by Donna Hatch
Matilda paused. “I…” she watched him with searching eyes, as if trying to choose an answer that would please him. “I suppose I would like to, a little, especially if my future husband wishes to do so. But I’d also be content to stay home with my children when the time comes.” She shot an almost panicked expression at Genevieve, looking for reassurance.
Genevieve nodded her encouragement lest Matilda become overset about a perceived failure. Matilda’s features relaxed and she returned her focus to Mr. Amesbury to judge his reaction.
He nodded and said, “I hope you are successful.”
As the mutton chop gentleman wound down his description, Genevieve murmured a suitable reply and turned her focus back to her friend and her intended beau. A brief uncomfortable silence had fallen between them.
Genevieve rushed to the rescue. “Do you have any desire to travel, Mr. Amesbury?”
He paused and cast a glance down the table at his father. “I doubt my responsibilities will allow me that luxury.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can if you really wish to do so.” Matilda touched his hand and then withdrew her touch lest it be viewed as inappropriate. “Surely your father can do without you while you travel. A grand tour, perhaps?” Her face clouded. “That would take a goodly amount of time, though, wouldn’t it?”
“Regretfully, a grand tour is out of the question at present,” he said, his deep voice filled with regret. “I cannot be away that long.”
Quietly, Genevieve asked, “What is it that ties you here?”
When he glanced at her, everything inside her went still. She’d almost forgotten how blue his eyes were, like the blue of a summer afternoon sky. His lips parted, again, filling her with visions of kisses.
What was wrong with her? Her self-appointed task was to ensure he was good enough for Matilda, not fantasize about kissing him. What kind of disloyal tart had she become?
He hesitated before speaking, “I don’t dare leave with the earl’s health so poor.”
Interesting that he referred to his father as ‘the earl.’ “Because you oversee estate matters for him?” she asked.
Matilda cocked her head. “But you’re the youngest. Doesn’t one of your older brothers do that?”
His posture grew rigid. “They are all either out of the country or otherwise indisposed,” he said stiffly as if he viewed her question as mildly insulting. The comment about him being the youngest, perhaps? But why should that irritate him?
He gentled his voice. “I’ve been doing it for years. I know how my father wishes matters to be handled.”
“So, you don’t travel lest the entire earldom fall into disrepair?” Genevieve gave him a teasing smile to soften the impertinent question.
He blinked, and his mouth curved, his body and features relaxing. “That, and to ensure the earl follows doctor’s orders.” A wry tone touched his voice.
She nodded. “How well I understand that. Mama doesn’t always remember her medicine and must be coaxed into taking her walks and her naps. My dear Papa doesn’t keep it straight, and the servants are too easily disregarded.”
Matilda giggled. “Genevieve’s mama calls her ‘little mother’ because she can be such a hen.” She smiled at Genevieve.
For some reason, that interjection rankled. Surely Mattie meant it to be kind, or funny, and not condescending. Remembering her other dinner partner, lest she be considered neglectful, she turned to the mutton chop gentleman, but he’d turned his head to the lady on his other side and launched into a story about a herd that had stampeded.
From down the table, a dark-haired gentleman who had spoken with monotone voice looked her way. As their eyes met, he lifted his glass to her and gave her a kind smile.
After politely nodding at the gentleman whose name she could not recall, she returned her focus to Mr. Amesbury. He offered well-thought-out answers to Matilda’s queries, even posing a few questions of his own. Contrary to his reticence that afternoon, he was much more engaging this evening. Perhaps he wished for solitude when he painted but expected conversation at dinner. Nothing in his manner gave Genevieve reason to disapprove of a match between him and her friend; therefore, there was no reason why she should continue to ask him questions designed to reveal his character.
Yet he fascinated her. She held her tongue so as not to intrude on Mattie’s dialogue with him. Unfortunately, her friend continued to rain besotted expressions upon Mr. Amesbury. In turn, the object of her affections grew more and more stiff and quiet as dinner progressed. Was he uncomfortable with Matilda’s openness, or did he fail to return her obvious preference for him?
