And then I shall beat you at whatever it is.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I look forward to it, madam.” He tilted his head toward her and then slipped away, leaving her staring after him.
And wishing it was the fire of competition burning in her blood rather than…something else. Something dangerous, indeed.
Nathan paced the halls of his study later that evening, trying to pretend that he was thinking about work or anything else besides the woman about to join him. Asking Abigail to his house—unchaperoned no less, as she had not brought her lady’s maid with her to the gathering earlier in the day—had all the potential of being perilous.
“Except that you have control over yourself,” he muttered out loud. “Whatever attraction you might have toward Abigail isn’t enough to turn you from being a gentleman. Even if it were, she hates you. She would never see you as anything but an adversary. Nothing untoward could ever happen, alone or not alone together.”
He said the words, he tried to believe them, but he jumped when his butler stepped into the doorway and announced, “Mrs. Montgomery is here, sir. I have put her in the parlor, as you requested. Supper will be served in half an hour.”
“Thank you, Gardner,” he said. “I will join her directly.”
The butler stepped away, and Nathan turned to the mirror above the sideboard to give himself the once-over a final time. He smoothed an errant lock of hair and straightened his frock coat. If anything was out of place, surely Abigail would mark it. He needed to be well armored to face her, in this, their latest battle.
When he was certain he would pass her judgment, he made his way down the hall. The parlor door was shut and he paused before it, trying to calm his unexpectedly racing heart. This was ridiculous. He had spent evenings with plenty of ladies before. Evenings that had ended with much more delight than this one would. He had no reason to be nervous as a green boy.
He steeled himself and entered the room.
Abigail was standing at the fireplace, staring up at the portrait that was mounted above the mantel. The picture was of his mother and father, commissioned just after their marriage. The previous duke stood stiff and straight while the duchess was in a chair in front of him. The painter had perfectly captured their expressions. He: annoyed. She: bored.
Either image could have come to life from his childhood memories.
“Good evening, Mrs. Montgomery,” he said.
She pivoted from the painting and speared him with a glare. “You are most frustrating.”
He blinked. “That is an inauspicious start. What have I done to offend you with only a brief greeting?”
She folded her arms, meant as a shield against him, he thought. “The way you say Montgomery. You always emphasize it. Like an accusation or a way to crow and hold it over me.”
He moved forward a step, and for a moment his part in their usual sparring fell away. “That is not my intention, I assure you. I did not realize I was doing it.”
“You always have,” she said, her tone a little softer, more pained. “From that first moment you and Owen stormed into my house to confront Erasmus and we found him dead. I’ve always heard that accusation in his name.”
“He nearly destroyed my sister,” Nathan said softly. “I suppose I may say his name with disdain without meaning to. I will try not to do it again.”
She stared at him, seemingly in shock that he would acquiesce. She cleared her throat after what seemed like a lifetime. “Last year you called me Abigail, just as Owen and Rhys do.”
He nodded. “Yes. When there were three Mrs. Montgomerys to manage, it made sense to refer to each of you by your Christian names. But now that the others have taken new names, I did not wish to invoke your considerable animosity toward me by continuing to be so forward.”
She shifted, and he could see the wheels turning in her mind as she tried to sort out a response. “I suppose that is a fair point. It is familiar to go by my first name. But I do hate the last. And since I will likely never change it as Pippa and Celeste have, I must learn to live with the disgust it engenders in me to hear it.”
“Would you prefer that I call you Abigail?” he asked slowly. “At least when we are in the company of our closest friends