Their town garden wasn’t particularly large, but it afforded enough space and greenery to make walking for a quarter of an hour quite pleasant.
Mattie had just taken her gardening gloves off and put her blooms in a pail of water when she heard steps on the terrace.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” Oliver said, making his bows. “Miss Rayment.”
“There’s a good lad, Oliver.” Having one of his better days, the cordiality in the baron’s voice was most sincere. Mattie, standing behind his bench, shared a smile with Oliver. “Tell me, have you been well since we last parted? Had any adventures?”
It was a question Mattie had heard many times in her life. Whenever she came in from play or saw her father at the end of a long day, he would ask her that very thing.
“None of which to speak, my lord. Though I wonder if your daughter might join me in a small one? The adventure of taking a turn about the garden. If you will excuse her?”
“I will, sir, if you promise to bring her back whole and take some refreshment with us.” The baron chuckled and folded his hands in his lap. “And you must see to it she enjoys herself.”
“I will endeavor to do my best, my lord.” Oliver bowed and then held his hand out to Mattie, his eyes glimmering with humor. Indeed, he seemed very pleased with himself. He still wore his frock coat from attending church, but his cravat looked the worse for wear with a few more wrinkles than it should possess.
Mattie stepped around her father’s bench, reaching out to take Oliver’s hand. “You have agreed to a great many things, Mr. Bolton. I wonder if you can fulfill all your promises.”
Her hand, ungloved, touched his, and as he curled his fingers around it, something inside her uncurled and grew, tiny tendrils of warmth creeping through her as if seeking the sun.
Oliver’s grin revealed the dimple in his left cheek. He wasn’t wearing gloves either, she realized belatedly.
“I am afraid I was in a bit of a hurry,” he said, looking to their joined hands. “I forgot my gloves. I didn’t wish to arrive late—”
“It—it is fine.” She started to pull her hand away, but he gently tucked her arm through his.
Oliver led her down the terrace steps while her mind tried to unravel itself from whatever strange thing had taken hold of her. Noticing dimples and feeling strange sensations at a man’s touch was hardly becoming, and nothing at all like her. Had she not taken his arm at the theater? Having spent several hours in his company only the day before, it was ridiculous to think any of the sensations overtaking her consciousness could be attributed to Oliver Bolton.
Perhaps she was taking ill.
“Have you had a pleasant afternoon?” Oliver asked.
Ill or not, she had a duty to perform for her family. Her mother and sister would return Wednesday.
Oliver spoke her name, and his tone suggested it wasn’t for the first time. “Miss Rayment? Matilda?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon.” Mattie felt the blush creep up her throat and into her cheeks. Twice in one day. “I am afraid I was thinking over the sermon.”
“Ah. The weighty discussion of laying treasure up in heaven and forgoing earthly pleasures.” He spoke with interest rather than amusement.
“Mm.” Unprepared to actually converse on the topic, Mattie’s mind didn’t form an immediate answer.
“I found it most interesting. As you know, Westerwind has taken a great deal of my time these past years. There were many occasions I thought to visit my uncle and wrote to him, but he always encouraged me to remain where I was and build up my assets.” Oliver’s head bowed as he spoke, walking slowly on the gravel that encircled the whole of the garden. “I shouldn’t have listened. He is the only family I have left, and I have lost a great deal of time in his company. That is what I thought on, when treasures in heaven were mentioned. Surely our friendships are such treasure.”
The amount of thought he’d given the topic surprised her, as did the way her heart warmed to him with each word he spoke. “Your uncle would not censure you for following his advice, Oliver.”
He blinked, coming out of his solemn manner, and turned to regard her with a crooked grin. “Oliver?” he said, the dimple reappearing.
Blast that dimple. She hadn’t seen it since their childhood, and even then it appeared but rarely. “Forgive me,” she said, drawing herself up. “But you did use my Christian name a moment ago. I am afraid we slipped into old habits.”
