Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) by Grace Burrowes Page B
Authors: Grace Burrowes
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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?”
“The earl is a neighbor at a distance up north, and a friend of sorts. He’s one of few people I know in London, and I didn’t want to
offend him, though I’d rather not dine at his club again.”
Matilda’s mood had shifted in the last few moments, from drowsy and kissable, back to the landlady with much to do. When her workbasket was
tidy, she closed and locked both windows.
“I’ll wish you good night, Mr. Fenwick.”
“I’ll wish you sweet dreams, Matilda.”
He was halfway out the door, the scent of overcooked steak perfuming the stairway, when he turned.
“I will go to my fate in less than two weeks, Matilda. You needn’t worry that I’ll tarry here and make a nuisance of myself. Any fool can
see you treasure your independence and suffered greatly to arrive at it. I have no designs on your freedom. I well know how precious that freedom
is.”
She blew out that last candle, plunging the parlor into darkness, save for what light leaked down from the sconce on the floor above.
“I will never surrender that freedom, Ashton. Not for all the kisses in the kingdom, not for gold sovereigns raining down from the sky, not for a
palace or a crown. I’m glad you grasp that.”
Ashton bowed and made his way down the steps. In the dark, he delivered the ruined meat to the kitchen, then returned to his apartment, Matilda’s
final words ringing in his head.
She’d told him much in those few sentences.
First, she wasn’t interested in marriage to
anybody
, which was a consolation. Her objection wasn’t to him, it was to an institution in
which she was bitterly disappointed.
Second, she and Ashton had in common a taste for self-reliance and independence. He respected that about her, even as it made him wonder about her past.
Third, she had no family worth the name. Ashton wasn’t contemplating marriage for money, prestige, or power. He was marrying because his family
needed him to, and for them, he’d do anything. Family had betrayed Matilda Bryce, and what a bleak, unfathomable loneliness she must carry as a
result.
Finally, Matilda Bryce wasn’t interested in surrendering her freedom, but she’d not rejected the possibility of a brief, pleasurable indulgence
with somebody who had no aspirations toward a greater commitment.
Ashton hadn’t rejected
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?”
“The earl is a neighbor at a distance up north, and a friend of sorts. He’s one of few people I know in London, and I didn’t want to
offend him, though I’d rather not dine at his club again.”
Matilda’s mood had shifted in the last few moments, from drowsy and kissable, back to the landlady with much to do. When her workbasket was
tidy, she closed and locked both windows.
“I’ll wish you good night, Mr. Fenwick.”
“I’ll wish you sweet dreams, Matilda.”
He was halfway out the door, the scent of overcooked steak perfuming the stairway, when he turned.
“I will go to my fate in less than two weeks, Matilda. You needn’t worry that I’ll tarry here and make a nuisance of myself. Any fool can
see you treasure your independence and suffered greatly to arrive at it. I have no designs on your freedom. I well know how precious that freedom
is.”
She blew out that last candle, plunging the parlor into darkness, save for what light leaked down from the sconce on the floor above.
“I will never surrender that freedom, Ashton. Not for all the kisses in the kingdom, not for gold sovereigns raining down from the sky, not for a
palace or a crown. I’m glad you grasp that.”
Ashton bowed and made his way down the steps. In the dark, he delivered the ruined meat to the kitchen, then returned to his apartment, Matilda’s
final words ringing in his head.
She’d told him much in those few sentences.
First, she wasn’t interested in marriage to
anybody
, which was a consolation. Her objection wasn’t to him, it was to an institution in
which she was bitterly disappointed.
Second, she and Ashton had in common a taste for self-reliance and independence. He respected that about her, even as it made him wonder about her past.
Third, she had no family worth the name. Ashton wasn’t contemplating marriage for money, prestige, or power. He was marrying because his family
needed him to, and for them, he’d do anything. Family had betrayed Matilda Bryce, and what a bleak, unfathomable loneliness she must carry as a
result.
Finally, Matilda Bryce wasn’t interested in surrendering her freedom, but she’d not rejected the possibility of a brief, pleasurable indulgence
with somebody who had no aspirations toward a greater commitment.
Ashton hadn’t rejected
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