…worse.
Suppressing his affection had become second nature in the office, where Mrs. Sartin was often intent on her work. How could he do the same here, when carefully applied kohl made summer skies of her eyes, a color further accented by the blue silk shimmering around her legs, light as a lover’s whisper?
Airy as she appeared, he understood her attire for what she intended her clothes to be—armor.
Shiny protection. A cultivated exterior allowing her to flout convention and confound her critics. A way to keep the ton guessing.
Protective warmth thread through his being.
She needn’t have taken so much trouble. Her true gifts were anticipating need and putting people at ease. For those things powerful members of the ton would always be in her debt.
“Good evening, Mr. Bellamy.”
“Mrs. Sartin.” He bowed, ignoring his heart-thump. “May I introduce…” Matthew looked around, only to realize his mother had vanished.
Fancy that.
Another mark in Mrs. Sartin’s favor. She’d done the impossible. She’d granted him a reprieve.
“Shall I make introductions, then?” Mrs. Sartin turned to the woman at her side. “Lady Constance, may I have the honor of introducing Mr. Matthew Bellamy?”
“Charmed,” Lady Constance said, blinking hard, as if trying to expel a stray eyelash.
He bowed over her extended hand, his heart still fixed on Mrs. Sartin. “Likewise.”
“I am,” Mrs. Sartin paused, “delighted to see you enjoying the pleasures of town, Mr. Bellamy.”
He knew her expression of delight; the one she wore now didn’t come close.
“You know what they say…” Lady Constance leaned forward and touched his arm. “…All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”
“…And all play and no work makes Jack a mere toy.”
He’d simply quoted the rest of the age-old proverb, but Lady Constance swished her fan and tittered as if he’d said something outrageous.
He sent Mrs. Sartin a subtle frown. This is your friend?
She returned his silent query with a nearly imperceptible shrug. You judge too quickly, Mr. Bellamy.
Gratifying to know they could communicate in silence outside the office. Perhaps—he drifted closer as he gazed down into her eyes—the evening could be salvaged. After feeling so out of place, so terribly alone, he was suddenly—
“Look, Amelia,” Lady Constance whispered. “He’s here!”
“Who’s here?” Mrs. Sartin asked, breaking their connection.
“Lord Markham, of course.”
Mrs. Sartin turned toward the man with the modish collar Matthew had noticed earlier. Her cheeks pinked. She swayed a little. Then, she smiled.
The secret, intimate nature of her smile sent a surge of heat through Matthew.
“Bellamy!”
His name came out of the blue, shrouded within a clenched-teeth utterance only he appeared to have heard. He squinted through the palm beside them and into his mother’s fierce glare.
She jerked her head to the side and mouthed, “Now.”
“I must apologize, ladies. It appears my presence is required.”
Mrs. Sartin’s gaze returned his—briefly. “Go. Enjoy yourself, Mr. Bellamy.” Her sigh was audible relief. “And remember, cares are not permitted at Lady Darlington’s soirees.”
“Absolutely forbidden,” her friend Lady Constance chimed. “Until we meet again, Mr. Bellamy.”
“Lady Constance.” He nodded. “Mrs. Sartin.”
The ladies moved away, but Mrs. Sartin’s citrus scent lingered.
Perhaps it was the candlelight, the music, the gentle swell of gaiety in the air, but as her presence faded, Matthew found it impossible to deny the obvious.
His symptoms?
Jealous heat, revolting moistness at the center of his palms, and spots of fire dotting his cheeks. While he could have mistaken them for signs of a wasting sickness, he knew them to be peril’s proof. Besides, either explanation necessitated him getting his affairs in order.
Life may be short, but its brevity did not excuse the crossing of certain lines.
Chasms, really.
For instance, one did not develop a single-minded, one-sided devotion to the person responsible for one’s wages. And, if enthusiasm, quite by chance, stumbled into the forbidden territory of admiration, one absolutely did not permit an accompanying—
there was no other word for it—lust.
