He halted just short of bowling Miss Carrington into a weed-infested ornamental pond. She tilted backward to avoid collision, and he recovered enough equilibrium to grab her waist and steady her—not precisely the gallant, courtly behavior of a gentleman, but as close as he could execute under the circumstances. He was too furious and disgusted by the condition of the house to be polite. Feral pigs in the yard! “Mr. Montague!” she scolded. “Miss Carrington!” He bit his tongue on his sharp tone and tried to recover his aplomb while holding her fair form dangerously close—in a secluded garden. His brain instantly decamped to the wrong part of his anatomy. “What the devil are you doing here?” Damnation. He obviously lacked the ability to control his lust and be civil at the same time. He glanced around for a garden bench where he could deposit her, but there was nothing except weeds and deterioration everywhere he looked. In that froth of muslin and lace, she was a dewy rose among the thistles.
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