“Did we, though?” he asked with an unrepentant lilt in his voice. “I almost always called you Miss Rayment after that first year. Uncle felt it was proper.”
She had an answer for that, at least. “I wasn’t always fond of that. It was most unfair that when we were out in company I was Miss Rayment while Miss Beatrice retained her Christian name in some measure.”
“Have you any word when your mother and sister will return?” Oliver asked, his gaze lowering to the stones crunching beneath their feet. Though they walked slowly, they were nearly halfway around the garden.
Was this the real reason he’d come? To find out when her sister would return? Had he sounded hopeful when he spoke? Distracted? Disappointed?
“Wednesday, I should think. They are not very far from London, and Beatrice would be most upset if she missed a chance to attend Almack’s. It distressed her a great deal when we didn’t receive vouchers last Season. She carried on about it every week.” Mattie tried not to wince. Laying forth her sister’s shortcomings didn’t sit well with her. But it must be done. “This Season, she’s insisted on a different gown for each ball. The seamstress we employ is quite overworked.”
Oliver raised his eyebrows at the comment but said nothing of it. He changed the subject entirely when he spoke.
“I wonder, Miss Rayment, what you are doing to stay busy while your mother and sister are gone? I cannot think you have left the house unless in my company.”
Why were they talking of her when she was supposed to be finding a means to distract him? And why did it disappoint her when he didn’t call her by her Christian name again?
“I am most content to keep my father company. When Mother and Beatrice return, we will all find amusement enough. This is quite the respite, I assure you, and I still have the occasional caller.” Of course, the callers were usually looking for her mother or Beatrice. But she needn’t speak of that. “Do you have any plans for your amusement?”
Oliver shrugged. “Nothing of great interest. As I am new to London, I thought I would spend tomorrow walking its streets. Have you any suggestions of sights I ought to see?”
Anything that will keep you from thinking of Beatrice.
“Piccadilly holds many interesting sights,” she answered. “Book shops, a museum, and Fortnum and Mason has such delicious foods if you grow hungry on your journey through the streets.”
He slowed his steps and didn’t quite look at her when he spoke again. “Do you think there is a chance you might come with me? Wandering about on my own doesn’t sound appealing.”
“I’m not certain I would be the best guide,” she said, trying to demure though the idea of walking through her favorite shops pulled at her. It had nothing to do with being in Oliver’s company, of course. “And I would need to secure a chaperone of some sort.”
“Chaperone? Surely a maid would do. We will be on the paths, in open air, most of the time.” He paused, turning to face her; his tone turned almost cajoling as he spoke. “Do come with me, Miss Rayment. I find you are very good company. I would endeavor to make certain you enjoy yourself.”
His sincerity touched her, and guilt crept into her heart. Oliver was nothing but kind. If only Beatrice could be happy with his modest circumstances. But Mattie knew her sister, knew what she would expect of her future, and she knew they were running out of time. At twenty-two, Beatrice was growing out of the age when men would be dazzled by her. She needed to be married, to be cared for, before their father worsened.
Before we are all in the country, car
ing for him and hiding from the gossips.
Going with Oliver on another outing, especially one where she might point to all of Beatrice’s favorite expensive shops, might help her endeavor. Arrangements would have to be made to attend to her father, to keep him from agitation. If they went earlier in the day, which was usually the best time for her father’s mind and clarity, there might not be any difficulties.
“I would enjoy the outing, Mr. Bolton. Would ten o’clock be an acceptable time for you to begin our expedition?”
“More than acceptable,” he answered, the dimple appearing again and a triumphant gleam appearing in his eyes.
Oh dear.
They returned to the terrace, where her father appeared to have been dozing until they came near. He rubbed at his eyes and smiled, a very tired smile, up at the two of them. “Back so soon? And tell me, were there adventures?”
“Perhaps the start of one,” Oliver answered before Mattie could respond, settling into the chair near her father as though intending to stay for a long time.