Oh, hell.
Where Amelia Sartin was concerned, he was no longer battling affection alone.
“One wonders if you made such a study of Mr. Sartin, rest his soul.”
“Mother.” Matthew acknowledged her with a nod. “You required my presence?”
“I required that you cease conversation with that… with that…that unnatural woman.”
Unnatural because she had talent? Unnatural because she had ambition? “I’d be careful how you refer to the family responsible for changing our fortunes.”
His mother lifted a haughty brow. “Must you bring that up all the time? What’s done is done. I cannot understand what is keeping you from putting that disgraceful business behind you. Your investments have given you choices you could not have dreamed!”
Yes, he knew. “I enjoy my work with Sartin Trading Company.”
“Yes, dear. But you promised to set up a household and, for that, you’ll need to put your days in trade behind you.” His mother huffed. “As for Mrs. Sartin…well, her actions speak for themselves, do they not?”
Across the ballroom, Mrs. Sartin passed the fire-haired young man with the fancy collar. Lord Markham. Markham responded to the flash of her blue eyes with a smile. Holding Markham’s gaze, she partially concealed herself beside a Grecian column and swept open her fan.
Matthew did not know the language of the fan. Yet, his ignorance wasn’t enough to prevent him from realizing the two were planning an assignation. He shrugged his shoulders—attempting to subsume a second flare of jealous heat.
Why him? Why Lord Markham? What could the young aristocrat possibly know about Mrs. Sartin’s true magnificence?
Amelia.
Matthew frowned as she disappeared onto the terrace. A few moments later, his lordship followed.
Matthew turned back to his mother. “I trust you will not mind returning to Wentworth house with my cousin?”
“But the evening is still young, and you haven’t yet—”
“I have a great deal to do in the morning,” he interrupted. “I’m afraid I must go.”
She turned her features into a pout.
“Please don’t,” he clipped. “I’ll see you on Thursday afternoon. I haven’t forgotten my promise to take you to Gunter’s.”
“Very well.” She presented her cheek for him to kiss.
“Good night, Mother.”
“Good night, Mr. Bellamy.”
He made his way to the corridor leading to the entry hall. Through the sliver of an open door, he caught sight of a raven-haired lady with her ear pressed up against a second terrace door.
Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed Mrs. Sartin and Lord Markham. He wasn’t the only one who cared. Could the raven-haired lady be an admirer of Lord Markham?
Did it matter if she was?
He, at least, had no justification for jealousy.
A footman returned with his things. He slipped his arms into his coat and then headed out into the night.
Whatever was happening on the terrace was none of his concern. Mrs. Sartin would never look at him the way she’d looked at Lord Markham. However, though she may dally with Markham, she needed Matthew.
Need would have to be enough. It wasn’t as if he could ever dream of having more.
Bereft.
The word settled into Amelia’s heart, providing a name for the emotion gathering as wetness in her eyes, sapping her hauteur. But defining the emotion brought her no closer to understanding the source.
Yes, she and Lord Markham had just ended their arrangement. But she hadn’t held the young man in any special regard, even if she had appreciated his particular talents.
Besides, she’d been responsible for Markham’s abrupt change of heart, if unintentionally.
She rubbed the spot between her first knuckle and second—the place Markham kissed, just before he bid her adieu.
What had she said to him?
“You’ve no idea how few men place their lover first. Why, when Emily recommended you—”
She winced as she recalled the way his cheeks had darkened.
What had she been thinking?
Of course, he’d been insulted.
Then—she could never leave well enough alone, could she?—she’d mumbled something about his entire generation being too preoccupied with prudery.
…Because that was certainly guaranteed to bring him around.
She rolled her eyes, huffed, and then leaned back against the bench. Rain misted in the air between Lady Darlington’s garden shelter and the still-glittering room beyond. A dulling chill seeped through her clothing and permeated her skin.
