Chapter Five
“You seen Mr. Fenwick when he went off to dinner,” Helen said, settling to the carpet cross-legged. “You could do worse, Mrs. B. He’s a gent, the genuine article.”
“As long as he pays his rent on time,” Matilda replied, “he can be a crossing sweeper, for all I care. You’re not to get ideas, Helen.”
Though Matilda had had a few ideas at the sight of Ashton Fenwick in evening finery. His entire demeanor had changed, from gentry new to town, to a man about town, complete with gold and amber cravat pin and cuff links.
Gold, not pewter or silver, and his walking stick had been topped and ferruled with gold. He’d worn a signet ring too and a grassy scent that had tempted Matilda to steal another kiss from him.
Helen watched Matilda’s embroidery needle in the flickering light of the parlor sconces. “I don’t dare tell Sissy what I’m about with Mr. Fenwick. Sissy will take him away from me.”
Matilda put down her hoop. “I beg your pardon?”
“I saw him first,” Helen said, plucking at the carpet fringe. “He’s mine. Sissy can have all the other gents in London, but Mr. Fenwick should be mine. I’m learning how to look after his horse, I look after his boots, he teaches me letters. I think we should keep him.”
We? This went far beyond getting ideas. “Helen, people aren’t books to be hoarded up on a shelf. Mr. Fenwick is leaving in less than two weeks.”
“He likes it here. You can ask him to stay. Sissy says gents are easy to persuade if you give them what they want.”
Mr. Fenwick had made no advances whatsoever, which was probably why Matilda could entertain odd notions about him.
She really ought not to have kissed his cheek. “Sissy will have diseases to show for taking that approach, Helen.”
“Don’t say bad things about my Sissy. She gives me food sometimes.” Lately, Helen had been doing more to look out for her sister than the other way around, which might explain why her defense of Sissy had a perfunctory quality.
“Mr. Fenwick is an impressive gentleman,” Matilda said, “but he’s a lodger. Lodgers move on, and my job is to provide them comfortable accommodations for a price while they’re under my roof. It’s time you moved on to bed, Helen.”
Helen grinned. “Oh, right. Bedtime. Will you tuck me in and read me a story, Mrs. B? Listen to my prayers?”
Helen might disdain that ritual aloud, but some part of her doubtless longed for it.
“I’ll swat your backside if you don’t take yourself off. If Mr. Fenwick wants to go for another gallop in the morning, you’d best have his riding boots ready.”
“I already did ’em,” Helen said, rising from the floor in one move. “Being a general tote ’em is hard work, and I like sleeping in a bed.”
Matilda wanted to hug the child good-night, give her a kiss, a pat on the shoulder, something. “You’re earning your wages, but if Mr. Fenwick is asking too much of you, let me know.”
Helen paused at the door to the parlor. “Will you make him pay me more?”
“I’ll make him give you a half day, the same as Pippa gets, and time off for Sunday services.”
Helen shuddered. “No preachers, please. All they talk about is lakes of fire and eternal damnation. London winters are damnation enough for me.”
“Get to bed, Helen, and don’t forget to clean your teeth and wash.”
The child darted away, her footfalls suggesting she took the steps two at a time.
“And tell your Maker you’re grateful for your many blessings,” a masculine voice called up the steps. Mr. Fenwick appeared in the door to Matilda’s parlor. “I locked the front door, in case you were concerned.”
“I would have locked it before I went to bed.”
Mercy, but he was a striking figure. Many gentlemen padded their shoulders, even their calves, to look more impressive in their evening attire. Ashton Fenwick needed no padding. His adornments were understated by London standards, and yet, he dazzled.
“May I sit?”
Matilda didn’t usually allow her lodgers into her private rooms, but then, her lodgers didn’t usually ask admittance.
“You may. If you’d close the door, we’re less likely to be overheard by a certain general factotum.”
“Helen, go to bed,” he bellowed up the stairs, “or you’ll get no cream for your porridge in the morning.”
A door closed on the third floor.
Mr. Fenwick also closed the parlor door and took the only other chair. “She needn’t have waited up for me. It’s not like I’d allow her to be my valet.”
