Matthew

by Grace Burrowes

  Hardly news, but at least she’d called him Matthew.

  “A lovely girl, who is at this moment having a lovely time, getting her boots dirty and giving two grown men an excuse to avoid their less appealing chores. I’d like to kiss you again.”

  He ought not to have said that. Theresa waved a hand, as if batting aside a pesky bee inebriating itself on ripe grapes.

  “Priscilla is fascinated with her uncle,” Theresa said. “To his credit, Thomas has been very good with her. Very patient.”

  The season was changing, the undergrowth in the hedgerow dying back to yellows and browns, the leaves drifting from branches overhead. The time of year was sweet, though the direction the conversation was taking wasn’t sweet at all.

  “Thomas ought to be horsewhipped,” Matthew said, “not venerated.”

  Theresa rounded on him as they reached the knot garden farthest from the Linden manor house.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Belmont.”

  Matthew took a half step closer to her, so they were nose to nose. “No, you’re begging your brother’s pardon, and probably have been for years. Have you cousins or uncles, Theresa?”

  “None,” she said, “and I cannot afford to alienate Thomas now, when after years of ignoring my every letter and overture, he’s finally turning up civil.”

  Arguing with a woman was a slippery, dangerous undertaking. A man had to defend his honor, uphold the truth, and respect the lady’s sensibilities, while she fought him at every turn and foiled his own pretenses to reasonableness.

  “You are about to tell me,” Matthew said, “that I must not show you any favor, because your brother is entitled to punish you yet further for the mistakes of your past. The self-same brother who could not be bothered to open your letters, learn of Priscilla’s existence, or make any provision for you or her. He is judge, jury, and executioner of your free will?”

  Theresa patted Matthew’s lapel. “You are magnificent in a temper, despite all your gentlemanly manners and affable conversation. Woe unto the criminal who seeks to disturb the king’s peace in your shire.”

  Nobody had called Matthew magnificent, ever. Theresa stood close enough that the scent of the stable upwind blended with lemons, and the point Matthew needed to make nearly went wafting away on the autumn breeze.

  “Shall we sit, madam?”

  “Let’s take the bench across the lane from the stable. Priscilla will find me there.”

  And Matthew would be precluded from taking liberties. How badly Theresa’s trust had been abused, that she must protect herself from even respectful kisses—which Matthew would never have pressed on an unwilling lady, in any location.

  As he escorted Theresa along a paddock and across the lane, his mind arranged facts as if he were analyzing a crime scene. Theresa, at a young age, had been taken advantage of. Her grandfather had died, then her cousins, leaving her—and Priscilla—only Thomas’s dubious generosity to rely upon.

  One casualty of the crime had been Theresa’s good name, another the option of a good match at an early age.

  The greater loss had been her ability to trust, particularly to trust men, and in a greater sense, to trust life.

  “My wife was not faithful to me,” Matthew said as Jamie emerged from the stable and tossed half a bucket of dirty water onto a bed of heartsease.

  “You told me Matilda came to the marriage carrying another man’s child. You married her anyway.”

  “Of course, I married her,” Matthew snapped. “She was not of age to marry without her father’s permission, she was gently bred, she was in difficulties not entirely of her own making. What does it mean to be a gentleman, if not to offer protection to those unable to protect themselves?”

  Theresa took a seat on the wooden bench, Matthew came down beside her uninvited.

  “I’m not sure what it means to be a gentleman,” Theresa said. “Priscilla’s father was a commissioned officer, the son of a lord, and by no means a bad fellow. I liked him. He was kind to me, in his way, and his friends were even kinder.”

  This dubious kindness puzzled her. Matthew was abruptly glad that Thomas Jennings was off on his wedding journey, lest Matthew search him out and thrash him.

  “Had you met Nicholas Haddonfield before today?” Matthew asked.

  “He and Beckman were at the wedding. You were too, I think, as was Lord Fairly. I don’t know as I’ve ever seen so many well-dressed, handsome blond men.”

  Magnificent, and now handsome too. Matthew fortified his patience with those observations.