That warmth she’d felt earlier made itself known again, wrapping around her heart in an alarmingly familiar manner.
Mattie swallowed and took a step back. “I will see about some lemonade,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse to her ears. She spun on her heel and hurried into the house, failing to outrun the stirring of an emotion she had long denied herself. She certainly wasn’t about to fall in love with Oliver. Not when she was attempting to keep him from her sister.
Not even when it would be so easy to turn her admiration for him into something more.
Chapter Eleven
Oliver sat in his rented rooms, his valet seeing to his clothing for the next day and tutting over the state of the cravats. It had gone against his nature, to have another man wait on him hand and foot, and one older than him too. But Thompson excelled in his position.
“Will that be all, Mr. Bolton?” the servant asked, arms full of cravats in need of ironing.
“It will. Thank you, Thompson.”
“Sir.” The valet bowed and exited the bedchamber, leaving Oliver alone before the low-burning fire in his hearth. The days grew warm enough to enjoy the outdoors, when the wind wasn’t biting, but the nights were still cold. The fire was certainly appreciated that night.
He’d finally done it. He’d broken through Matilda Rayment’s carefully constructed, oh-so-practical shell.
Oliver couldn’t think of a time in his life when he’d ever seen Matilda flustered, apart from when her father came out into the street the day of their ride. But seeing her that evening, first stumbling over her words in the garden and then looking at him with something akin to shock when he’d done nothing more than invite her on another outing, showed he had made progress.
Then she’d grown quiet after the refreshments were served, watching him almost covertly from beneath her eyelashes. But he’d seen it. He’d seen the curious light in her eyes, the hesitancy. His determination to be nothing but affable was working. Matilda didn’t know what to make of him, and he hoped her desire to see him vanish had begun to crumble.
The best part of his plan he hadn’t even anticipated: he found he enjoyed Matilda’s company. She had a quick wit, and her rare laughter was enchanting. He saw glimpses of the child she’d been when they’d first met, and the tiniest hints of the young woman she was when he left to claim his unexpected inheritance.
Oliver made his way to his bed, removing his dressing gown and climbing between the sheets. He tucked his hands behind his head, thinking through his plans for Piccadilly. It would be diverting to squire Matilda about town, allowing her to tell him of her favorite shops and books, her favorite things to see and do.
Yes, he could only look forward to the next day with a grin of self-satisfaction. They would enjoy each other’s company, and—and of course, he would eventually be nearby when Beatrice returned.
Oliver had thought it would be an honor, a boyhood dream fulfilled, to call on Beatrice in a formal manner, to escort her around town. Beatrice’s beauty was beyond compare; having a woman such as her on his arm would elevate him in the eyes of society and give him the opportunity to come to know her as an equal. She’d hardly bothered to notice him years before.
Not like Matilda. From the first moment they’d met, she’d spoken to him with gravity and even her practical compassion.
But it didn’t matter what Matilda thought. His goal was to gain Beatrice’s attention, and he would not be satisfied until he did. The sooner the young woman, with her winning smile and lively blue eyes, came back from the country, the better.
He drifted off to sleep, trying to enumerate Beatrice’s finer qualities, but all he could think on was the flash of surprise and the charming blush in Matilda’s cheeks when he’d called her by her Christian name.
#
Sleep had not come easily to Mattie. After spending long minutes of the night trying not to think of Oliver, she decided to invest time planning how best to turn his thoughts away from Beatrice and the family as a whole. Her efforts were wasted, as every conversation she made in her thoughts trailed away into admiring his laugh, thinking of how kind he was to her father, and trying to recall every detail of the letters he’d written to his uncle.
She’d never read the letters personally, of course, but Mr. Hapsbury had delighted in telling her all of his nephew’s doings. As her father’s ability to remember present concerns dwindled, Mattie took on the responsibilities of the household. Mr. Hapsbury had been understanding of her situation and often used the advice he gave Oliver to guide Mattie as well.
