Matilda laughed, knowing he was joking even though she suspected he worried about such things more than a little. “I think she will be happy and confident, knowing she has the world at her feet and an uncle ready to slay dragons for her if needs be.”
Montagu made a soft sound of amusement as he looked back out of the window. His expression was serious, though, and it occurred to her that she rarely saw him smile, let alone laugh. Those gentler expressions were seldom evident at all, but most often coaxed from him by his little niece. He was so rigidly controlled, never letting his guard fall. She knew it was rare for him to even bother with polite conversation, which she suspected he despised. Matilda believed she was one of the few people to whom he ever spoke candidly, and perhaps only because her opinion did not matter to the wider world. That was a lowering thought.
“And who slays your dragons, Miss Hunt?”
Matilda started at the question, remembering what she had said about Phoebe. Though she watched him closely, he did not turn back to her, his attention fixed on a spot in the far distance. There was no clue as to his feelings about the question, or the answer, yet he had asked.
“Myself, when I am able, but otherwise, my brother, I suppose. Where he can.”
Montagu nodded, as if he’d assumed as much. He turned to face her, his gaze as uncompromisingly direct as it always was. “It is disheartening to know I am the dragon of the piece. I always fancied myself the hero in such stories when I was a boy. I would have seen myself as your knight in shining armour, I’m sure, but then the nonsense we believe as children rarely has any place in reality, does it?”
There was a cold edge to the words that troubled Matilda, and she could not help but wonder what kind of boy he had been.
My word, you should have seen him as a boy, the face of an angel. It was impossible to believe him capable of the slightest wrongdoing, or to refuse him anything, and so I didn’t, and now you suffer the results of my foolishness.
His uncle’s words came back to her and she pushed them away, unsettled. She would not judge him on another man’s say so. Not even one who purported to be protecting her from danger. His uncle had not gained her trust, but to some extent Montagu had, a little at least.
“It is not nonsense to dream, my lord. Indeed, I believe the dreams we have as children are forgotten at our peril, for they are the hopes of our more innocent selves,” Matilda replied, taken aback by the bitterness of his words. “It is only a danger when we forget the difference between dreams and reality.”
The briefest flash of that elusive smile barely touched his lips and yet it stole her breath, all the more powerful for its exclusivity.
“I am always surprised to discover how romantic you are, Miss Hunt, even after all you have endured.”
“Endured?” she exclaimed, flushing and turning away from him, unsettled by her reaction to the smile, to his words. “Hardly that. I am most fortunate, and have an abundance of friends and family who care for me. I am not a desperate case, I assure you.”
Matilda busied herself with studying the fine craftsmanship of the carving in the intricate panelling, needing a moment to gather herself. She dared a glance back at him to see him tug at the cuffs of his shirt, first one, then the other, it seemed an oddly unconscious gesture from a man who seemed to never so much as arch an eyebrow without considering it first. He caught her watching him and stiffened. It was some time before he replied.
“And yet your dreams were stolen from you, first by your father, and then by me.”
“You give yourself too much credit, I’m sure.”
He did arch an eyebrow at that, every bit of his cool, aristocratic armour in evidence.
“Really?” he said, his incredulity blatant. “You’ve blamed me for your position many times before now. Rightly, I suppose. Have we rewritten history, or are you pretending it is no longer true?”
Matilda stared at him, confused, not knowing what she did mean, for he was correct. She had blamed him. He was to blame, and yet she knew now he could not have acted any other way. He could have been kinder certainly, he might have tried to mitigate the situation, but as he’d told her once, if he’d tried to protect her the people who had believed her innocent of wrongdoing might then have questioned it. For it would have been entirely out of character. Why would the cold Marquess of Montagu seek to protect her unless there had been an affair? It had taken her some time to see the truth behind those words, but there was truth all the same. No. He could not have done differently.
