“I beg your pardon.” Theresa made use of the handkerchief, passed it back to him, and wrapped her hand around his elbow. “Now we might stumble around in the dark as one.”
“You are so wonderfully tart, madam. Like a bracing lemonade punch on a hot, dull day.”
“Food is very important to you, isn’t it? And yet I can’t liken you to any one single dish or drink.”
“Perhaps I am like that marvelous cake you served. Tall, sweet, and elegant.”
More teasing—Theresa had nearly forgot that adults could tease each other. “How can I trifle with your arrogance without insulting my dessert? Are you also perhaps sinfully rich, wickedly decadent?”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Theresa regretted them. They were the mindless banter of a sophisticate, a tease, a woman who might be trolling for custom, and who might not.
“Are you flirting with me?” He sounded hopeful. They had wound their way around the south side of the house to the gardens bordering the back lawns.
“I don’t mean to.” Theresa’s days of purposefully courting perdition were long past. “I do beg your pardon.”
She dropped his arm and walked off a few paces to settle on a worn wooden love seat. She realized the error of that decision when Mr. Belmont simply sat himself down beside her, and let a silence bloom between them.
“Here.” He shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders with a gentle brush of his hands down her arms. “The air is cooler than I had anticipated.”
“Mr. Belmont, you ought not,” Theresa began tiredly, but the warmth and spicy scent of him were seeping into her from his coat. To be the object of such consideration felt wretchedly lovely.
Also absolutely, shamefully wrong.
* * *
Matthew lounged back and crossed his ankles, prepared for Miss Jennings to finish a wonderful evening on a sour note.
“I believe you are working up to more of that tartness that I find so intriguing,” he said. “If you’re trying to offer a set-down, you’d best adopt another tactic.”
“I am out of practice,” she said. “You can tease and flirt and make pleasant conversation by the hour, and yet for me…. I’d forgotten what an effort it is.”
“You needn’t make an effort with me, Miss Jennings,” Matthew said when it became obvious she would say no more. “I am a simple man who appreciates his friends and the many blessings of his bucolic existence. I mean no offense with my remarks.”
“None taken.”
In that terse phrase, Matthew heard a world of resignation, loneliness, and weariness, emotions with which he had become all too familiar. On impulse, he took Miss Jennings’s hand in his, surprised at how cold her fingers were, and equally surprised that she let him. Emboldened by her acquiescence, he laid a careful arm around her shoulders, saying nothing, merely holding her against the heat of his body.
For a brief eternity, she was still, tacitly resisting, but then, on a soft sigh, she let her head rest on his shoulder and relaxed against him.
The moon rose higher, clearing the horizon and bathing the world in benevolent, silvery light.
This was what Matthew longed for. Not to tease, flirt, or banter, not to toss inane compliments at Miss Jennings, or match wits with her prickly nature and lively mind. He wanted simply to hold her, and watch the moon rise silently over the lovely autumn landscape.
* * *
By the time Theresa reached the sanctuary of the nursery, Priscilla was fast asleep.
“She’s exhausted from her great adventure,” Alice said, taking one of the rocking chairs by the hearth in the playroom. “She did very well at dinner, though Mr. Belmont is a treasure. Any girl would be on her best behavior around him.”
Theresa took the other rocker, for Alice’s interrogation would start any moment. “Not you too, Alice.” Alice was a treasure. Theresa had no idea how she’d managed before the shy, bookish Alice Portman had become Priscilla’s governess.
“Your brother is to be complimented on his friends,” Alice replied. “I liked the viscount, but he had too much dash for me. Mr. Belmont is salt of the earth in a very handsome package.”
Handsome hardly mattered compared to the knowledge in Matthew Belmont’s eyes, the quiet sense of—
Oh, dear. “Alice Portman, are you smitten?”
“Most assuredly not, but neither am I dead yet, and you would be a fool, Theresa Jennings, not to admit that man could be interested in you.”
Theresa had been the crown princess of fools until Priscilla had come along.“What if he is interested? I know what comes of gentlemen who are interested, Alice, as well as you do. A lot of clammy-handed groping, foul breath, and misery.”
From most men. Theresa had met a few of the other kind. Priscilla’s father had had more to recommend him than that. Somewhat more. He’d at least asked if she’d known how to prevent conception.
“You call your only child misery, Theresa?”
Friends were a blessing, even if they failed utterly to provide sympathy and commiseration when a woman badly needed both.
“My daughter is a bastard.” Theresa never used the word in Priscilla’s hearing, and never entirely forgot it either. “She will know a great deal of misery because I let some handsome young fellow be interested in me.” A handsome, kind-hearted, well-placed fellow, whom Theresa had carefully chosen, which only made the memory worse.
“You let the wrong fellow be interested in you. Mr. Belmont is honorable.”