Just what she needed.
To cool down.
She shivered as she inhaled.
The night had been a disaster.
First, her odd reaction to Constance’s demand for an introduction to Matthew Bellamy. Then, the unsettling realization her secretary was, well, manly—a point proven when she’d gazed directly into his deep brown eyes, unfiltered with his ever-smudged glasses, and imagined how his lips would feel against hers.
Exacting. Light, but intent. And, in the end, warmly luscious.
She sighed.
She might have rashly considered acting on her sudden awareness, had she not realized the reason for his presence—Matthew Bellamy was there to seek a bride.
She sucked in her lips to keep them from trembling.
Selfish woman.
Bellamy deserved a good life, a good marriage, only…
The cost of those things was the end to her days as she knew them. Hers would not be the first female face that greeted him in the morning. Her worries would not be his primary concern.
Until tonight, she’d been blissfully unaware of that shatteringly inevitable change.
She closed her eyes. A vacant, vulnerable feeling spilled through cracks in her armor. But what could she do?
She had no right to demand things remain as they were, no matter how comfortable. How cozy. And now she couldn’t even depend on Lord Markham for distraction.
So, here she was.
Bereft.
She’d been running from the emotion since poor George had fallen ill. She had better get used to the feeling, however.
She hadn’t anywhere left to hide.
Chapter Three
MATTHEW CARRIED HIS MOTHER’S GUNTER’S ice back to his cousin’s borrowed carriage—a cold, sweet treat meant to counteract her unavoidable disappointment in him. He had no intention of going along with his mother’s plans. But, understanding she’d been reduced from honored sister to unwanted aunt following his uncle’s death, he hoped that offering her an olive branch—a update on his search for lodgings for them both—would satisfy her immediate needs.
He inhaled deep, carefully navigating the crowd of young men waiting to place an order. September’s scent, usually masked by less pleasant city smells, filled Berkeley Square, cool and peaty, a harbinger of the damp winter days to come. Days that, if he had anything to do about it, would be spent exactly as he’d spent his days for the past decade—at his desk, diligently assisting the running of Sartin Trading Company.
His step slowed as he spotted Mrs. Sartin’s familiar carriage amid the yellowing leaves. Her carriage door opened, revealing Mr. Pritchett, Mrs. Sartin’s nephew and heir. A sudden burst of sun between the clouds glinted as Mrs. Sartin stepped down into the street. Regal as a queen, she took Pritchett’s arm and began a determined stride toward…
Matthew frowned. He hadn’t noticed Lord Markham leaning against the railing before.
Following Lady Darlington’s soiree, he’d enquired about the young lord. Markham was known as Hearts—one of the Lords of Chance—four men known among the ton’s gaming set by their card suit names. A strong whiff of scandal hung about the group.
Last Spring, the highest ranking—the Marquess of Bromton—had married Markham’s sister, once known as the most unmarriageable lady in England, by special license. Shortly thereafter, another of the quartet had abruptly departed for the Americas. One could speculate any number of sordid secrets behind such unusual events, but what bothered Matthew most was the idea of his employer associating with a man called Hearts.
Not that Mrs. Sartin was likely to consult Matthew’s opinion on the matter.
He renewed his step, pausing only to wait for his cousin’s coachman—gleaming in recently-stitched Wentworth livery—to open the carriage door.
“Thank you,” Matthew said.
The coachman did not answer. His glass-eyed stare remained rooted to an imaginary spot somewhere beyond Matthew’s shoulder. No doubt the coachman had been told to remain silent.
Lord, his cousin was a pompous ass. A trait his new title exacerbated.
Matthew sincerely hoped the new Lord Wentworth planned to invest some of his vast, inherited wealth in more constructive ways once probate was fully settled.
Matthew handed his mother her ice and then climbed into the carriage. Without order or request, the door clicked closed behind him. The coachman’s boots hit the stones as he marched back into position.