“No,” she said. “Nothing has changed except my understanding of you. I ought not have been there that night, despite the wretched circumstances. I knew it then and I know it now. My father and my brother share their portion of blame, but I have long since forgiven them. You were needlessly cruel, but you owed me nothing and I assure you I did not expect you to marry me to make things right. I never have been and never will be the kind of woman you must wed.”
She said it for her own benefit as much as because it was true, reminding herself of the gulf between them, and of the danger. As she watched his reaction to her words, he opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. His jaw was tight as he turned away from her, his face closed down. It seemed a long time before he spoke again, but she could not fill the void, conscious that he was on the verge of telling the truth, wanting desperately to hear it.
“I have tried these many months to get closer to you, to change your mind, to stop you from despising me, and now….”
Once again, he stopped, and she could sense the fierce tension within him, aware that he was warring with himself, with what he would let himself say. She longed for something that might reveal a glimmer of his true feelings. Suddenly she wanted to tell him she understood how difficult it was, but whatever battle had been fought, Matilda felt she had lost as he let out a breath and shook his head.
“We had best find Phoebe before she makes herself sick.”
“Montagu….”
Before she could think better of it, Matilda had reached out and taken his hand. He stilled utterly, staring at her gloved fingers curved around his. Whatever she had been about to say she could not remember, the words dying in her throat, her attention consumed by the warmth of his hand as it permeated the fabric separating their skin. She ought never to have touched him. The air between them seemed to shimmer, like the haze that made the world shift and distort on an unusually hot day. She only realised she was holding her breath when he spoke, his hand firming around her own.
“I wish I had not stolen your dreams, Matilda,” he said, his voice low, before lifting his silver gaze to hers. “But as they are lost to you, I give you fair warning, I will do all I can to replace them with my own.”
“I know,” she said, astonished she could speak at all when her breath was trapped in her lungs. He was so near, and her heart and body ached with the desire to close the gap between them. Fear licked at her senses as she realised just how dangerous this was.
“I dream of you.”
“Don’t,” she said, suddenly terribly afraid, afraid not only of how little she really knew of this man, but of how much she might risk to discover more.
“I wish I could stop. Order me to stop, Miss Hunt,” he demanded, his expression intent as he stared into her eyes. “I thought that I had begun this game, that I knew the rules, but I have forgotten how to play, or perhaps the rules are changing before I can learn the new ones. Is it you rewriting them, I wonder, or is it fate pulling our strings?”
Matilda shook her head, not knowing what to say, unable to believe he felt as out of control as she did whenever he was near.
“I am as helpless to stop it as I believe you are,” he continued, as he took a step closer to her, the fraying edge to his words making her believe he meant it, as unlikely as that seemed.
He was always in control, never made a move, said a word without intent, and yet….
“I was a fool to tell you I would be here,” Matilda exclaimed, kno
wing she had only made things a thousand times worse. If he was indeed playing outside the rules they had both known existed, then being alone with him was beyond dangerous. “There is no future for us and there is no point in pretending otherwise. It is foolish to dream of something that can never happen. It can only lead to misery.”
“You just told me our dreams are not nonsense, that we must hold on to them,” he countered, his grip on her hand growing tighter.
She shook her head, desperate now, needing to escape the desire in his eyes, the longing which echoed in her own heart. If she stayed any longer, she would reach for him.
“I said we should remember childish dreams, but not confuse them with reality.”
“All days are nights to see till I see thee, and nights bright days when dreams do show me thee.”
Matilda gave a startled laugh, a little hysterical at such romantic words, touched and dreadfully shaken. Her eyes filled with tears even though she knew she was a fool. He was closing the trap he had laid from the start, nothing more.
“Oh, a Shakespearean sonnet? Truly? You do not play fair, my lord.” She tried to make the words light-hearted and amused, but they rang out nervous and agitated.
“If I play, I play to win.”
“I am not a trophy to be put in a cabinet,” she protested, trying to hold onto the indignation she felt, to find the will to tug her hand free of his, to put some distance between them, but she was caught in the silver of his gaze, trapped there with him.