Oh, dear. If he didn’t return her feelings, Mattie would be crushed. True, she’d developed a ‘grand passion’ for any number of other gentlemen, but if this were real love, she would not so easily recover. Perhaps Genevieve could help Mr. Amesbury see Matilda’s many qualities and why she’d make a desirable wife.
Dinner ended and the ladies left the gentlemen to their brandy and snuff. As she trailed out the door, Genevieve glanced over her shoulder. Christian Amesbury had declined snuff and picked up his half-full wineglass from dinner rather than accept port. Good. He seemed to lack many of the vices of other men. Genevieve left the room, plotting how she could help matters between Matilda and her chosen love.
An instant before she stepped out of the dining room door, another pair of eyes caught her attention. Lord Wickburgh, the thin elegant gentleman, eyed the entire length of her. She almost put her hands in front of her to ward off his improper stare. Genevieve hurried out.
As she followed the group of ladies to the drawing room, she cast off the improper stare Lord Wickburgh had given her. Instead, she turned over possible matchmaking encounters for her friend. Not being privy to planned activities, she couldn’t very well arrange romantic meetings between Matilda and Mr. Amesbury. Perhaps the next time she had the opportunity to converse with Mr. Amesbury, Genevieve would mention Mattie’s many accomplishments, and how kind she was and what a good wife and mother she’d make. Would that appeal to him?
She reviewed his qualities, what she knew of them. Responsible, judging by the way he managed his father’s vast estate. Devoted, since he cared so much for his father. Respectful and thoughtful, by the way he spoke after giving careful consideration. Artistic, obviously. Cautious, if he had not yet made up his mind about Matilda. And sensitive that he was the youngest, which implied he’d been mercilessly teased by his older brothers, and perhaps snubbed by a lady of his choice who sought a marriage with an heir.
Genevieve set her teeth. A sudden desire to give a scathing set down to that unknown lady who’d mistreated such a kind gentleman seized her with such force that it quite halted her steps. Surely the love of a good woman would heal his wounded heart. Matilda’s love, of course.
Perhaps those traits which he possessed were those he desired in a bride. Genevieve would simply have to ensure those sides of Matilda’s personality surfaced in his presence. Matilda could be responsible, devoted, respectful. And while she lacked his artistic skills, she was an accomplished pianist. He was quiet and reserved compared to Matilda’s enthusiasm and zeal for life, and that made them complementary.
Matilda appeared at her side. “What are you doing?” she said sotto voce. “Trying to make me look bad?”
Halting, Genevieve turned to her friend. “What do you mean?”
Clearly struggling against tears, Matilda tugged her arm to draw her away from the others. “You kept asking him all kinds of questions and hanging on his every word.”
If Matilda had struck her, Genevieve would not have been as surprised. “Mattie, how can you say such a thing? I was only trying to help keep the conversation going for your sake. For a few moments, you both seemed uncomfortable.”
Matilda blinked back her tears but still looked uncertain. “Then you meant nothing else by it?”
“Well, I admit I was trying to learn more about him so as to make a better determination of his charact
er. I must satisfy myself that he’s good enough for you. A handsome face and ancient family lineage are not enough to ensure a happy marriage, and I want you to be happy.”
Pink colored Matilda’s pretty, round cheeks and she chewed her lower lip. “Oh.”
“Did I do something wrong?” Genevieve touched her arm and peered carefully into Matilda’s eyes. Where Christian Amesbury’s eyes were the crystal blue of a cloudless winter sky, Matilda’s reminded Genevieve of a deep mountain lake.
Matilda let out a half-laugh, half-sound of distress. “No, Jenny, you’ve done nothing wrong. Forgive me. I’m afraid I questioned your motives and became a bit jealous. I shouldn’t have.”
“Jealous? Whatever for? You know I’d never come between you and your happiness.”
Matilda’s eyes grew shiny. “Oh, I know, but you’re so beautiful. Most of the men in the room couldn’t keep their eyes off you tonight. I’d forgotten how much they always do that.”
“Oh, what a lot of poppycock! You’re a perfect china doll. If you and Mr. Amesbury make a match of it, you’ll have beautiful children, with big blue eyes and golden hair.”
