The Devilish Montague Read Free Page A

in the ring, and now nearly got yourself killed by shipping out to Portugal without a word to us.”
    Blake might have explained that he did these things for money and because he was damned bored, but his father’s solution was for him to become a vicar, have no money, and be damned bored. There was no winning that circular thinking. So he waited to see where his parents’ latest whim might lead.
    “Your mother and I have talked about it,” the baron continued, “and we’ve decided you simply need a little incentive to look around and find a nice girl and settle down.”
    Blake refrained from sighing with impatience. His lack of enthusiasm did not deter his parents.
    “Your father has won the most darling house in Chelsea!” Lady Montague said with enthusiasm, waving her plump hands as she spoke. “We thought perhaps we should use it for Frances’s dowry, but she dislikes London, so it did not seem right.”
    “Chelsea is not London,” Blake reminded her. “It is at the very least half an hour or more outside the city. Frances should be fine there.”
    “But Frances has a dowry, and you do not,” his mother continued. “With a lovely house to offer, you might have a choice of young ladies. Why, we have met the most charming—”
    With the practice of experience, the baron diverted this overflow of information. “It’s Carrington House. A fairly large, respectable estate, I’m told. I’ve not been out to inspect it, but the late viscount often entertained there. He was well known in political circles, so I’m assured it is a substantial asset.”
    Carrington House . The devil in Blake smirked in satisfaction. Harold, Viscount Carrington, had finally lost his family home at a gaming table. At last, the bastard had suffered the penance he deserved. Outwardly, Blake merely tilted his head to show he was listening.
    “I thought to offer the use of the house as a marriage settlement if you decide on a gal before the end of the year,” his father said. “But if you do not, then I’ll have to sell it. A place like that cannot be left empty for long, and I haven’t the interest in maintaining it.” The baron settled back in satisfaction, having said his piece.
    “That is extremely generous of you, sir,” Blake said politely. “I’ll certainly take it into consideration should I chance upon a marriageable female. But I will remind you that marriage is not likely to change my habits, so if that is your intent, you may as well sell now.”
    His mother patted her chest and blinked away tears. “You will be the death of me yet. You know I lost two brothers to war and another to accident who all bore the same silver streak in their hair that you have. It is not just superstition that those who wear it die before they’re thirty. Do not make me bury my son, I beg you! Going off to war and fighting are just asking for trouble.”
    Blake did not need to be reminded of mortality. He had been a lad of six when he’d watched as his uncle was swept away in a flood. But neither did he believe in foolish wives’ tales. “If it is my fate to die before I’m thirty”—which gave him a mere six months to live—“I’d rather go courageously, and with honor, than sleeping in my bed. What is the purpose of living if we do not improve the world we inhabit? I thank you for your generosity, and I give you good day, madam, sir.”
    He bowed himself out, leaving his mother weeping and his father to console her. It had ever been thus. He saw no means to change it.
    Nevertheless, the possibility of owning Viscount Carrington’s home filled him with wicked satisfaction. The bastard had cheated a good friend of his, forcing Acton Penrose to enlist in the army just to have food in his belly, and he was certain Penrose wasn’t the only one Carrington had cheated over the years. In retaliation for Penrose’s fate, Blake had pierced the viscount’s shoulder with a bullet in a duel. It seemed perfect justice that the fat