  “Nicholas is the son of the Earl of Bellefonte,” Matthew said, “as is Beckman. Did Nick let you know that?”

  Jamie came out with another bucket of dirty water, Priscilla beside him. He passed her the bucket, and she dribbled it over various pots of salvia situated around the stable yard.

  “Younger sons are expected to make their own way,” Theresa said.

  “Nick is the heir, Beckman the spare,” Matthew said. “Younger sons of earls don’t typically make their way in rural stable yards, but there they are. If you want to surprise Nick, refer to him as Viscount Reston.”

  Priscilla and Jamie disappeared back into the stable.

  “Nicholas Haddonfield has a courtesy title?”

  “He was visiting among others, the former owner of this estate, Lord Greymoor.”

  A leaf came down and landed on Matthew’s shoulder. Theresa brushed it away. “I don’t know this Greymoor fellow. Loris might have mentioned him.”

  “Greymoor is an earl, his brother a marquess. I was on excellent terms with Greymoor, and had no reason to doubt him when he reported that the marquess quite ruined his marchioness before he married her. Has Loris mentioned Greymoor’s cousin, Miss Guinevere Hollister? Miss Hollister visited Linden last autumn with Lord Amery.”

  Matthew had Theresa’s attention now, and he did not intend to relinquish it until he’d made his point.

  “I don’t know any of these people,” Theresa said, almost as if she knew what came next.

  “Miss Hollister and Lord Amery are married now, and their son and heir made his appearance less than nine months after the wedding. Her daughter, a child of perhaps five, was supposedly the by-blow of a ducal spare, one of Moreland’s sons.”

  “One of the Duke of Moreland’s sons?”

  “The present Baron Berwick married his mistress only several years past, and she a confirmed member of the demimonde. My point, Theresa, is that your tale is not so very wicked, or even unusual. We’re not angels, none of us, and if Thomas expects you to live like a nun for the rest of your life, then he’s being ridiculous and hypocritical. Whether or not you ever permit me to kiss you again, I’ll tell him as much if you give me leave, and perhaps even if you don’t.”

  * * *

  Matthew Belmont was deceptive. He appeared to be an affable country gentleman, on good terms with all and sundry, but he was also… more than that.

  He was shrewd, fierce, and very much his own man. Unfortunately, Theresa was not her own woman, and never would be again. She was like this season, between summer and winter. Not without joy, but helpless to prevent whatever frost and storms inevitably arrived.

  “Thomas is stubborn,” she said, “and he’s in a position to do Priscilla a great deal of good, or to remove her from my care and ensure I never see her again.”

  Matthew shifted to rest his arm along the back of the bench. Somebody was burning leaves or brush nearby, and the scent, while pleasant, was a melancholy harbinger of bitter weather.

  “Allow me to point out that if the child is illegitimate, then you are her sole guardian, madam. Legally, Thomas can do nothing.”

  “Thomas can petition to become her guardian, and a part of me wishes he would. As Baron Sutcliffe’s niece, the stigma Priscilla faces—”

  “For God’s sake, if the Duke of Devonshire can live in an open liaison with his duchess and his mistress for decades, then marry the mistress upon the duchess’s death, what
matters the irregular birth of a baron’s niece? I can assure you Thomas and Loris anticipated their vows, and prior to purchasing Linden, your self-same puritanical brother worked for Lord Fairly. That worthy, whom I happen to like quite well, married the madam maintaining his very profitable common nuisance. Ask Thomas about that, why don’t you?”

  Matthew spoke quietly, but the words were clipped to razor-sharp enunciation.

  He wasn’t angry, he was furious, and on Theresa’s behalf.

  “I know what a common nuisance is.” Theresa’s grandfather had accused her of being one, though the term was more commonly applied to houses of ill-repute. Then the import of Matthew’s words sank in. “Lord Fairly owned a… a place like that? And he married—they were at the wedding, and Thomas was quite…”

  A memory came to mind, of Thomas leaning close to Lord Fairly’s quiet, dark-haired viscountess, kissing her cheek and murmuring something in her ear that had made her smile. The moment had hurt, because Thomas’s attitude toward the viscountess was both affectionate and respectful.