After fishing her handkerchief out of her reticule, Matilda dabbed at her nose. “You don’t know what it’s like going to social events with you, watching everyone stare at you and fall all over themselves to talk to you.”
“Stop exaggerating. You are never at a loss for partners and you know it. My entire reason for being here is to spend time with you and to help you secure the proposal you desire. We need a plan.”
Matilda’s face lightened and she put away her handkerchief. They entered the drawing room painted to appear made of sand-colored bricks. Murals of white-clad, dark-eyed Egyptians wearing dark eye paint and posed with their arms bent at the elbows such as one would expect to see in a pyramid covered every wall.
Matilda made a dismissive wave at the decorating style. “Father’s latest passion is Egypt… stuff.” She led Genevieve to a settee carved curiously to resemble an Egyptian sarcophagus. “Now, then. What do you suggest?”
They sat with their heads together, discussing ways to feature Matilda’s accomplishments and personality to her full advantage. To her credit, Matilda did an admirable job of keeping her voice down despite her energy while Genevieve made every helpful suggestion that came to her.
“What are you two whispering and giggling about?” Mrs. Widtsoe asked as she approached.
They both straightened guiltily. As Matilda blushed, Genevieve said, “We were speculating on what activity you have planned for this evening and what our role ought to be.”
Matilda’s mother smiled as if she knew the truth. “When the gentlemen arrive, I thought a few games of charades would be in order.”
“How delightful,” Genevieve said. “Perhaps until then, Matilda might favor us with a few pieces on the pianoforte so that the gentlemen can enjoy it as they arrive.” She shot a meaningful look at Matilda.
“Oh!” Her friend sprang up, honey curls bobbing. “Yes, of course. You’re so clever, Jenny.” She went immediately to the pianoforte in the corner, surrounded by carved black Egyptian cats, and began a sonata.
Mrs. Widtsoe let out a contented sigh, her focus riveted on Matilda. With the setting sun bathing Matilda in golden light, filtered by sheer curtains over the windows, and a dreamy smile, she created a picture of such beauty that Mr. Amesbury would be a fool not to appreciate the sight.
“I hope she catches him,” Mrs. Widtsoe said softly.
Genevieve stood next to her friend’s mother and said in a low voice so as not to be overheard by other guests. “Mr. Amesbury?”
She nodded. “She certainly has set her cap at him. I hope she isn’t in for another heartbreak.”
Genevieve hoped so, as well. If only Matilda didn’t give her heart away on a whim so often. Perhaps she couldn’t help it. After all, deep down inside, everyone desires to be loved.
And Mr. Amesbury seemed easy to love.
“He seems a fine man,” Genevieve offered.
“Young, but much to recommend him.”
Genevieve smiled. Apparently, Mrs. Widtsoe shared Mama’s opinion that most men were too young for the role of husband and father until the age of thirty. Mr. Amesbury looked as if he were only in his mid-twenties. “He seems steady and responsible, despite his youth.”
“I believe you’re right.” The older lady’s smile turned sheepish as she met Genevieve’s gaze. “And one of the most handsome young men in all of Christendom.”
“Oh, indeed.” Genevieve returned her gaze to Matilda. It would not do to reveal the depth of her agreement with the lady’s opinion. From now on, she’d dedicate herself to showing Mr. Amesbury all the many ways her friend deserved his consideration and love.
Chapter 4
When Christian followed the gentlemen into the drawing room to join the ladies, he glanced at his father. The earl moved slowly, his shoulders rounded in signs of fatigue.
Christian spoke softly so the men wouldn’t overhear. “Shall I take you to your room, sir?”
“No need. I’m well enough.”
“You look tired. We traveled all day; there’s no shame in wishing to rest—”
“Yes, well, I came to spend time with friends, not hibernate in my room like an old bear.”
Christian said nothing further. He’d get more insistent if his father appeared to be overtaxing himself. Still, the light in his eyes was an improvement over the apathy of most of the past year. Perhaps this house party would revive him.