“I would not confine you, Matilda. I would never keep you in a cage. I would set you free, if you would only let me.”
“And what of your wife?” she demanded, remembering exactly what it was she was being offered here.
A flash of anger showed in his eyes and he shook his head. “My wife will know what is her affair, and what is not. Our kind do not marry for love. You know this. It is business, land and power and money. Do not pretend otherwise.”
“Yet, you will go to her bed, she will have your children.”
Yes, she thought, remember that. Spell it out so there can be no mistake, no pretence of romance when it is nothing but a sordid deception.
“Until I have my heirs, of course.”
Cold words, no softening to remove the sting, simply the truth. Reality, not dreams.
Matilda nodded, glad for the reminder, the sharp sting of realism. She would rather die than know he spent his nights with another, see another woman have the children she ached for. Even if she could bear all of that for the chance to be with him, everyone knew his opinion of siring bastards. The Barringtons were known for their rigid morality, for despising those who sired children outside of the marriage bed. He would not willingly give her the babies she longed for, and if they arrived as babies were wont to do, she could not be certain he would acknowledge them. If he acknowledged them they’d have a chance in society, but if not… She tugged her hand free. “I should be getting back. Everyone will wonder where I have gone. Good afternoon, my lord.”
“Matilda, don’t go….”
She ignored his call, hurrying away from him, seeing nothing of her surroundings until she was outside, drawing in lungfuls of clean, cold air as if she could purge herself of heat and desire and foolish dreams.
“Miss Hunt, you aren’t leaving?”
Matilda forced herself to appear calm, to put a smile on her face and hold her hands out to Phoebe. “Yes, dear. I had no idea I was to get such a lovely tour of the castle. I only came out for a walk, and my family will wonder where I am if I don’t return soon.”
The little girl’s face fell, and Matilda felt her heart clench. They ought not to use Phoebe as chaperone. She ought not be involved in this dreadful game of cat and mouse, no matter how much Matilda wished to see her, wished to be her friend. She could so easily love this funny, endearing child, but there was no possibility for her to do that. While her Uncle Monty wanted to make Matilda his mistress, there could be no friendship between them and, if he ever succeeded, Phoebe would be lost to her. It would not be at all proper for her to know her uncle’s paramour. Matilda battled away the tears that threatened and wiped a little smear of jam from the girl’s mouth with a finger.
“Was it a nice cake?”
“Lovely,” Phoebe said wistfully before giving Matilda a fierce hug. “Can I see you again?”
“I… I don’t know,” Matilda said, not wanting to deny her anything, but not wanting to lie. “Your uncle is a busy man, and I doubt I shall see him again for a while.”
“I wish you could come and stay with us at Dern, and I don’t care if I’m not supposed to say so.” Phoebe stepped away from Matilda and folded her arms, her pretty face mutinous. “I do wish it. I want to invite you. I am inviting you and I shan’t take it back, no matter if he scolds me for it. Uncle has invited lots of my friends to keep me company, but he has no friends, he’s always alone. You don’t want him to be alone all the time, do you, Miss Hunt? It can’t be good for a person to be always by themselves?”
Phoebe reached out and took Matilda’s hands, pleading in her eyes. Matilda stared back at her, speechless. How could she possibly answer?
“I’m afraid grown-ups have a lot of silly rules which are nonetheless very important, Phoebe,” she said gently. “And as much as I would love to visit you, I really cannot do so. It would get me into a lot of trouble, you see. And I’m sure your uncle isn’t always alone. I expect you have an army of servants, and no doubt he sees people after you have gone to bed. Just because you don’t see them, does not mean he does not have visitors or go out to socialise. I have seen him many times in town, at parties and balls.”
“Only if you will be there, I expect,” Phoebe said dully. “You’re right. Grown-ups are stupid. I’m sure you are both happier when you see each other. He looks forward to seeing you, I can tell, and… and you do like him, a little at least, don’t you? He’s really very kind, and not nearly so stern and proud as he seems. He hardly ever scolds me. Not properly, anyway.”