  When Thomas had seen Theresa for the first time in ten years, he’d bowed. Slightly. Stiffly.

  “I apologize for raising such a topic in the presence of a lady,” Matthew said, “and I consider your brother a friend. I do not consider him the moral arbiter of the shire, and neither should you.”

  Thomas had invited a former madam and her brothel-owning husband to this wedding, but had refused to touch his own sister.

  Theresa put a hand to her middle, which was abruptly disquieted. Perhaps the scent of smoke had done it, or perhaps last night’s poor sleep was catching up with her.

  “Thomas could not have condoned the viscount’s business activities,” she said. “My brother was always a proper little fellow, the one our cousins were sure was headed for the church. They ridiculed him.”

  Theresa had too, in the end. She’d ridiculed Thomas right out of her life.

  “Are you well, madam? Have I upset you? I apologize, but your situation matters to me.”

  Theresa mattered to him, and that was unsettling too. “I’m fine, but you’ve given me much to think about. Thomas has changed, if he’d work for a man who owned an establishment of women like me.” Perhaps Thomas had become more tolerant, and surely that was for the good?

  “Is that all you see of yourself? You surrendered your virtue years ago to some scurrilous bounder, and all the years since, all your love for your daughter, your years of sober and responsible living, of accepting quiet obscurity, mean nothing?”

  Matthew’s blue eyes were so sad.

  “I cannot forgive myself,” Theresa said, the words making her throat ache. “Maybe I haven’t forgiven myself because the greater transgression was against my younger brother. He looked up to me, and I disappointed him.” To say nothing of the transgression against the child.

  Matthew leaned closer, and Theresa closed her eyes in anticipation of a kiss, right there on a bench across from the stable yard.

  Lips brushed gently across her forehead.

  “And thus,” Matthew said, “you’ve spent ten years castigating yourself for being human, and in those ten years, your dear, perfect, wealthy, worldly brother disported as he pleased. I fail to see how this qualifies him to sit in judgment of you or of anybody.”

  Disported as he pleased. That’s what men did, most men—disported as they pleased.

  “Will you and Priscilla come to services with me on Sunday?” Matthew asked.

  Good God. “You excel at the art of ambush, Matthew Belmont. I haven’t been to services since before Priscilla’s birth.”

  “Then you’re overdue for some poorly sung hymns, churchyard gossip, and mild flirtation from the proverbial lonely curate. Say you’ll come.”

  Theresa knew all about lonely curates, and yet, she was tempted. “Priscilla will fidget.”

  “You’ll fidget. You’ll peer up at the rafters and hope the roof doesn’t cave in on your sinful self. Matilda went to services any number of times, and I can assure you, the church roof endured her presence. She even managed to look fetching in her Sunday bonnet most of the time too.”

  Matthew was so casual about the concepts that had defined Theresa’s life for years. Fallenness, worthiness, acceptance.

  “I took all three of my boys to services with me for years,” he went on, rising. “Priscilla cannot possibly fidget as much as three active boys did.”

  “Perhaps not, but I can.”

  Matthew extended a bare hand down to her. He had beautiful hands, elegant, sun-browned, competent, and strong. He’d have an equestrian’s calluses and a loving father’s patience in those hands.

  As a lover…

  Theresa gave him her hand and rose. “I’ll attend with you, but be prepared for awkwardness.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “A little awkwardness livens up the service wonderfully. I warn you now, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, so don’t smirk at me if I only move my lips during the hymns.”

  “I sing rather well,” Theresa said, starting off for the stable, from which her daughter hadn’t emerged for some minutes. “Or I did as a girl. I suppose we’ll find out if I still can.”

  Matthew tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her across the lane. He had asked much of her in this simple Sunday outing. Asked that she risk censure and gossip, as well as Thomas’s wrath when he returned home and found she’d fraternized with the neighbors.

  Matthew Belmont had made a telling point, however. If Thomas counted a brothel owner and a madam among his friends—Theresa knew far more wanton names for such an establishment than that—then Thomas’s outlook on life had shifted considerably.