Matthew sighed as he settled into his seat. “Does Peter really believe such affectations raise his consequence?”
His mother hissed through her teeth—her version of shush.
“Come now.” Matthew raised his brows. “The coachman couldn’t have heard me.”
“You don’t know that,” his mother replied. “I taught you better. You never, ever speak derisively about family in front of servants.”
“We didn’t have servants, mother.”
“We had Miss. Cotswell and Mr. Blanning.”
“Not servants.” Just two, helpful souls who had believed assisting the rector’s family would result in celestial favoritism.
His mother clucked. “And you should not refer to him as Peter. He’s Lord Wentworth, now—and due your respect.”
“He is Lord Wentworth. On that much we can agree.”
His mother sunk her spoon into her ice and begrudgingly indulged a large mouthful. Already off to a bad start. He never set out to purposefully antagonize his mother, although his intentions made little difference.
“I miss my uncle,” he added softly.
“He is gone.” She sniffed, sitting straight. “That, my boy, is that. The way of things does not pause for our convenience.”
Was that all the emotion she could produce for the loss of her dear brother, who’d saved them both from penury and ruin? Perhaps frozen sentiment was the reason he’d never seen her back bend. “In addition to updating the livery, how else has the new Lord Wentworth busied himself?”
His mother flashed him another dark-eyed reproving look. “I do not appreciate your tone, Mr. Bellamy.”
Sometimes, Matthew wasn’t sure his mother remembered his first name.
“Very well, I will endeavor to behave.” And remember why he wished to speak with her in the first place. “I’ve found a few possible alternatives to Wentworth House. I know you prefer Mayfair, but there are several other perfectly respectable neighborhoods I think we should consider. As for a country home, I’ve been in touch with a land agent about a seaside cottage—”
“Do you think I care a whit for myself? We must find a better place for you.”
“The idea,” he continued patiently, “is to establish a household where we might both reside. No matter what you believe, my first concern is your happiness.”
“Honestly,” his mother interrupted. “Y
our first concern should be the procurement of a wife.”
He lifted a brow. “I can hardly acquire a wife when I cannot offer her a home, can I? It’s not as if I can ask my future bride to reside with me in my chambers above Sartin Trading Company.”
She groaned, longsuffering. “Of course not. The very idea. My point is, you should wait until you are betrothed to settle on a residence.”
He rubbed his temples.
“Better yet,” his mother continued, “you don’t have to purchase anything at all. You and your bride can let a grand townhome while the two of you decide on more permanent accommodations. Perhaps she will wish to live close to her father or brother’s seat. Oh!” Her eyes lit. “If her relations control a borough, you could end up in Parliament. Just think of that.”
“As a proxy for some self-indulgent aristocrat?” No, thank you.
Her eyes narrowed. “Careful, or your disdain will end up tainting your future.”
“My future?”
“Do you think I went through the trouble to get you an invitation to Lady Darlington’s soiree for my own sake?”
“I don’t need to think. I know.”
“What kind of a mother do you think I am?”
The kind ashamed of her son’s choices? He held his tongue and, instead, took her hand. “You needn’t concern yourself with my future wife, nor my future profession. No matter what you may believe, I am competent enough to make those decisions on my own. However, I would rest easier if I knew you had a home where you felt comfortable and secure.”
She huffed. “You are a good boy—”
Praise indeed.
“—But you must see reason. Your wife’s concerns matter most.”
So much for tender entreaty. “Again, I don’t have a wife.”
“But you will. You must.”
Must he? He hadn’t had time for such considerations as courtship and marriage. And since George Sartin’s death, he hadn’t had the desire to leave Mrs. Sartin’s side, let alone plan his future.
“Allow me to be clear,” he said, voice low. “I do not intend to choose a bride before I purchase a property. In fact, I wouldn’t make a purchase now if I were not concerned about you.”
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