Page 8 of The Wallflower Takes All

“I may be in mourning for someone else,” Lady Viva called back. “The day is young.”

Gabriel glanced toward the open salon door.

Miss Montfort moved half a step, neatly blocking his view. It was done smoothly enough, but Gabriel had spent years watching men lie over wills, debts, settlements, and deeds. He recognized concealment when he saw it, even when it wore a pink mouth and an apologetic expression.

“My mother is not at her most practical before luncheon,” Miss Montfort said.

He poked his cheek out with his tongue. “And after luncheon?”

Miss Montfort considered this with admirable gravity. “That depends entirely upon what was served with it.”

The puppy barked again at Gabriel’s boot.

Miss Montfort looked down. “Freddie. No.”

Freddie placed one small paw on Gabriel’s polished leather and stared up at him in frank challenge.

Gabriel stared back. He frowned at the dog.

“I believe he considers you an intruder,” Miss Montfort said.

“He is not entirely mistaken.”

Something flickered in her face then, so quickly another man might have missed it. Her smile remained, but the brightness shifted like a candle moving behind glass.

She had heard more in the remark than he had intended.

Good. Perhaps that was best. She might as well understand from the start that he did not mean to become another fixture in this house, another man smoothing over Lady Viva’s extravagances while pretending the roof was not on fire.

He inclined his head. “If Lady Montague is receiving, I should pay my respects before we begin.”

“Oh,” Miss Montfort said. “There is no need.”

“I think there is.”

“No, truly. Mama is…” She glanced over her shoulder, clearly attempting to locate a word that would not require repentance. “Occupied.”

A burst of laughter rolled from the salon, followed by a male voice saying, “But my dear lady, the Spanish understand passion as the English understand toast.”

Gabriel lifted a brow.

Miss Montfort winced. “Quite occupied.”

“Nevertheless.”

He stepped forward, and she had little choice but to lead him toward the salon.

The scene within would have been impressive had it not been horrifying.

Lady Viva Montfort reclined in a chair upholstered in faded gold, wearing light-purple silk and an expression of exquisite mischief. A curl of bright red hair fell over one eye in a manner that might have been careless in any other woman. On her, Gabriel suspected it required effort. Around her gathered an assortment of persons who appeared to have been collected from different corners of London and left to ferment.

Lady Viva looked up.

For a moment, her face changed.

She was older than Gabriel had expected, though not old and still quite beautiful. Her eyes went soft when they landed on him, not with attraction, but memory. He had seen that look before on clients who had trusted his father and were startled to find his son in his place.

Then it vanished beneath delight. “Good heavens, sweetie,” Lady Viva said. “They have sent me a handsome one.”