“Have you a valet?”
“My valet has me,” Mr. Fenwick said, staring at his tasseled Hessian boots. “He’s a fussy little martinet who makes much out of nothing and spies for my family. I don’t like him. Did you have a come out, Matilda?”
Working-class women did not have come outs. “If you dislike your valet, why keep him on?”
“Because to discharge him would cause upheaval, and that I have been unwilling to do. My sister-in-law was carrying, or had a new baby in the nursery, or somebody was teething. I always had a reason to keep the peace, and Cherbourne grew complacent. Then too, I was supposed to take a wife and I had hoped she might replace my valet.”
Only very lofty gentlemen kept a valet when they had a wife. Perhaps Mr. Fenwick was newly wealthy, or not so terribly wealthy after all.
“Did you fancy a particular lady?” This was none of Matilda’s business, but in eleven days, Mr. Fenwick would be gone, and confidences exchanged with his former landlady late at night would matter little.
“I fancy a rare and particular woman,” he said, removing his cravat pin. “She is a commonsensical creature, good-natured, though she doesn’t suffer fools. She’s attractive without being vain, also warm-hearted at least where family and friends are concerned. She fancies me for myself, not for my family wealth or connections, and she’s not afraid to laugh or cry, or dress me down should I need it. She has my undying loyalty, and my only wish in life is to keep her safe and make her happy.”
“Ouch!” Matilda dropped her hoop and stuck her finger in her mouth. The taste of blood was metallic and unpleasant.
Mr. Fenwick took out a handkerchief, pried Matilda’s hand free, and wrapped the white linen around her finger.
“My lady also swears,” he said, “when the moment calls for it.”
He withdrew his hand, and Matilda was left holding his handkerchief around her finger. “You speak very highly of this woman, and yet, she must have refused you.”
The idiot. Even drunk, Ashton Fenwick would never raise his voice at a woman in anger, never embarrass her before others, or blame her for problems she hadn’t caused.
“I haven’t met her,” he said, smiling wistfully. “She’ll find me soon, I hope. I’ve grown lonely waiting for her. You never did answer my question. Did you have a come out?”
Matilda was preoccupied with Mr. Fenwick’s admission that he hadn’t met his ideal woman, and yet, his list of attributes wasn’t that ambitious. He sought a good woman, kind, pleasant, and affectionate. Not a paragon or a great beauty or an heiress. Why couldn’t Althorpe have sought such reasonable qualities in a wife? Why had he needed silent, pretty perfection?
“I had a come out,” she said, “of a sort. My father’s wealth was tied up in investments and properties, and I had only an aunt to introduce me about.”
Why bother introducing a niece to polite society when that niece was all but spoken for? Though Aunt Huberta had tried. But for her efforts, Matilda would not have been presented at court, or had any Season at all.
“What was it like?” Mr. Fenwick asked. “Being a debutante during the London Season?”
Matilda might have expected that question from Pippa, if the girl left off mooning over the neighbor’s eldest son long enough.
“My come out was anxious,” she said, thinking back to the time before marriage had blighted her life. “And disappointing. I kept wai
ting for some sense of radiance to come over me, some wonder, but week by week, I was more bewildered, tired, and disappointed. My gowns were the same simple, pale creations worn by every other young lady, my dance partners the same spotty boys or gouty barons. I began to suspect that women sought marriage as an alternative to sore feet and boredom.”
She fell silent as unexpected compassion for that unhappy, helpless young woman rose. Why had that girl’s expectations differed so greatly from reality? She’d had no chance to defend her self-respect, to guard her heart, or develop allies.
“Has the bleeding stopped?” Mr. Fenwick asked.
“I beg—oh.” Matilda peered at her injured finger. “Yes, thank you. I haven’t stabbed myself for ages. I’ve got blood on your handkerchief. I’ll soak it in cold water overnight, and it should wash out.”
“You must keep it,” Mr. Fenwick said. “What would have made your Season happy?”
He was an odd man, admitting loneliness and finding no awkwardness in a late-evening chat with a mere widowed landlady.
