He bowed in acknowledgement, returning her smile, which, for some reason, made her take a second look at him. Despite what she had told Maren when she had first seen him again, he really was quite attractive. She had never truly preferred facial hair on any man, but it suited Matthew far more than she would have expected. He seemed less of a boy now, though he had hardly been one when they’d had their understanding, and in his place was a robust and striking man.
She might actually prefer him with facial hair, as far as looks were concerned.
Matthew indicated the seat next to her. “May I? Or would you prefer I take one of the chairs?”
Abigail shook herself out of the dangerous territory she’d unwittingly wandered into. “Oh, it makes no difference. Sit wherever you like.”
As she suspected, he took the seat beside her, though he was far enough away that Maren could have come back in and sat between them comfortably. “Then I will sit here. Your mother always had the most comfortable divans, but I swear she let your military father select the chairs.”
She snickered in response. “I wasn’t aware that the furniture in public rooms was supposed to be comfortable for the guests seated in them. What would we do if someone dropped into a sleep when we were entertaining them?”
“I know this one,” Matthew announced with an indicating finger as he leaned back against the rim of the divan. “Pluck a feather from whatever accommodating female is in the room and brush it against their skin and nose to see how they react, all while attempting not to wake them.”
Abigail reached over and smacked him in the arm with a laugh. “Wretch! That is a perfectly horrid idea, and I sincerely hope you never entertain.”
He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Never do. But I’ve always wanted to try that.”
“Ridiculous man. Are you a child?”
“Sometimes.” Matthew was silent for a minute, then his eyes flicked down to the letter she held. “So, are you going to tell me what you are so keen to read, or must I perish from curiosity?”
The question wasn’t exactly unexpected, given that he had come in just as she was relishing in the delight of having another letter to read, but of all people in the world, she was the least interested in letting Matthew Weber-Grey know about her private romantic dealings.
Still, the idea of informing him where things stood now might take away any ideas of rekindling a romance between them, which surely needed to be done.
So she fixed a friendly smile on her face and put the letter firmly in her lap. “You are not the only man in the world who has ever taken an interest in me. It just so happens that I have been receiving regular correspondence from a man with a particular interest in me.”
“Have you indeed?” he returned, looking truly pleased. “I am glad to hear it. You should have suitors out the door for you to test out! So, come on and tell me about him. What is his name?”
Abigail shook her head, still smiling, though she was utterly bewildered by his response. “No, no, you don’t get to know his identity. I must have some secrets, you know.”
He nodded in agreement. “I should hope so. I think I would hate to know everything about someone. Where would the surprise be?”
Where indeed.
“What does he say in his letters, Abigail?” Matthew teased, his tone blatantly suggestive.
She rolled her eyes with the dramatics he was employing. “He compliments my wit and intelligence and the sound of my voice and says he finds me to be the most fascinating woman he’s ever known. And he seems very taken by my eyes.”
Matthew’s head bobbed in approval with each item. “Excellent choices, all. The eyes especially. The man has excellent taste. And you clearly like him in return.”
“Why would you think so?” she asked, gaping a little.
He gave her a knowing look she remembered all too well. “You can’t stop smiling. He excites you and invigorates you. Rather like I used to.”
She stammered inaudibly, struggling for a response to such a statement.
“Abigail, I wasn’t trying to dampen the moment,” he told her gently. “I’m merely telling you something that only I could observe. I’m very happy for you, and it’s a pleasure to see you look like this again.”
He was what?
She blinked twice. “You’re happy for me? You mean it?”
That seemed to surprise him. “Of course, I mean it. I still care about you, Abigail, and what I want above all else is for you to be happy.” He shrugged helplessly and offered a hesitant smile. “That is what friends do, is it not?”
Abigail couldn’t respond for a moment, incredulous and surprisingly touched. He actually meant it. He truly was pleased she had a man expressing interest and something that made her happy. Something that wasn’t him.
“Yes,” she finally replied, smiling back at him. “Yes, it is.”
***
What man in his right mind would intentionally venture into the madness of shopping in London during the Season without a need to purchase anything? Particularly when he was going to be in the company of at least one female who will likely be mad for the whole venture and another who might be too distracted to be worth any sort of salt as far as conversation went?
But venture he would, and without a single complaint.
If this was how Abigail would allow him to associate with her, he would take it with all good graces and gratitude.
Audibly, at any rate.
He was filled with a very different sort of apprehension within himself, one that many a man had felt with such an excursion ahead of him. The only way that this would all diminish would be if Thomas Sterling were in attendance, and if he were as sensible as Matthew had always taken him to be, he would have fled from his sisters’ request posthaste.
Provided he had been requested at all.
The Sterling siblings could be a bit fickle when it came to tolerating one another.
In short order, the hack had arrived at its destination, and Matthew disembarked with a reluctant groan.
The things he would endure for love.
Matthew had not walked for long when a familiar pair of sisters strolled out of the milliner’s shop, one darker than the other, but sharing the same smile. The sight of it drew out his own smile, and he moved in their direction.
