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
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
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