Page 77 of The Wallflower Takes All

“That is a polite distinction.”

“A useful one.” Lord Ketterham reached for his hat. “Miss Montfort is a lovely young woman. More than lovely. I meant what I said about admiring her. But I require a wife to bring quiet and order to my household.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened. “Her mother’s behavior is not her fault.”

“No. But it may still become her husband’s problem.”

The words settled between them with all the force of truth.

Gabriel despised them.

“I had intended to call upon her after this,” Lord Ketterham said. “Under the circumstances, I think it kinder not to further raise expectations.”

Kinder.

The word scraped Gabriel’s nerves.

He inclined his head because striking a peer in one’s office was generally frowned upon in his profession. “As you wish, my lord.”

Lord Ketterham bowed and left.

Gabriel remained standing after the door closed. The office seemed too quiet. On his desk lay Lord Montague’s refusal, a half-drafted reply, and the letter he had decided to send to Miss Montfort because seeing her again had become far too tempting.

He looked at the unused sheet.

No.

He could not allow a servant to hand her Lord Montague’s refusal and Ketterham’s disappearance like a pair of cold dishes. He had given Lord Ketterham the answer that had turned him away. Gabriel would not hide behind paper now.

He grabbed his hat and left for Berkeley Square before reason could advise him to stay where he belonged.

Chapter Twelve

The Montfort house was accepting flowers when Gabriel arrived.

Not one bouquet. Several. The hall table had disappeared beneath bluebells, hothouse roses, and an extravagant arrangement of foxglove, the floral equivalent of a declaration delivered too loudly.

Lord Crampton stood beside the largest vase, leaning upon the table while Lady Viva admired a card.

“Mr. Ashby,” she called. “Darling, have you ever seen such roses? Lord Crampton says they are the color of dawn.”

“They are the color of a debt collector’s face after waiting in the hall,” said a tradesman near the door.

“Mr. Pradmore,” Jenkins murmured, horrified.

“I beg your pardon,” the tradesman added quickly when he saw Gabriel. “My lady.”

Lady Viva waved her fan. “Nonsense. A poetic observation. Distressing, but poetic.”

Lord Crampton gave Gabriel a cool look, plainly displeased by the interruption. “Ashby.”

“My lord.”

Freddie darted past with a length of pink ribbon in his mouth, pursued by a footman who had abandoned all pretense of composure.

“Freddie,” Jenkins said, as if this alone might restore civilization.

It did not.