Unfortunately, he reached them just as they were entering a hosiery shop, and Matthew politely followed, hands behind his back, ready to engage in the act of perusing the shop. Men’s hosiery wasn’t nearly so exciting, but one must always be socked appropriately, so he could purchase a few things if need be.
At the moment, he couldn’t recall what he already had in the hosiery department of his wardrobe, but neither did he particularly care.
“You’re making a valiant effort.”
He turned to look behind him, smiling at Abigail, who had followed him. “Of what?” he asked.
Her sardonic look made him chuckle.
“What? You don’t think I have a genuine interest in hosiery?”
“No,” Abigail retorted bluntly. “I don’t believe you care at all.”
Now he grinned outright. “You’re right; I don’t. But appearances must be kept up, so . . .” He resumed his slow meander, indicating that she follow.
She did so, and somehow she looked convincing in her faux shopping.
“Tell me something,” Matthew murmured, pausing to examine a truly horrendous pair of socks. “Why did your mother agree to let me come on this errand?”
“She’s curious about you,” Abigail whispered back. “Mad with it, actually.”
He nodded in thought, pleased that it wasn’t just him, though he was fairly certain there had never been another man to truly consider where Abigail’s future was concerned. “And what of your mystery suitor? Is she curious there?”
She looked over her shoulder quickly and picked up a pair of socks, pretending to examine them more closely. “She doesn’t know. And she would not approve. I cann
ot pretend to be unmoved by the contents of his letters, nor that I am growing more so with each one.”
Matthew paused again, this time to let another woman pass by. “You like him,” he stated unnecessarily.
Abigail sighed, and the sound reminded him of days on the grass in the sun at Hazelwood. “Yes. Yes, I like him. I think I like him very much. Is that so very strange? I don’t even know him. I have no idea who he is.”
He looked at her with a smile, hopefully one that encouraged her. “I won’t deny that it is strange, but that doesn’t make it false. And let’s consider this properly: what do you know about the man?”
She frowned and moved in front of him, now leading the way as they continued through the shop once more. “What, besides that he has taken an interest in me for some reason?”
“Yes, besides his excellent taste,” Matthew quipped, winking though she would not see it. “You know that he is of your class, yes? Or else he could not possibly be seeing you at events.”
Abigail’s head tilted at that. “I suppose so. I also know that he is educated. He references Shakespeare and scholars on some occasions.”
“Even better,” Matthew praised. “Learned men must always be considered decent enough candidates, no?”
She stopped suddenly, then turned to finger a pair of wool stockings nearby. “He likes music as well.”
Matthew drew up beside her, not bothering to pretend he was shopping anymore and leaning against the shelf next to him. “He said that?”
“No, but he describes it often enough. Refers to it. Particularly with regards to . . .” She trailed off, glancing in his direction without meeting his eyes.
It wasn’t like Abigail to be shy, but he found it all the more endearing because of that. “To you,” he finished. “He finds you musical.”
“Which also shows his ignorance,” she muttered as her face colored. “You know very well that I am not at all musical.”
“Not in technical terms, no,” Matthew admitted, keeping his eyes on her, waiting for her to meet his eyes again. “Not in abilities, no. But I’ve always thought your laugh somewhat musical. Not necessarily an aria . . .”
She giggled very softly, a smile playing at her cheeks. “Who laughs like an aria?”
“No one, I hope,” he shot back with a shudder. Then he turned serious again. “I’d think anyone with a working set of ears could find you musical, Abigail. Not like an aria, but perhaps like a songbird on a spring morning.” He shrugged as if it couldn’t be helped, though in actuality he knew he had said too much and was trying to make light of it.
Abigail stared at him all the same, expression unreadable.
He made a quick face. “Too much?”
She shook her head slowly and without much certainty. “Not really, no. I just . . . I’ve never heard you say anything like that about it, and you’ve heard me laugh hundreds of times.”
“Would you believe that it took me all these years to figure out what it sounded like?” he tried with a hopeful smile.
That broke the tension, and Abigail smirked, returning her attention to the stockings. “I would, actually. You never did have much of a way with words.”
Silently breathing a sigh of relief, he turned to the safety of self-deprecation. “There’s just so many words!” he whined plaintively. “I had my education, but I never told anyone just how I did in language and composition.”
“Probably for the best,” Abigail set as she laid the stockings back down. “We’d all think quite poorly of you if you’d received poor marks there. Your reputation would be quite ruined.”
“I trust you to keep the secret safe.” He hesitated a moment, watching as she turned away, then made his mind up. “Abigail?”
She turned back, still smiling, warmth radiating from her. “Yes?”
Matthew let himself return her smile, though perhaps more gently. “Whatever it is this man is praising in his letters, whatever he finds admirable in you, you ought to believe him. Someone should be acknowledging such an endless collection of incomparable things as what you possess, even if it cannot be me.”
Her eyes widened, and her breath caught. He could see the return of tension in full, and he would swear he could see the fierceness with which her heart pounded within her. She said nothing, made no sound, and barely breathed.
