by Téa Cooper
Kit, however, leapt to his feet and pulled out her chair.
‘Please forgive me for keeping you waiting,’ she said, smiling what she knew was a wasted apology at Mrs Barclay.
Kit seated her and then settled down in the chair between Matilda and his mother. Beth’s mouth tilted into a half-smile, and Matilda prayed she wouldn’t comment about the rearranged placing. Quite who had instigated it she wasn’t sure, but she found sitting next to Kit quite disconcerting. The heat of his body radiated against her skin, and she could smell his subtle scent—bergamot and soap. He had obviously washed away the evidence of his afternoon excursion.
‘We will forgive you this time, Matilda,’ Mrs Barclay said, ‘but please refrain from making a habit of being late. It sets a dreadful example for my girls.’ She bestowed a benevolent smile on her two daughters and turned to Kit.
‘On the subject of habits, Kit, I notice that you and Matilda have been riding every morning before breakfast. I’m certain that is no longer necessary. From what the girls have been telling me, Matilda is very familiar with the property now. Those rides will end. She has commitments, and I would like to see the girls spending a little more time at their studies and a little less cavorting around on horseback like ruffians.’
Matilda picked at the edges of the napkin on her lap, wondering what else Mrs Barclay had in store for them. If she had learned anything in her three weeks at The Gate, it was that the dinner table was the place for Mrs Barclay to announce any schemes she had hatched during the day.
‘I have made some new arrangements in anticipation of Eliza and her mother’s arrival. The cottage next to the stables has been cleaned, and Matilda will be moving her belongings in there tonight. It will be quite adequate for her needs as we require the guest rooms for our visitors. They deserve the best.’
Matilda exhaled but not as quietly as she’d thought. Kit turned towards her slightly, one eyebrow raised; she wasn’t sure why. Moving into one of the cottages sounded like a very suitable arrangement, and she quite understood that guestrooms should be for visitors. She knew she was an employee, not a guest, and yet it felt like a snub all the same. ‘Thank you, Mrs Barclay. I shall move my belongings tomorrow.’
‘I think tonight after dinner is appropriate. After all,’ she paused, running her gaze up and down Matilda’s dress, ‘it is not as though you have many possessions or clothes.’
‘I was under the impression she was a guest in the house, Mother.’ Kit’s voice had an edge to it that Matilda had not heard before, and she held her breath. Where she slept was of little matter to her, so she prayed that he would not make a scene.
‘She is not a guest, Christopher, no matter how you may feel about the situation. You brought Matilda here to be a companion to the girls and to relieve me of an additional burden. Please don’t create another by encouraging our governess to have ideas beyond her station.’
It was as though Mrs Barclay could read her mind. Was that what Matilda was? A social climber—an upstart? Did she have ideas above her station? As much as the words stung, she could hear a grain of truth in them. Her ludicrous attraction to Kit was turning her into to someone she was not.
Matilda sat up a little straighter in her chair and squared her shoulders. She was proud of her background, not ashamed. Her parents had put the past behind them and had worked their fingers to the bone to create a new life. That they were no longer here to see her succeed only strengthened her resolve.
Hidden from sight by the white damask tablecloth, Kit’s warm hand closed over hers and gently squeezed. She didn’t dare turn her head. He let go and lifted his glass to his lips. He was hiding a tight smile, and although she had no idea why, the warmth of it settled deep into her heart.
‘Eliza and her mother have accepted our invitation, so I think you should leave for Sydney in a few days. That will give you the opportunity to sort out your business, make your re-acquaintance with the Ramsbottoms, and then escort them back here. I wish I could come with you, but I am not well enough to make the trip, and someone needs to be here to oversee the preparations for their arrival.’
Next to her, Kit’s body tensed. His smile had been dispelled by Mrs Barclay’s words.
