Bending down, the baroness pressed a kiss to Mattie’s forehead, then rose and stood with the perfect posture many a young lady struggled to obtain. “Come. It is nearly time to go in to dinner, and I am certain our guest will have arrived.”
Mattie rose from her chair, reaching up to run a finger along a feather in her hair, then followed her mother from the room.
Beatrice’s laughter floated up from the first floor, where the dining room and parlor were located. Mattie and her mother exchanged a look, both realizing what it meant.
“Whatever will we do with our girl?” her mother asked, weariness in her tone. She descended the steps with her arm linked through Mattie’s.
They entered the parlor, and Mattie’s eyes found Oliver quite on accident. He stood at the window, eyes on the street below, his shoulder against the casement. Candlelight made his dark hair glow, and his folded arms made his dinner jacket pull rather attractively across his shoulders. She realized the colors they’d worn were rather complimentary and blushed as though she’d somehow contrived to make it so.
In that moment, he turned in her direction, as though sensing her study. Their eyes met and he immediately pushed away from the wall, standing straight, and one of his hands raised to tug at his cravat. Mattie couldn’t help but smile at that familiar habit. Oliver’s hand froze and he tucked it behind his back and he shrugged, as though to say, I cannot help it.
“Lady Granthorne, Miss Rayment. Good evening.” He made his bow.
“Mother,” Beatrice said, her voice ringing merrily through the room. “You ought to hear what Mr. Bolton and Matilda have been up to. I am sorry I missed all the entertainment.” Beatrice giggled again, covering the dainty sound with a slender hand.
Mattie turned her attention to Oliver, her heart aching. “Oh, we didn’t do a great deal. Nothing of true importance.”
Oliver didn’t say anything. Rather, his eyes were still trained on her, even when Beatrice began speaking of their engagements.
“They went to the theater, a ride in the park, he’s come to dinner, and even church. I think, had I known you would be here so often, I would’ve stayed in town rather than run off to the country.”
His eyes didn’t waver, though Mattie forced herself to turn away. The notion that he watched her almost lifted her spirits, but then, he’d been worried earlier in the day about her change in mood.
He is only concerned I am unwell, because he is kind. Thankfully, she could put a smile upon her face that felt almost natural.
The door opened, and her father entered. She glimpsed his valet in the hall and nodded her thanks to the man. Likely her father had lost track of time.
“Oh, good evening.” The baron bowed to their guest. Then he turned to his wife and went to her, reaching out. Mattie’s mother took his hand, and Mattie saw the love shining in her mother’s eyes, touched with a gentle sorrow most would not even see. The baron bowed over his wife’s hand and laid a kiss upon her knuckles.
“As always, my dear, you are most lovely.” The genuine affection in her father’s voice and manner warmed Mattie’s heart.
Oliver came away from his window to stand near her. He leaned her way and spoke quietly. “They are now as I always remember them.”
The simple statement, given without any sort of contrived tone or gesture, endeared him further to her.
“I am told dinner is ready,” the baron said to the room at large, and Mattie forced her eyes away from Oliver’s. “Shall we go in?” He offered his arm to his wife, and a momentary panic took hold of Mattie. She saw her mother hesitate but take her husband’s arm.
Mattie must go in after her parents, and Oliver would be forced to escort her instead of Beatrice. She felt she ought to apologize or make it clear she did not mind—
“Miss Rayment?” Oliver held his hand out to her, and he hadn’t hesitated even a second to do so. It was as though he never intended to take Beatrice to the table.
“Oh, yes. Thank you,” Mattie stammered, hastily giving him her hand and trying not to make anything of the gesture. Oliver was kind. He didn’t want to cause anyone discomfort. That was all it could mean.
Chapter Fifteen
Beatrice proved to be the most talkative person at the table during dinner. Oliver noticed she spoke with animation and spirit, directing most of her conversation to him. No one could call her anything other than gracious. But he missed Matilda’s conversation. Her dry and humorous observations, her delightful smile, had filled much of the last several days. The memories stirred by their time together had begun to emerge as long-forgotten treasures from a chest.