“A different marriage would have made me happy,” Matilda said. “No one can know how a union will progress, but my husband was a cold man, and even in my innocence, I had misgivings. I should have heeded them, not that it would have done any good. My father’s mind was made up.”
“I’m sorry, Matilda. Sorry your heart was broken. We’re tender-hearted when we’re young.”
The wistfulness was back, and Matilda let it pull at her. “You are so very old, I take it?”
“I am old enough. So are you. Why did you kiss me?”
She had no idea. “You are in a mood tonight, Mr. Fenwick.”
“Ashton. Humor me, please. I had a disagreeable dinner with a man who professes to be my friend, and the upcoming weeks will be worse yet.”
Matilda spread his handkerchief on her lap in anticipation of folding it. One corner bore a family crest—a unicorn couchant with roses vining its horn. The opposite corner was spotted with her blood, redder than the roses.
“I like you,” she said. “I don’t like much of anybody, and very few men, but so far, I like you. This is an interesting seal.”
“Our land lies astride the Border, such as the Border is these days, hence the Tudor rose entangling a Scottish unicorn. I like you too, Matilda.”
His admission was so simple, and yet, no man had ever told her that before. She’d been desired, coveted, flattered, and physically admired as a man might admire a healthy heifer, but not liked.
“Even when I wave a knife at you?”
“Especially then. I like your spirit, your quiet ferocity, your kindness to Helen, and your apple tarts.”
Warmth bloomed in Matilda’s heart. Stupid, silly, and precious. “Helen is growing attached to you.”
“You’re shy,” Mr. Fenwick said, “or maybe you’re out of practice. When somebody pays you a compliment, you thank them. As for Helen, I’m growing attached to her too. My horse, who is an excellent judge of character, approves of her.”
“If you encourage her attachment, she’ll be devastated when you leave.”
Dark eyes regarded Matilda levelly. “Will she?”
“Helen isn’t as tough as she wants the world to think she is.”
Mr. Fenwick stood, and he was so very tall in his boots. “I will consider Helen’s situation, between now and when I remove to the Albany, but for now, she’s safe upstairs in bed, her hands nominally clean for a change and her belly full.”
“You’re off to bed?” Matilda said, folding up his handkerchief and setting it aside.
“I’m away to my slumbers, though there’s something I’d like to do first.”
Matilda’s heart beat faster, and an old memory came to her of standing on the edge of a ballroom, the orchestra tuning up, the sets beginning to form. Would she be asked to dance, or would she sit out, or best of all—stroll the terrace on the arm of a witty, charming gentleman?
She’d forgotten that old vulnerability, or maybe it was a strength—the courage to hope—and now here it was, back at the most unlikely time.
“What will your last task for the day be, Mr. Fenwick?”
He drew her to her feet. “Not a task, but rather, an expression of gratitude. I’d like to kiss you good night.”
* * *
Ashton had wandered the streets of London after his dinner with Hazelton, thinking over the coming weeks. The countess’s list was tucked in a pocket for later study, and homesickness had kept him company along every street.
London stank, outside of Mayfair proper. The stars weren’t in evidence, because even in spring, coal smoke obscured the night sky. Noise was unceasing, and game girls flirted from doorways while elegant coaches tooled past mere yards away.
Ewan had no use for London, which was some consolation. The Scottish peerage didn’t travel south en masse when Parliament sat, but rather, sent a small delegation, whom Ewan referred to as the hostage party or the forlorn hope.
When Ashton had turned his steps to Pastry Lane, he’d felt as if he were arriving at a sanctuary, a small island of sanity and peace in a heaving sea of loud, noisome, striving humanity. Matilda’s stoop was adorned with potted heartsease, and he’d sat on her front steps in his lordly finery eavesdropping on the quiet exchange of the ladies in the parlor.
Lodgers move on.
Ashton wanted to go home, not move on, and yet, he wanted Matilda Bryce too. When he drew her to her feet, he saw acknowledgment of mutual attraction in her gaze.
Acknowledgment was not the same as assent. “As much as I’d like to kiss you,” Ashton said, “I’d rather we kissed each other.”
