Page 110 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Statement, not a question, but after a moment she replied, “Not happy—now I know what happy is, I realize I haven’t been that way in a long time.” Lips lifting, she glanced at him. “But I was content—satisfied with my lot, certainly. I can make no complaints over those years—as with you, some might say I had it easy, too.”

He returned her regard. “But life is, indeed, what you make of the opportunities that come your way.”

The carriage slowed and they both glanced out. The familiar façade that included the narrow door that led up to Heathcote’s office appeared, and the jarvey brought his horses to a halt.

Violet blinked, wondering; she looked about her as Heathcote handed her down.

Montague paid off the jarvey, then, taking Violet’s elbow, he steered her across the narrow strip of pavement to the green-painted door with its inset window bearing the words Montague and Son, Agents of Business, in gold letters. Fishing in his pocket, he drew out his keys. As he found and fitted the right key in the lock, he noticed Violet glancing interestedly about.

“It’s Friday,” he said, nodding at the general bustle in the court. “In this area, that means it’s extra busy as everyone rushes to get their week’s financial transactions completed. Although most businesses open on Saturday, the major banks and the Exchange are closed.”

“Ah.” She nodded. Turning back to him, she said, “I hadn’t really paid attention on the previous occasions I came here—I was too exercised by events.” Swinging to face the door as he set it wide, she noticed the small Closed sign at the bottom of the window. “As you said, it’s Friday, but it appears your office is neither open nor busy.” Arching a brow, she entered.

He followed, closing the door and relocking it before turning to look at her. “In celebration of our success with the investigation, I gave my staff the day off—Lord knows, they earned it. Every one of them contributed in some way.”

She smiled, turned, and started up the stairs. “That was nice.”

“Perhaps,” he said, following her, “but also necessary.” When she threw a questioning glance at him, he said, “I told you I wanted to show you something.”

Reaching the first-floor landing, she halted before the door to his outer office and turned an inquiring face his way. Joining her, he shook his head and waved her up the next flight. “My apartment’s one flight up.”

Her expression cleared as she remembered what he’d told her; flashing a fascinated look his way, she eagerly headed up.

“My parents,” he said, following, “had a house north of Finsbury Square. When they died, I sold the house and bought this building instead—not just my offices but the whole block. It seemed a wiser investment. I rent out the rest of the space other than my offices.” He looked ahead. “And the upper floor.”

Joining her on the small landing before his apartment door, he selected the right key, then fitted it to the lock. Reaching for the brass doorknob, he met Violet’s gaze. “This is where I live—where I’ve lived for the last ten years.”

He set the door wide and watched as she looked into the small foyer. Then she walked in and he followed, shutting the thick door behind him.

Violet took note of the simple, plain, but high-quality finishes, immediately recognized the sound solidity of Heathcote Montague reflected in his home. Glancing back at him, she asked, “Do you live here alone?”

“I have a couple—Mrs. Trewick keeps house and cooks, and Trewick performs the duties of a general manservant. They have separate quarters off the kitchen.”

Walking through the archway into what proved to be a long sitting room, Violet nodded. She paused to take in the furnishings and get her bearings, then asked, “Are they in—the Trewicks?”

Setting his hat on the hall stand, Heathcote looked faintly uncertain. “Ah . . . no. I gave them the day off, too.”

Violet let all she felt inside invest her smile; delighted, she turned to him and met his eyes. “Good.”

Faint relief showed in his face as he came to her. “I hoped you wouldn’t think it too—”

Stepping into his arms, she placed her fingers across his lips, cutting off his words. “It isn’t too anything.” She trapped his gaze with hers, looked deep into his hazel eyes. “This is our time to talk, to discuss, to decide—all you did was ensure we have the privacy to do that, and for that . . .” As she removed her fingers, her gaze lowered to his lips. “I can only be glad.” She breathed the last word as she stretched up and set her lips to his.

A wanton act, perhaps, but to her mind, he and she had already stepped past the social boundaries. The polite barriers no longer applied. Here, now, it was just her and him—a man and a woman, a gentleman and a lady. Here, in this private space, only the personal, what existed between them, remained.

Apparently, he agreed; she’d barely had a chance to kiss him before he took over and kissed her back.

His arms closed around her, drawing her close, not hesitantly but definitely. That warm, safe, reassuring cage made of his muscles and bones, and even more her reaction to it, told her where she stood. To her, this man was safety, security, a safe harbor through any storm—and more. With him, she could be . . . the woman she’d been born to be.

Opportunity.

She reached for it—without hesitation pressed closer, deeper into his embrace; sliding her arms over his shoulders, locking her hands at his nape, she held him to her. And when he tested her lips, she parted them and, boldly, without any guile, invited him in.

And delighted in his acceptance.

Never before had she communed with a man thus. She’d been kissed before, yes, but not like this—not when the exchange became a dialogue, a communication that passed back and forth, wordless yet so descriptive, silent yet deeply, profoundly evocative.

Meaningful.