“I don’t care that you’re a young lady,” he’d told her when they’d been bent over account books for what seemed like years. “This responsibility could fall to any person, regardless of sex. There are many who would take advantage of you, but if you know how to handle these matters yourself, you can demand fair treatment.”
Neither of them knew, of course, how long Mattie would have to take on her father’s responsibilities. At first, she’d hoped the doctor could help him and her time in the steward’s office would be short. But the weeks bled into months. Soon Mattie found she enjoyed managing things. Her heart grew to love the challenge of numbers, the responsibilities of caring for her family and their tenants, and meeting with the steward every week enlivened her thoughts.
“I would give it up in an instant for you, Papa,” she whispered into the darkness of her bedchamber, fighting back the sting of tears.
If her brother had lived to adulthood, it would fall to him to see to all these matters. And he, as heir, would ensure his mother and sisters never went wanting. But a second cousin of twice Mattie’s years would receive the title, estate, and everything but the girls’ dowries and their mother’s portion.
Which is why Beatrice must marry Mr. Redhurst. He can provide her the style of living to which she is accustomed.
Mattie pulled the blankets over her head, attempting to smother the uncharitable thought.
I only want what is best for Beatrice. Mattie rolled over and willed herself to sleep.
Chapter Twelve
Donning a lovely bonnet with sprigs of tiny white flowers, Mattie fought the desire to tuck a feather into its brim as well. Jesting with Oliver over her continued use of feathers in her head-dressing would not serve any purpose other than to increase the familiarity between them. Today she must be civil, polite, but haughty. She must speak of all of Beatrice’s favorite, and most expensive, activities. Mattie took stock of herself one last time in her mirror, lifting her chin and setting her shoulders into a straight line.
In the reflection of her mirror, a face appeared over her shoulder, startling her enough that she gave a little leap. Then, inexplicably, her heart thudded against her chest almost painfully.
Beatrice had returned and apparently entered Mattie’s room without so much as a knock.
“Matilda, there you are. I heard you were going out, and as I just came in, I wanted to see what y
ou are about and if it cannot be put off.” She practically floated to Mattie’s bed, where she perched with dainty grace. “We had the jolliest time in the country, but I am rather relieved to be back in town.”
How had the room turned cold with such speed? Mattie bit her lip and studied her sister silently. Did Beatrice appear as an engaged woman? Her manner was the same as it had always been: playfully superior to the world around her.
“I am going to Piccadilly,” Mattie said, her voice soft.
Beatrice lounged back onto the bed, staring up at the canopy. “I always wondered why you had this room done in green. Pink, or a nice pale blue, would be so much more the thing.”
“Beatrice,” Mattie said, coming nearer the bed, approaching her delicate sister the way one might approach a lion. “Did anything of note happen while you were away? Did you spend much time with Mr. Redhurst?”
Beatrice’s hands clenched at her side, and she grew very still. “Mr. Redhurst,” she said slowly, “is engaged.”
Hope blossomed in Mattie’s heart, yet she held her breath as she asked, “Are you engaged to him?”
Her sister pushed herself back to a sitting position, eyes narrowed, and made a sound of disgust. “No, I am not. The fortunate miss is some childhood friend of his. A merchant’s daughter.”
The blooming excitement withered away to dust. “He is betrothed to someone else?”
“Is that not what I said?”
“Beatrice, I—I am sorry about—”
“Do not be concerned. There are other men in the world besides Mr. Redhurst.” Beatrice sniffed disdainfully. “What is it you are about? Going to Piccadilly? To do what? Bring more books to Father that he’s read and forgotten?” The blonde-haired beauty stood and stretched. “Just give him one from the shelves downstairs and pretend it is new. He won’t know the difference.”
Had Beatrice come across the room and slapped her, Mattie couldn’t have been more shocked or hurt. “Beatrice, what is wrong with you? How could you speak that way?” Her sister’s disappointment surely colored her words.
An Evening at Almack's Page 6
