instead, my lord,’ she returned with false sweetness.

      Giles permitted himself a hard and humourless smile. ‘I am sure that we both might pray for it to be so!’

      She blinked up at him. ‘You do not intend your visit to Castonbury Park to be of long duration …?’

      In truth, Giles had no idea how long he would be able to endure being in the home where he would be reminded, on a daily basis, of all that the Montague family had lost—namely Jamie and Edward, the eldest and the youngest sons.

      He quirked mocking brows. ‘No doubt it would please you if that were to be the case?’

      ‘As you made so clear to me on the last occasion we spoke, my lord, it is not for someone as lowly as I to be pleased or displeased by any of the actions of a member of a family as superior to myself as the Montagues!’ Those moss-green eyes met his gaze with unflinching challenge.

      She really was quite remarkably beautiful, Giles noted admiringly, as she stood there so tall and proud, with her cheeks flushed and those green eyes glittering angrily. In fact, Miss Lily Seagrove was far more beautiful than any of the numerous women Giles had known so intimately in London these past nine months.

      It was a thought totally out of keeping with the strained nature of their acquaintance. ‘Even you must acknowledge it really would not have done, Lily …?’ Giles quirked a dark brow.

      Her eyes widened incredulously. ‘You would dare to talk of that again now, when Edward has been dead these past ten months, and so lost to all of us for ever?’

      No, Giles would prefer never to have to speak of anything ever again which forced him to acknowledge that his brother Edward was dead. Indeed, he had spent the past nine months avoiding returning to Castonbury Park in an attempt to do just that. Without any success, of course, but there was not a fashionable man, or willing woman, in London who could not confirm how vigorously he had attempted to achieve that oblivion, in the company of the former, in the beds of the latter.

      How ironic that the first person Giles should meet upon returning to Castonbury should be the one woman guaranteed to remind him of the losses he had been trying so hard to avoid!

      His mouth twisted bitterly. ‘No doubt ten months has been more than long enough for you to have recovered sufficiently from your hopes regarding Edward, and to have some other unsuspecting—and, for your sake, I hope wealthy!—young man ensnared by your charms?’

      Lily drew her breath in sharply, so deeply wounded by Giles Montague’s dismissive scorn of the affection she had felt for Edward that for several minutes she felt completely unable to speak. She almost—almost!—pitied Giles Montague for his lack of understanding.

      No—she did pity him, knowing that a man as arrogant and insensitive as Giles Montague could never appreciate or attempt to understand the love she and Edward had felt for each other, or how their friendship had been of such depth and duration that Lily had come to regard Edward as the brother she had never had, as well as being her dearest friend in all the world.

      A year ago the haughty and disdainful Lord Giles Montague had been blind to the nature of that affection, and chosen instead to believe that as she was only the adopted daughter of the local vicar—her real parentage unknown—then she must necessarily be out to ensnare his rich and titled youngest brother into matrimony. It must have been a match he considered so unsuitable he had felt no qualms in arranging to talk to Lily without Edward’s knowledge, so that he might inform her of such. It had been a conversation that had so stunned Lily by its forthright audacity she was ashamed to say she had felt no hesitation in returning that frankness in regard to her own less than flattering opinion of Giles Montague.

      She raised her chin now. ‘I will continue to love Edward until the day I die,’ she stated softly and evenly, too heavy of heart to feel the least satisfaction when she saw the way Giles Montague’s eyes widened upon hearing her declaration. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, my lord, I believe it is past time I returned to the vicarage.’ She continued to hold that guarded and icy grey gaze as she sketched the slightest of curtseys before turning on her booted heels and walking away.

      Her head was held high as she refused, even for propriety’s sake, to resume wearing her bonnet. Giles Montague already believed her to be socially inferior to him, so why should she care if her actions now confirmed that belief.

      Except Lily did care what people thought of her. She had always cared. Not for her own sake, but for the sake of the kindly Mr and Mrs Seagrove.

      Lily had only been eight years old, and had not understood, when one of the children from the village had first taunted her and called her ‘Gypsy.’ She had questioned Mrs Seagrove as to its meaning as soon as she had returned to the vicarage. That dear lady had taken Lily gently in her arms and explained that it was merely another name for the Romany families who stayed at the Castonbury estate during the spring and at harvest time.

      Again, having rarely bothered to waste time looking at herself in a mirror, Lily had not understood why one of the village children should have chosen to taunt her with such name. Until Mrs Seagrove had stroked Lily’s long and curling black hair and explained that she was not the true child of Mr and Mrs Seagrove, but had in fact been left, as a baby of only a few weeks, on the doorstep of the vicarage eight years previously; of how she and Mr Seagrove suspected that Lily’s real mother had perhaps been one of the young and unmarried Gypsy girls who travelled the roads of England with their tribe.

      Gypsy.

      Lord Giles Montague had made it obvious a year ago that he was both totally aware of such a heritage, and disapproving of its being connected with his noble family.

       Chapter Two

      Giles had put aside the encounter in the glade with the beautiful Miss Lily Seagrove by the time he handed over the reins of his horse to one of the grooms at Castonbury Park. His thoughts were now on the signs of neglect, both to the outside of the house itself and other parts СКАЧАТЬ