It was the hardest thing to keep her heart in check, to remind herself that Phoebe was seeing the world through the eyes of a child. She did not understand, could not comprehend the truth, the complexities of the world and adult emotions. Yet Matilda’s foolish heart yearned to believe and wanted so much to tell the girl that she liked her uncle very, very much, and she would visit in a heartbeat and ensure he was never alone again, if only she could.
“I’m certain he’s the very best of uncles, and yes, I do like him, of course, but now I must go. Goodbye, Phoebe. Enjoy the rest of your outing.”
With that she leaned in and kissed Phoebe’s cheek before she straightened and walked away, and did not look back.
Chapter 18
To Mr Gabriel Knight,
You owe me a debt.
Oh, the possibilities.
―Excerpt of a letter from Lady Helena Adolphus to Mr Gabriel Knight.
24th February 1815. Briar Cottage, Mitcham Village, Sussex.
Jemima lifted her head from the pillow at the sound of a soft knock on her bedroom door. Her eyes were hot from crying, and her brain seemed full of cotton wool.
“Come in,” she said, too listless to get up.
“Jem, dear, there’s a Lady Helena and a Mrs de Beauvoir here to see you. Shall I tell them you’re indisposed?”
“Minerva!” Jemima sat up so fast her head spun, and she clutched at the bed, closing her eyes.
“There now, that’s what you get for not eating a bite after such an upset, nor even a sip of tea, silly goose,” Violet scolded, clucking about her. “Do you wish to see the young ladies, then?”
“Yes. Oh, yes,” Jemima said, wanting nothing more than to pour out her troubles to Minerva. She wasn’t so certain about Helena, who had always rather intimidated her, but surely Minerva wouldn’t have brought her here, knowing her situation, if she didn’t believe Helena would be sympathetic to Jemima’s predicament. “Help me tidy myself up, please, Violet.”
&
nbsp; Five minutes later, Violet had made her hair look somewhat less dishevelled, though there was little to be done with her complexion, which was pale and blotchy from crying, nor her eyes, which were red from the same cause. Her dress was crumpled too, but she did not wish to keep her friends waiting. They would understand soon enough, and forgive her for not looking her best.
The moment Jemima opened the door and saw Minerva’s face fall at the sight of her, she knew it would be all right.
“Oh, Jem, whatever has happened?” she cried and opened her arms. Jemima fell into them and sobbed against Minerva’s shoulder as Helena pressed a handkerchief into her hand. Jemima shot her an anxious glance, to which Helena returned a soft smile.
“I shouldn’t be here if your situation bothered me, Jemima. I know we aren’t close, but I should like to change that, if you’d allow me.”
“You know, then?” Jemima said, sniffing and making use of the pretty handkerchief, which smelled faintly of lily of the valley.
Helena nodded. “Minerva explained a little, for which I hope you’ll forgive her, but she only did because she knew I wouldn’t give a damn. I don’t give a snap of my fingers for what society thinks. I won’t give up a friend for any reason if I don’t wish to, and I don’t wish to, Jemima.”
Jemima gave a startled laugh and realised Minerva had been right. Helena was not the haughty, spoilt heiress she appeared on the surface. There was far more to her than that. Helena leaned in and hugged Jemima, so she was enveloped between her two friends, their support lending her the courage she’d been lacking since her dreadful row with Solo.
Mrs Attwood brought in tea, a large fruitcake and plates full of biscuits, with a pointed remark that Jemima had eaten nothing and would likely swoon if she didn’t soon, before she left them alone. Minerva sat close to her, hugging her at intervals as Jemima told them as much as she felt she could of her sorry tale without embarrassing Solo or giving them a story which was not entirely hers to tell. Helena poured tea and gently plied her with dozens of tiny slices of cake until she’d likely eaten half a plum cake without even realising it.
To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9) Page 20