  Thomas and Loris had anticipated their vows too, though many couples did.

  “I’ll come by for you after breakfast,” Matthew said. “Do not think of pleading a headache, madam.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Theresa would never be ready to face the gauntlet of a local congregation, but because Matthew had asked it of her, she’d try. She would rise to a challenge she’d dodged for years for one reason.

  Matthew Belmont would be by her side for the duration, regardless of the reception she received.

  Chapter Eight

  Theresa Jennings did not fidget, and she had a lovely soprano voice. She did hide, though, in the plainest brown carriage dress Matthew had seen in years—and a rural squire saw many a nondescript dress. Rather than sing the melody, she discreetly harmonized among the contraltos and tenors.

  “The pews get harder each year,” Matthew murmured, when the service had concluded. The organist plodded through a postlude as the congregation rustled and shuffled to its feet, while Theresa gathered up her reticule.

  “Let’s use the side door,” she said. “Less congested.”

  By no means was she a coward, but she was afraid, and Matthew wanted to thrash her brother all over again. He wanted to thrash all the men who attended the services of a God of forgiveness and honor, while they worshipped at the altar of judgment and hypocrisy.

  “I did not quibble when you told me Priscilla had developed a slight cough,” Matthew said, tapping his hat onto his head. “One falsehood per Sunday morning ought to suffice.”

  Theresa sent him a look that emphasized the resemblance between mother and daughter.

  “You are awful, and you lied too,” she said. “You sing quite well.”

  Awful surely qualified as an endearment of some sort. “I love to sing, as do my boys. Christopher lives for glee club, and Remington’s voice is solo quality. They get that from their mother.”

  Theresa pretended to busy herself with her bonnet ribbons. To complement her sober brown dress, she’d donned a simple, wide-brimmed straw hat. Her strategy had failed, though she couldn’t know that. Instead of creating a nondescript, unremarkable appearance, she’d chosen a color that flattered her dark hair and blue eyes, and a simplicity of attire that called attention to her beauty.

  For she
was lovely, did she but know it. Her movements, her voice, her way of holding herself, were attractive.

  “I suppose we’d best get this over with,” she said, clutching her beaded bag in gloved hands. “If I recall, the sermon was on…. I can’t recall.”

  Matthew cast back over the last hour, most of which had been spent staring at the Book of Common Prayer while trying to limit his awareness of the woman beside him.

  The Rev. Thaddeus Herndon had only so many sermons, and in the autumn…

  “Those who come late to work the harvest,” Matthew said. “An apt topic, one of his better and braver homilies. Stop dawdling, my dear.”

  They were getting looks. Matthew always got looks, and the looks were usually followed up by smiles and invitations. Would the squire like to join this or that family for the Sunday meal?

  “That woman by the baptismal font seems angry,” Theresa muttered before leaving the pew.

  “She has three unmarried daughters over the age of twenty,” Matthew whispered back. “Mrs. Birkman has plans for my bachelorhood with which I have long taken issue, despite their cook’s genius with a joint of beef. I suspect her daughters are waiting for my sons to come of age, which is part of the reason I’ve sent the boys off to safety with my brother Axel in Oxfordshire.”

  The crowd shuffled forward, while Rev. Herndon stood at the back door, beaming good cheer in all directions.

  Herndon must have heard the siren call of his own Sunday meal, because he merely bowed over Theresa’s hand, thanked her for attending, and asked her to extend his felicitations to the baron and his lady upon their return from their wedding journey.

  Theresa was cordially invited to call on Mrs. Herndon, provided her hearing was up to the rigors of ten children living cheek by jowl in a humble vicarage.

  “The sky did not fall,” Matthew said, as he assisted Theresa into his gig. “Admit it. The church rafters will hold up for another century at least, the goodwives of the parish did not pelt you with mud—at least not as a result of your past.”

  Matthew had smiled, nodded, and otherwise slipped through the lines of neighbors who would have kept him and Theresa in the churchyard all afternoon. The goodwives had wanted to pelt Theresa with questions, that much had been obvious.