The curtains were drawn, fluttering in the mild evening breeze. Nobody would see Ashton and Matilda standing so close in the candlelit parlor.
“What is the difference if you kiss me, or we kiss each other?” Matilda asked.
Her husband must have been stupid in addition to cold-hearted. “This is me kissing you,” Ashton replied, brushing his mouth over hers. “Not quite a mutual endeavor.”
“This dinner with your friend upset you,” she said, stroking his hair back from his brow.
Ashton wanted to move into her caress as a cat pushed against a friendly hand. “The conversation tonight saddened me. Difficult negotiations lie ahead, and I’ve put them off for too long.”
“And I’m to kiss it better?”
As a younger man, Ashton would have taken himself upstairs and indulged in solitary pleasures rather than endure this exchange. Matilda was entitled to her caution, though. All ladies were, and he’d had to learn caution as well.
“When was the last time anybody kissed your hurts better, Matilda?” He captured her hand in his and kissed the finger she’d pricked earlier. “I’m not proposing a marital alliance to end twenty years of war. All I’m asking for is a kiss.”
He sought to share a moment of sanctuary and pleasure amid a season of posturing and foolishness.
Her hand slid around to Ashton’s nape, her touch cool and confident. Matilda wasn’t anchoring herself so much as learning his contours. She brushed her fingers over hair growing too long for fashion, then braced her other hand on his chest.
She glossed her mouth over his lips, repeating his overture more slowly. Ashton held still, letting her decide whether to venture on or retreat. A breeze licked at the curtains, and one of the sconces guttered.
Maybe that was a sign to her, for she embarked on a kiss that fit with shadows and quiet. Her explorations were tentative to the point that Ashton wondered if she’d done much kissing even during her marriage.
He brought her closer, and she yielded, becoming a sweet, soft weight against his chest. When Ashton ran his tongue over her lips, she reciprocated, but didn’t seem to understand that he wanted in. Wanted into her mouth, into her mind.
Into her heart, to the extent a temporary liaison could involve the heart.
He went slowly, enjoying all the curves he’d missed for so long. Feminine sho
ulders both elegant and sturdy, the taper of a female back, the swell of a woman’s hips, the fullness of her derriere. The Creator had surely improved on the initial model when he’d fashioned woman, and Ashton reveled in all the wonders of having Matilda Bryce in his arms.
She warmed to the kiss, pressing close, clutching at the back of Ashton’s head and pulling his hair. Arousal tugged at him as well, a friend who’d been away for too long.
“Does that qualify as kissing each other?” she asked, subsiding against Ashton’s chest.
“We did, indeed, share a kiss. Thank you, Matilda.” For a few moments, polite society, burned steak, and stupid lists had faded from Ashton’s awareness. He owed her for that, if nothing else.
“Now what?” she asked.
Now, Ashton could embark on negotiations of a sort he’d been conducting since he’d turned fifteen. More kisses, bolder caresses, whispered promises to use a sheath and withdraw, because Ashton put little stock in an apothecary’s tricks.
Secret touches between a woman’s legs that tempted her past propriety, attention paid to her breasts that bespoke pleasures yet to come.
He knew the entire dance, and all of its variations, but he was also coming to know Matilda Bryce.
“Now, my dear, I hope you dream of me.”
She relaxed, which meant Ashton had guessed correctly. Matilda was not a merry widow, ready to pounce on the next randy swain who yodeled beneath her window.
“I’ll likely dream of you long after you’ve gone,” she said, patting his chest. “They will be pleasant dreams.”
She was both complimenting him and reminding him that his lease was very short-term indeed. He ought to be relieved that she sought nothing from him but timely rent and pleasant dreams.
Ashton wasn’t relieved at all.
He stepped back, keeping his arms about her shoulders. “I will go up to bed. I left a parcel on the stairs that I should take down to the kitchen first, some meat for the cat from Lord Hazelton’s club. The chef ruined it, as chefs often do, but it needn’t go entirely to waste.”
Matilda slipped away and busied herself putting embroidery paraphernalia into a workbasket. “You dined with a lord?”
Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) Page 8