Kit would be going away, and it hadn’t occurred to her before now that she would miss him. She had taken his presence, and the delicious feelings he aroused in her, for granted. A surge of claustrophobia washed through her. Matilda wanted to get out of the house and move her belongings into the cottage as soon as possible. Perhaps once she was there, it would be easier to accept her role in the household.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Mrs Barclay.’ She nodded at the older woman, trying to ignore the look of supercilious satisfaction in her eyes. ‘And Kit. I will go and attend to my belongings so that I can move into the cottage.’ Matilda rose from her chair, almost knocking Kit to one side as she turned.
‘Let me help you.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Kit’s mother said. ‘You and I have arrangements to make, and Bonnie can help Matilda. Girls, you may leave the table.’ Mrs Barclay’s voice out rang with surety.
Suitably dismissed, Matilda left the room with a familiar and unwelcome tightness in her chest. She remembered that feeling—loss. It came close to the sensation she had suffered when she had left the farm for Sydney, yet this time she wasn’t sure what she had lost.
Chapter Twelve
Kit stood on the veranda, sucking in the cool night air and trying to remember a time when he had felt so manipulated and controlled. It was as though he had returned to his childhood—and that had been mapped out with all the precision of a military campaign. He understood the reason behind his mother’s determination, and he knew exactly why she wanted so much to secure his future. Yet the merits of her plan unsettled him.
His memory had dimmed, but the scars had never completely healed. He could still remember a time as a child—before Barclay had appeared—where they’d lived in noisy, crowded rooms with the continual shrieks of women’s voices. There had always, in the background, been his mother’s love. And then, suddenly there was Barclay and peace and security.
Whether there had been courtship or not, he had no idea, but his mother had become Barclay’s wife, and their lives had changed. They had come to The Gate, and he had immediately realised that this was where he belonged. Kit finally had a home and a family; Barclay had accepted him as his son.
He knew at a young age that he would have to step aside when his mother gave birth to Barclay’s heir. But first Hannah and then Beth were born—and then no more. Barclay eventually accepted the fact he would never father a son and had lavished all his attention on Kit, grooming him for the role he would one day hold. Three years in Europe, the introduction to Portus, and his trip to America were to be the highlight of his education.
But then Barclay, in the prime of his life, had died.
The stars shone brightly above him, but there was no moon. The Southern Cross twinkled in a perfect pattern above, and as Kit offered a silent thanks to the only man he had ever called father, he saw light in one of the cottages beyond.
Matilda.
For the first time in days, she had not been at the forefront of his thoughts. Stepping off the veranda, he made his way down the path between the carefully tended flowerbeds and towards her cottage.
The timber door was closed. He knocked lightly, and through the window, her shadow moved across the gentle light.
‘Matilda,’ he called softly. ‘It’s me—Kit. Have you got everything you need?’
The light fall of her steps on the timber floor could be heard in the darkness.
The door opened slightly.
‘Kit.’ Her breathless voice unleashed a torrent of desire he had thought missing only moments ago had. How wrong could a man be?
Matilda stood illuminated in the lamplight before him. Her glorious hair hung over her shoulders like a mantle, and her wide eyes shone with welcome.
‘I wanted
to make sure you had everything you needed.’ In truth, he wanted much more than that, but his desire had not yet—he hoped—turned him into a total oaf.
‘Thank you, Kit, but I’m perfectly comfortable. I find I rather like the idea of having my own little house.’
‘I didn’t want you to feel that you had been banished from the big house. Nor do I want you to be upset by my mother’s comments. She sometimes speaks without thinking of others’ feelings.’
‘I didn’t take offence, and she is correct. I am not a guest. I have a position in your household, and it is only right that your visitors should make use of the guest rooms.’
Matilda moved as if to close the door. Kit marshalled his thoughts, trying to think of a way to detain her a little longer. He wanted to step inside, inhale her perfume, and hold her close. His anticipation had been building all afternoon but it was now magnified a thousandfold.
It threatened to engulf him.
‘Goodnight, Kit.’