The sweet chords of piano music beckoned to Christian as someone played with admirable passion and sensitivity. He entered the drawing room and paused to admire the Egyptian décor. The colors had been blended with skill to paint realistic-looking clay bricks. The Egyptian people, larger than life-size, were a bit stark but a fair imitation of their original inspiration.
Father looked mildly amused. “Egypt seems to be all the rage these days.”
The last rays of evening sunlight slanted in through the windows and cast a glow on Miss Widtsoe sitting at the pianoforte, burnishing her gold curls and making her white gown luminescent. She was the creator of such a heartfelt performance? Surprising. But it shouldn’t have been. She obviously held a great emotion under questionable restraint.
Seeing her in the unusual setting, bathed in sunlight, Christian paused, considering her portrait. He would have her turned sideways on the bench, not playing, but looking as if she had just completed a piece and was about to stand to receive her applause. It would reveal her talent for music and show her figure to full advantage. He’d give her face an angelic glow. Yes, that should please her and her parents. And her future husband—whomever that may be.
Off to one side, watching Miss Widtsoe with an expression of almost maternal pride, stood Miss Genevieve Marshall. She exuded an aura of innocence and serenity as well as a restraint that her friend lacked. Her russet hair lit by sunlight created a dazzling contrast to her peaceful expression. Delicate as a pixie, she belonged in a garden surrounded by flowers and waterfalls. Yes, that’s how he’d paint her if he were commissioned to do so, though it would be inappropriate to paint her without permission.
“Pretty girls,” the earl murmured. “Have you chosen a favorite or do you want them both?”
Christian’s face flashed hot. “No.”
“No matter. Plenty of options here, including the maids.” He winked.
Christian drifted to an empty space near a group of men who were still engrossed in a discussion over the declining health of the king and whether the Prince Regent would become less dissipated once he took the throne.
Nearby, three young ladies whose names he couldn’t remember sat discussing something about bonnets with Italian flowers, whatever those were. Miss Widtsoe’s piano music blended with snatches of conversation that swelled and ebbed around him like an ocean current.
Miss Marshall sat in a nearby group of girls. She glanced over her shoulder at him
but returned her gaze to the group. “Doesn’t Miss Widtsoe play beautifully?”
The girls all murmured their agreement.
“She sings like an angel as well,” she added. “Perhaps someone should play for her so she can entertain us.”
“Do you play, Miss Marshall?” asked one of the girls.
“Oh, not well enough to accompany a singer of Miss Widtsoe’s talent.”
“Mr. Amesbury plays, don’t you?” someone said.
His face flushed under the focus of so many pairs of eyes. “Er, yes.”
Miss Marshall clasped her hands together. “Oh, that’s perfect.”
He winced. There was that word. He needed to build up an immunity to that word.
“You could play, and she could sing. You will, won’t you? Please?”
The earnest pleading in Miss Marshall’s big brown eyes, not to mention her exquisite face, propelled him into action. He stood. “If that is your wish.”
She smiled and he almost took a step back from the sheer brilliance. A dark corner of his soul seemed cleaner somehow, less dark, from that single blast of pristine joy. She beckoned to him and led the way to the pianoforte just as Miss Widtsoe ended the piece she’d been performing.
“Matilda, Mr. Amesbury has agreed to accompany you as you sing. Will you do it?”
Miss Widtsoe’s eyes widened and her tooth-revealing smile appeared. “Oh, I’d be happy to. Do you know ‘The Soldier’s Adieu’?”
“I know it in the key of B-flat.”
She beamed. “That’s well within my range.”
Christian glanced at Genevieve Marshall, but she’d already taken a seat nearby. She faced forward as if anticipating her favorite opera rather than an informal and impromptu performance in a room full of people more absorbed in conversation than music.
As he played an introduction, Miss Widtsoe glanced over her shoulder at him, adoration clear in her cobalt eyes. How the deuce was he to make it clear he didn’t return her affections? Accompanying her as she sang certainly wasn’t helping his cause. His gaze strayed to Miss Marshall again. She’d set him up, the little matchmaker. He’d have to be wary of her, too. As he reached the vocal beginning, he nodded to Miss Widtsoe. She began to sing and did, indeed, have a lovely voice. He followed her carefully to give her full advantage.