Neither did he, for that matter.
But he cleared his throat all the same. “I thought you should know that,” he murmured as he passed her again, his fingers accidentally brushing hers.
He wasn’t sure if he gasped or she did, but it took several long moments for the burning sensation of that part of his hand to subside.
Chapter Six
“No, I will not reacquaint you with Uncle Hensh tonight.”
“Why not? What possible excuse could you have for refusing me?”
“Would you like me to produce a list for you? Or do you think you can remember on your own?”
Matthew did not appreciate her sarcasm, and Abigail knew it, but it did not follow that she cared all that much about his appreciation. His odd desire to regain a favorable reputation with every member of her family, whether extended or immediate, was no doubt admirable, but there really was no point to it.
And if this was his manner of attempting to procure an invitation to Uncle Hensh’s card party this evening, he was seriously lacking in convincing arguments.
“You’ve already made yourself reacquainted with Francis,” Abigail pointed out leaning slightly on her croquet mallet. “Enough that he included you on this picnic with the entire family.”
Matthew raised a brow at her, pausing in his preparations to strike his green ball through a wicket. “Are you offended, jealous, or indignant?”
She stuck her tongue out at him, which made him snort and shake his head. “Hurry up, you perfectionist,” she whined, cementing her current juvenile manner decisively. “We’re going to miss the meal, and Janet has the best cook in London!”
“Patience is a virtue,” Matthew reminded her in a calm, patient tone. He swung his mallet once, twice, then thumped the ball soundly, sending it through the wicket and rolling in a nearly perfect line toward the next one. He grinned outright and swung his mallet onto his shoulder. “And you do not have it.”
That wasn’t much of a surprise, was it? Anyone who knew Abigail knew full well that she was impulsive and impatient even on her best days, despite her better qualities, and it had been a frequent sort of mockery from her siblings over the years.
Abigail pushed past Matthew roughly, barely avoiding the impulse to sniff as she did so. “Well, if we are about to list all the areas in which we are in some way lacking . . .” She eyed the wicket and lined up the mallet for her yellow ball carefully, then exhaled slowly before whacking the ball through the wicket and sending it sailing beyond Matthew’s until it rested just before the next wicket. She grinned tightly with exquisite satisfaction and looked over her shoulder at the openly gaping Matthew, “then we had best start with your failings in croquet.”
He closed his mouth with an audible click of his teeth smacking against each other, his eyes narrowing. “You do know how to provoke a man, don’t you?”
Abigail shrugged with a twirl of her mallet, feeling rather impish at the moment. “I don’t set out with the intent of provocation. Can I help it if things naturally trend in that direction?”
“You steer it in that direction,” Matthew corrected as he lowered his mallet to the ground and began to use it as a walking stick. “Navigate the ship toward the treacherous waters of provocation while keeping your crew blissfully unaware of the dangers ahead.”
“Ahoy,” Abigail replied in a dry tone.
He looked at her as he came to her side. “Fair winds and a following sea.”
She placed a hand on her hip and cocked her head. “Are you sending me on an actual voyage, or do you simply not know when to end a joke?”
Again, his eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Then, withou
t warning, he poked her shoulder hard before racing off toward their balls. “First to the balls has full control!” he shouted over his shoulder.
“No!” Abigail screeched as she hiked up her unfortunately voluminous skirts and darted after him, her legs pumping hard, though her lungs were completely unable to match their efforts.
The fashions of the day were clearly doing nothing for feminine athleticism.
Matthew reached the balls first, as he had intended, and he took a moment to grin rather wickedly at Abigail, setting his mallet in place.
Abigail glared as she ran still. “Matthew Edward James Weber-Grey, if you so much as tap my ball . . .”
With a whoop, he swung at her ball hard, sending it careening off into the near patch of elms, its course interfering with birds, leaves, and, if her ears heard correctly, one or two trunks.
She stopped running, though her breath was as ragged as if she had run several miles, and she stared off into the trees with a sort of hopeless detachment. There was no recovering her score from all that, not when the next series of wickets were in the exact opposite direction, and she would have to backtrack to get through the one Matthew was currently tapping his own ball through with ease.
The sound of the mallet against the ball brought her attention back to him, and he watched her with a small grin, having completed what had to be the safest shot through a wicket ever made. “Well?” he prodded. “Are you going to retaliate, or have I won?”
The taunting only furthered her resolve, and she sneered at him as she went traipsing off after the ball in the woods. “If you prefer your victories by cheating, then by all means, call yourself the winner. I, however, will play by the rules.”
“Since when?” he laughed as he jogged after her. “You’ve turned bending the rules into a form of artistic sculpture.”
Abigail raised her chin, lifting her nose in the air superiorly. “I have matured, Matthew, unlike some other persons I know.”
He reached her side and hummed in thought. “I wasn’t aware maturity had a place in games and entertainment. What a fascinating discovery.”
She nudged him hard, pressing him off her path, and he went, still chuckling to himself. “You are a horrible human being and a poor excuse for a gentleman.”
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