When he’d come to the neighborhood, it had been Matilda who took him about to meet the tenants, and she who had remembered to speak kind words to him on the anniversary of his parents’ deaths.
The ladies departed for the parlor without Matilda saying more than a handful of words at dinner, though he’d attempted to draw her out.
“My lord,” Oliver said once they were gone, his heart finally taking hold of him. “Might I have a word, before rejoining the ladies?”
Lord Grandthorne, on the verge of standing to do just that, lowered himself back into his chair. “You have something to say, young man?” he asked, fixing Oliver with a mock-stern expression. “Here, at the table? It isn’t a traditional location for a gentleman to declare himself.”
Oliver had to smile, noting the same dry wit in the baron as in the daughter. “I assure you, that is not my intention tonight, my lord.”
“But it may be in future?” the baron asked, proving that his mind retained some of its sharpness even if he grew forgetful.
An anxious sort of excitement shot through Oliver’s stomach at the thought. “Perhaps, my lord. But there are things I must see to first, and other conversations I must have. I wonder, my lord, if you would excuse me for this evening?”
The baron’s eyebrows raised at the unexpected request. “You are leaving? Now?”
Oliver couldn’t help but grin. “With your permission. I have come to understand your daughters are particular in the company they seek. I should like to prove I am capable of joining that society.”
“I doubt such things are as important as you seem to think to Mattie,” the baron said, surprising Oliver with the sudden brightening of his expression. “They say I forget many things, but I began to think I’d lost more than memory when my wife declared you were a suitor for my younger daughter.”
“Please, my lord. Say nothing yet.” Oliver could not be sure how things would work out, if Matilda even liked him in a manner more than what she’d shown. From the beginning of their interaction in London, he’d known she disapproved of him for Beatrice. Would she think him beneath herself as well? After all, she’d declared she had no interest in marrying.
“You have my promise.” The baron reached out to clasp Oliver on the shoulder. “But do not be long about your business, Oliver. She’s waited long enough.”
“Thank you, my lord. I will go as quickly as I can without misstep.” Oliver bowed. “Good evening.” And he hurried out of the room and to the ground floor, where a footman helped him find his coat and hat.
There were things he must do, and swiftly, if he wished to present his suit to the lady of his heart’s choice.
Chapter Sixteen
Wednesday evening arrived without Oliver making an appearance. Matilda lingered over her toilette, her thoughts distracted, long after the maid had finished arranging her hair. She held a feather in her hand, left on the little table from two nights before. She twirled it between her fingers, watching it twist in her grasp.
Oliver had sent a note Tuesday morning, begging her mother’s forgiveness, along with a basket of delicious fruits to atone for the sin of leaving a dinner party too early.
Mattie shook her head, remembering how easily Beatrice had taken the loss of a suitor with barely a shrug of regret. She didn’t seem to think on the loss of Mr. Redhurst with any ill humor, either.
Mattie finally stood and went to her window, looking down into the street. Horses and carriages moved along the cobbled road, filled with men and women in fine evening dress with little to vex them.
She ought to take a page from her sister’s book. It was best to continue holding her head aloft, smiling serenely, and letting no one guess at her own sentiments. Despite her desire to remain at home, she hadn’t even suggested the ladies of the house forgo their evening at Almack’s. Really, it would’ve been odd had she suggested such a thing after all the work she went to in order to procure their vouchers. She’d sent gifts and notes to each of the six patronesses, along with gentle promises of good behavior for herself and her sister, in order to make certain they were permitted to ascend to the ballroom.
Tonight she wore her favorite gown. Not because she cared what people saw, but because she needed the bravery the emerald creation lent her. In this gown she could stand in the presence of the royal family and be equal to the moment. And yet I feel so lost.