With a mind of its own, his foot moved forward and blocked the door from closing. Matilda re-opened the door and looked down at his foot. A brief frown marred the perfect symmetry of her face, but then her head was lifting, and her wide blue eyes were staring into his. A flash of confusion crossed her features, and yet her eyes showed her growing excitement. Kit felt his blood begin to race.
She took one small step back, and her hand dropped from the door. Like a vision from heaven, she stood there, waiting.
Her eyes darkened.
A flame of desire ignited his blood, and unable to contain himself a moment longer, Kit stepped over the threshold and clasped her upper arms. The silken feel of her hair against the palms of his hands sent shudders of eagerness shooting through him.
His fingers encircled her arms and tightened.
Astonished, her mouth opened like a rosebud unfurling. The tiniest of groans escaped her lips—and that sound proved his undoing. Wrapping his arms around her, Kit lifted Matilda off the ground and crushed her to him. He carried her two steps farther into the lamplight and kicked the door closed.
Chapter Thirteen
Kit’s eyes burned black with desire. The sandstone wall against her back felt cold through her thin chemise, but his ragged breath warmed her. She inhaled his scent, which was musky and masculine. As he loosened his grip on her arms, her knees buckled, and she slumped against his chest, revelling in the touch of the soft cotton shirt against her cheek.
Sliding his arms around Matilda’s back, he cradled her against his heaving chest. The sound of her heartbeat echoed in her ears as she fought for breath, her whole body pulsing with a fierce heat. As moments passed, the stillness and silence was broken only by the sound of a moth batting against the glass lampshade.
Finally, she lifted her eyes to his face. He threw her a slanted grin, and the wickedness of that look sent a thrill coursing through her. Kit ran the tip of one finger down her neck. The intimacy of his touch made her breath catch and left a trail of heat in its wake. As he heard the sound, he laughed aloud and then reached out slowly—almost lazily—to cup the back of her head. Tilting her face, he gently lowered his mouth and rested his lips against hers. Then he drew away.
Matilda gasped in disappointment and ran her tongue over her mouth, tasting the brandy of his kiss. ‘You kissed me.’
‘It was a very chaste kiss. Did you like it?’
Her cheeks warmed at his words, and she inclined her head shyly.
A thrill of anticipation pooled in her belly as he chuckled, deep and low. Those eyes, as dark as the curl of hair falling across his forehead, seemed to be read her innermost thoughts. She lowered her gaze, her whole body crying out for his touch.
‘I’d like to kiss you as a lover if you would like that.’ Kit leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘Would you like that?’
Incapable of responding, she lowered her eyelids in assent. He had rendered her speechless.
‘Are you certain?’
She nodded her head. ‘Yes, I am absolutely certain.’ Thrilled by the prospect, she stood—quivering slightly—as his gaze caressed her.
His lips claimed hers, and all thoughts of chastity flew from her mind. Matilda could taste hunger and passion and desire; a roaring heat built up in her until she found herself melting against him. Thoughts of modesty and decorum now forgotten, she clung to him, relishing sensations she had never known her body capable of. Finally, Kit pulled away, leaving her senseless and weak and somewhat disappointed.
As the breath returned to her body, she struggled against him. He released her from his embrace but kept his long fingers encircled around her arm like a bracelet. He slowly lifted her hand to his mouth until warm breath fanned her skin and, with infinite care, kissed the palm of her hand. Delicious shivers coursed through her as she cupped his chin, aching to pull him closer, wanting the feel of his lips against hers again.
Matilda knew she had to move away from temptation. Common sense won out, and she dropped her hand and stepped back.
The cool air played against her heated skin. Shivering, she reached for her shawl and pulled it around her shoulders, hugging it tight to her breast. When she finally looked at him again, he was leaning against the wall—as he often did—with his legs crossed at the ankles and his arms folded. His forehead had creased into a frown.
‘Matilda, I didn’t intend for this to happen quite like it has.’
Her heart sank, and she pulled the shawl closer. Kit hadn’t intended for this to happen? What had he intended then, and why had he kissed her? She ran her tongue over her sensitive, grazed lips and again tasted the brandy. Tasted him.
