Page 5 of Marriage and Murder
In dawning surprise, she realized that the gentleman by the church door was the very last man she would have expected to encounter, especially then and there.
Years before, when she’d been an innocent twenty-year-old, sheltered, motherless, and living the constrained life of a Salisbury minister’s daughter, she’d set her cap at handsome Montgomery Pincer, and for several months, he’d led her on, only to cruelly dash her girlish matrimonial hopes. That said, at least he’d been ruthlessly honest in telling her that although she had a decent portion and, given her father’s successful investing, would ultimately inherit more, she was far too independently minded for Monty to consider taking to wife.
Now, nearly seventeen years later and knowing a great deal more about men, Madeline could appreciate that not only had Monty’s assessment of her been accurate, he’d also done her a great service in allowing her to escape.
Not that he’d intended to do her any service, yet nevertheless.
As she approached the doorway, Madeline swiftly studied him and had to admit that, physically, he hadn’t changed much with the years. He was still a tall, decidedly handsome gentleman, with wavy dark-brown hair—perhaps a little less wavy and glossy than previously—falling rakishly over his forehead. His long-lashed blue eyes were just as engaging and attractive as before despite the fine wrinkles radiating from their corners. He was more than two years older than she, so had to be nearing forty, yet he still possessed an excellent figure—about six feet tall, lean, long boned with broad shoulders—and an athletic build, and she felt sure he would move as gracefully as he always had.
As ever, he was dressed well, this time in a tailored coat with a fashionable waistcoat over simple breeches and top boots. At first glance, he appeared the epitome of the successful country gentleman, but this wasn’t Madeline’s first glance. Regardless, she had to admit that Monty looked more the part of lord of the manor than Lord Glossup, in his plainer countryman’s attire, had.
She halted a yard away and inclined her head. “Monty.”
“Madeline.” Smiling with just the right blend of charm and sympathy, Monty stepped forward and reached for her hand.
She allowed him to take her gloved fingers, and he bowed—as gracefully as she’d expected—over her hand, then straightened. Before he could direct the conversation, she asked, “What brings you to Ashmore?” She assumed he was still living in Salisbury.
Monty’s smile didn’t dim. “I was passing and saw you walk in here. I’d just heard the grave news of your sister’s death and thought to offer my condolences.” His tone subtly implied that the answer should have been obvious, but his effortless charm smoothed everything over. “I am, indeed, deeply sorry for your loss.”
Cynically, Madeline acknowledged that he hadn’t lost his touch. She reached for graciousness and replied, “Thank you. It came as quite a shock.”
“I imagine so.”
As she withdrew her hand from his clasp, he ran his gaze appreciatively over her quietly expensive gown.
She stepped past him, and he turned and fell in beside her as she walked out of the cool dimness of the church. She expected him to ask about Viola, whom he’d known, albeit not as well as he’d known her, but instead, he said, “I confess I’m quite curious. What have you been doing with yourself? I heard that you had come down from London.”
The last statement was uttered as a question. Not wishing to encourage him, she replied, “I live there now.”
She took the path toward the rectory and ignored Monty’s quizzing gaze.
After a moment, he looked ahead. “I must admit I’ve rather lost touch with all those I knew before.”
His pensive tone had her glancing his way. “Did you move elsewhere, too?” From experience, she knew that keeping the focus on him would effectively distract him from her.
He smiled rather mischievously. “Yes, indeed. I’ve been in America for some years and only just got back yesterday, so you might say I’m fresh off the boat from New York.”
“What were you doing in America?” Madeline returned her gaze to the rectory gate.
“This and that. I became involved in various businesses located throughout the northeast of the country, and in all truth, I did rather well. Ultimately, however, I felt I needed to come home again. There’s just something about England that lives in your bones.”
They’d reached the rectory gate, and she halted and faced him. “That’s wonderful. But I must go in—luncheon will be served soon.”
Monty eyed the rectory with a frown in his eyes. “You’re living here?”
“For the moment. The Foswells insisted that I stay with them. No one thought I should be alone at the cottage at this time.” She was planning to move back to the cottage later that afternoon, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
“Ah. I see.” Monty looked at her, then with apparent sincerity, asked, “Are you all right?”
She summoned a weak smile. “I’m managing well enough.”
His charming mien returned. “If there’s anything I can do to help, know you have only to ask.” His expression turned faintly rueful. “For old times’ sake, if nothing else.”
She responded with a nod of polite civility. “Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.”
It struck her that she now viewed him through a strictly objective lens. He and their shared past exerted no lingering hold on her heart, even at this time when all her emotions seemed so much closer to her surface. The observation was reassuring. Given their past, Montgomery Pincer wasn’t a man she would ever trust again.
She held his gaze and inclined her head. “Goodbye, Monty.”