“A feather for you, miss?” her maid asked, spotting the thing in Mattie’s hand.
Mattie shook her head and laid the feather down on her table again. Taking up her fan, Mattie left the room and went down to join her sister and mother. Almack’s waited for no one.
In the entryway, her family stood, Father complimenting her mother and admonishing her not to dance with any dashing young men. Beatrice stood aside, eyes turned away from the scene. How was it that a sight which brought Mattie comfort served to do the very opposite to Beatrice?
After the goodbyes were said, the ladies entered their carriage and were away for an evening of dancing.
They arrived at the address on King’s Street behind a lengthy queue of carriages, their bobbing lamps moving like fairies in the night. Despite her desire to be practical, Mattie still felt the magic of evenings when the splendor of the ton glittered all about them.
Ladies in pale gowns and glittering jewels filled the walkway, and gentlemen in black coats and tall hats guided them down the paths.
Mattie, her mother, and her sister joined the throngs. They presented their vouchers and were permitted entry into the upper rooms, where the bright light of candles reflecting off dozens of large mirrors made the room the brightest in London.
Beatrice opened her fan to hold it near her mouth, covering her words from all but Mattie. “I do hope someone asks me to dance. I cannot abide being without a partner for long. I do love dancing.”
“As do I,” Mattie murmured. Without the kind Mr. Redhurst giving attention to her sister, Mattie likely wouldn’t be dancing. She’d become too much of a fixture for anyone to take notice of her anymore, whether or not she wore her favorite gown.
“Miss Beatrice,” a voice said from behind, startling both sisters. They turned, a young gentleman of their acquaintance standing there. He bowed, despite the crush of people around them. “Might I claim your first dance?” He stepped closer and held his hand out to her, his eyes barely flicking to Mattie.
“Mr. Whitby,” Beatrice said, batting her eyelashes. “Yes, of course.” Beatrice’s perfectly pink lips quirked upward, and she put her hand in his.
Letting out a puff of exasperation, Mattie watched them leave for the dance floor. She opened her fan, more for something to do than any need to cool herself, and paused when she realized she’d picked up the wrong accessory. This was not her white lattice fan, but the one made with feathers. She hadn’t noticed in her haste to leave her room that evening. It didn’t even match her gown.
Mattie turned to find her mother and was startled to see they had been separated by the crowd. Moving carefully through the throngs, attempting to be graceful when in reality she was dodging between elbows and skirts, Mattie had nearly arrived at her mother’s side when a hand caught her elbow, stopping her.
Preparing a sharp retort at being handled, Mattie faced the person who had dared to grasp her—
Oliver. Here?
He grinned. “Miss Rayment.”
She realized her mouth hung open and snapped it shut, then cast her eyes about to see if anyone else was watching.
“You said you didn’t have vouchers,” she said, her voice squeaking at the very last word. Why had he come? Was he here to see Beatrice? Had he sneaked inside?
“When I said that, it was true.” The good humor in his voice and the warmth of his hand still upon her arm nearly gave her leave to relax. But his nearness, the dimple in his cheek, and the way he gave her his full attention in the crowded ballroom made her rather unsteady.
Mattie stepped closer to him, telling herself it was only to make easier conversation. While his proximity unnerved her, she sought to be closer. For at least a moment.
“You haven’t come to visit or sent word,” she said, voice lowered. Then she bit her lip. She sounded like her sister berating a suitor.
His eyes sparkled down at her. “I thought you were trying to be rid of me?”
Her cheeks warmed, and she looked down at his waistcoat. Of course he knew that. “I did a very poor job of achieving it, seeing you as often as I did.” Mattie glanced toward the whirling couples in the center of the room. “Beatrice is dancing now, and the next set, but if you ask her after—” Oliver stepped closer.
“I haven’t come to dance with Beatrice.” He said the words gently, giving each one a weight of significance Mattie could not ignore. She raised her eyes, keeping her head lowered.