‘Seeing you standing there in the lamplight was more than I could bear. A man, any man, could only take so much.’
Any man? No, not just any man—Christopher Matcham. His name echoed like a keening lament in her mind. How could just any man arouse such feelings? A traitorous coil of desire twisted in her belly, and she slid one hand down to still it. His eyes flared and darkened as he stared at that hand.
‘Please forgive me. It will not happen again.’ He pushed himself off the wall and walked to the door. Matilda stared at his broad back as he lifted the latch, stooped, and then stepped outside. Her eyes were filled with tears.
‘Goodnight,’ Kit said. He briefly turned before closing the door softly behind him.
Matilda shuddered and sank slowly to the floor, clasping her shawl tightly around her like a shield. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she rocked backwards and forwards.
Seeing her standing there was more than he could bear, more than any man could bear.
It was as if she had lured him in against his will, had tempted him, entrapped him and played the hussy. She was like the girls with the painted faces and thrusting breasts she’d seen in town.
Yet Matilda had done no such thing.
To say she wasn’t aware of him would be a lie—every move he made, every look he threw her way was like a brand, scorching and burning her soul—but that didn’t mean she had deliberately enticed him. Tonight was not the first time he had responded to her. Matilda was neither blind nor a sheltered child, and she knew arousal when she saw it. Men were no different to stallions, but tonight Kit had appeared somehow different.
Humiliation washed over her and quickly replaced the warmth his touch had engendered.
Chapter Fourteen
It was the following afternoon, and Kit was pacing across the sitting room. Backwards and forwards. Eleven steps. Turn. Eleven steps back again. Back to where he started.
He had hoped the rhythmic motion would clear his mind. He needed to find a solution to his current problem, but when one finally came to him, he didn’t much like it.
There was only one resolution.
The mantle of responsibility had passed to him. Barclay’s hand was reaching out to Kit from the grave and it was time to pay his dues. His mother was correct—he had a duty and a responsibility to the man who had so willingly saved them both from a lif
e of penury. He had to do the best he could for his family, and if that included finding a suitable wife, then that was what he would do.
But he didn’t want to. He wasn’t shirking his responsibilities; he merely wanted more.
And ‘more’ was Matilda.
If he traced his finger over his lips, he could still feel the imprint of hers. His palms could still feel the touch of her silken skin against them. How he had managed to walk out of her cottage, he had no idea, and now he had placed himself in the most ridiculous position.
Ludicrous. What was a man to do?
Be responsible to his family and to society.
Mon dieu! He was beginning to sound like his mother. The difficulty was in his mind’s eye—it saw hair like silken sunshine, eyes as bright as the summer sky, and the sumptuous curves that had tantalised and mocked him the previous evening.
Kit moaned aloud. There had to be a way out of this dilemma. How he wished he could knock on the door to Barclay’s study and sink into one of the soft, worn leather armchairs while his stepfather offered him advice on the matter.
He threw his shoulders back. Advice! He didn’t need advice. He knew what was needed.
His family needed Eliza, and the social standing and alliances a match with her would bring—not Matilda. He could not sacrifice that, no matter how enticing the delights she offered.
His mind was now made up, and Kit thanked God he had stopped on this path before it was too late. Free settlers did not marry convict offspring; such a foolish move would signal the death knell of his family’s standing in society. Hannah and Beth’s prospects would be ruined, and his mother would never fulfil her dream of returning to Sydney.
No, there was no alternative. He must go and call on Eliza and her family, and settle the matter once and for all while he still could.
Kit took the tea his mother offered him, listening with only half an ear. Today, her prattle was even more uninteresting than usual. Instead, his mind circled around the prospect of his trip to Sydney and Miss Eliza, as well as the one other responsibility his decision had thrust on him—explaining to Matilda how important this marriage was to his family. Quite why he felt he owed her an explanation he wasn’t sure as a brief kiss hardly counted as a commitment.