“If you have come for the refreshment, I must warn you, it is vastly disappointing.”
His eyes widened, and a laugh escaped him, earning them a few glances. “Then it is a good thing I haven’t any intention of seeking out the food.”
The hand at her arm moved down to her wrist, then his fingers entwined with hers. “Will you dance with me, Miss Rayment?” He lowered his voice, his eyes alight with an emotion she could not put a name to. “Matilda?”
“I—yes. Yes.” She stumbled over the simple acceptance, her body swaying toward him. Mattie didn’t understand what was going on, or how Oliver had gained admittance to Almack’s, or why he no longer sought out Beatrice. But her heart was aglow with hope that somehow it had to do with her.
Oliver led her onto the floor. The dance wasn’t complicated; it was a reel, necessitating that they change partners several times. But he never took his eyes off her, and Mattie could not remove hers from him either. The skipping ladies, the clapping gentlemen, all became muted. The world around them was nothing more than a landscape, and Oliver and Mattie were the subjects of a masterpiece she did not quite understand.
She took a moment in the dance to ask, her curiosity overcoming her, “When did you get vouchers to Almack’s? And how?”
“I spent two days going from one patroness to another,” he answered when he took her hands, as the dance called for it. “Begging them to let me in so I could prove my worth to a certain lady.”
Her heartbeat almost doubled the rhythm of the dance. His worth had nothing to do with his fortune, or his ability to enter the upper rooms of society. It had everything to do with his kindness, his smile, and the care he showed everything he touched.
At the end of the dance, Oliver took her from the floor and out of the room. The scandal of being seen leaving with a gentleman hardly made an impression on her. Mattie found she cared only for what Oliver wished to say. In a moment they stood behind a corner of the hall, people still near and servants walking to and fro.
“Oliver,” she said the moment they paused, delighting in speaking his Christian name once more. “Almack’s doesn’t mean a thing to me. I needed admittance for Beatrice. All the trouble you went through to be here—thank you.”
Oliver’s deep-green eyes studied her, as though committing every detail of her expression to memory. “I know you do not think me a suitable match for your sister,” he said, his tone most serious. “But I must ask if it might be possible, someday when I have made more of my estate and myself, if I might be a suitable match for you.”
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Mattie’s breath caught. “Me?” she asked, the word coming out as a whisper.
His brows drew together, and his expression turned more earnest. “You, Matilda. In the time I spent in your company, I’ve realized how much I’ve always enjoyed being near you. You are intelligent, practical, and graceful. And you are honest, kind, and direct.” Then his lips twitched upward. “And I rather adore your sense of humor.”
Oliver wanted her. But of all the things he’d said, he hadn’t mentioned the one most important to her in that moment.
“But is that all, Oliver? Is there any other reason—?”
“I suppose there is one,” he admitted, and as he leaned closer her heart raced. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
Mattie grasped his hands tightly in her own, wanting nothing more than to throw her arms around him, to dance or sing in her delight. “Oh, Oliver.”
Oliver grinned and leaned down, as if he would kiss her in that very moment.
Someone cleared her throat from very near, causing Mattie to jump and look over her shoulder. Beatrice stood only a few feet away, one hand on her hip and eyebrows raised.
“Perhaps you ought to escort my sister home, Mr. Bolton, to look in on our father.” Beatrice’s lips slowly turned upward. “Before she’s accused of being a flirt.” She waved them down the hall. “I will make your excuses for you.”
Despite the heat in her cheeks, Mattie smiled her thanks at her sister, and Oliver drew her with him to the steps.
“I hope your father is well,” he said loudly as they asked for his carriage to be brought around. “It is my pleasure to escort you home.”
Mattie refrained from giggling at his dramatics, as there were few enough people about to even notice what they were up to. The moment they were inside Oliver’s hired carriage, him sitting across from her and reaching for her hand, she finally laughed.
An Evening at Almack's Page 8