“You can tell this, how?” They kept their voices down from long habit, but Theresa had nearly wailed the question. “By the elegant fit of his evening attire? By his genial repartee? By the way his sapphire cravat pin complements his marvelous blue eyes? By his appetite for chocolate cake?”
Alice peered over at Theresa, her governess-inquisition eyebrow cocked. “Did Mr. Belmont make untoward advances?”
“He did not.” Whatever Mr. Belmont had been about on that moonlit bench, it hadn’t been advances. His arm around Theresa’s shoulders had been comforting, also awkward.
She’d waited for his hands to wander, his mouth to smother hers, his conversation to turn beseeching and vulgar.
A star had fallen, the merest sigh of light against the soft, night sky. Theresa would not have seen that small miracle had Matthew Belmont not asked for a stroll in the garden. To share that fleeting wonder with him had been…
Theresa had no words for what that moment had been, no frame of reference for it at all.
Alice, however, was just full of words.
“Mr. Belmont is honorable,” Alice reiterated, nodding in agreement with herself. “He was beyond charming to Priscilla, who is not the most scintillating conversationalist for a man grown.”
“He was charming, and Priscilla would be in transports over attention from any grown man who treated her decently. That worries me.”
Theresa was relieved to have an articulable worry.
Alice closed her eyes, a woman weary of dealing with her charges. “Priscilla is a little girl. Why shouldn’t she have some attention from the man sharing an informal evening meal at her mother’s table?”
Old bewilderment threatened Theresa’s composure. You are a pest and an embarrassment, Theresa Jennings. Be gone from my sight. How many times had Grandpapa said those very words, then smiled at the twins, whose every stupid wager or mean prank was indulged as “boyish high spirits”?
“Priscilla hugged Mr. Belmont,” Theresa said miserably. “She hugged me good night then romped over and hugged the squire.”
“What was he supposed to do?” Alice snapped. “Lecture her on proper manners with dinner guests? Priscilla is eight years old. She hugs her aunt and uncle, she hugs you, she hugs me. She hugs the horses and the dogs and, when she can catch them, the cats. Mr. Belmont was a neighbor at a family meal in a country household, nothing more. You want her to behave as if she were eighteen on the verge of making her bow.”
What Theres
a wanted was to cry, to abandon her composure, and succumb to the bewilderment and anxiety that so frequently characterized her maternal burden. Her upset was somehow Mr. Belmont’s fault, though she had the sense she could have raised even this topic with him and earned a fair, compassionate hearing.
She also wanted to be back out in the garden with him, listening to slow, doomed crickets and watching stars fall.
Theresa stood, intent on seeking her bed, because fatigue had never improved a mother’s disposition.
“If one doesn’t understand how to go on with men at age eight, then when does one comprehend, Alice? Age ten, age thirteen, age fifteen? I certainly didn’t, to my everlasting shame and peril.”
Alice remained seated, though Theresa could feel the frustration quivering through her. Alice often limped, a result of a bad fall from a horse. When she was tired, her hip pained her, and standing became a trial.
“You had no mama worth the name,” Alice said. “No papa since you were in leading strings, and no one to take any interest in you at all, save your little brother. Of course you made mistakes and lacked sound judgment, but Priscilla has you, me, and now her uncle and aunt to help her go on.”
This was the voice of reason, the voice of true friendship, and yet, Theresa was not reassured.
“God help me, but some part of me wishes we were back at Sutcliffe Keep, preparing for another siege of cold, sleet, and darkness. At least there, I knew everybody on the property and exactly what to expect from each encounter.”
“You were dying at Sutcliffe,” Alice rejoined. “Emotionally, intellectually, socially, you were at the end of your tether. One ancient estate on the coast is not enough for you, Theresa Jennings, no matter how large, prosperous or well managed you made it.”
“I wasn’t dying.” Theresa had laid some particulars to rest long ago—hope, innocence, foolishness—though she’d been pathetically grateful to accept the olive branch Thomas had extended. “Where is it written that we are due unrelenting happiness in this life? Sutcliffe Keep is a more than adequate abode.”
“Coward.” Alice smiled, and for the first time, Theresa wondered what Alice was hiding from. “Sutcliffe Keep holds few happy memories for you, save for those you’ve created with Priscilla. You are safe under your brother’s roof, and so is your daughter.”
Safe. Was a woman ever safe? Safe from her memories, safe from her past?
“I am also tired. You are a dear to listen to me go on, Alice, and I am sorry to be so trying.”
Theresa made her way to her bedroom, part of a pleasant, spacious suite in a back corner of the house. The fire had been banked, the wash water left on the hearth, and the covers turned down to warm the sheets—all amenities that would have been unusual at Sutcliffe Keep. There, the house staff was getting older, and since Thomas had acquired the title, Theresa hadn’t presumed to replace any of the servants.
They tended to get up late, move slowly, and turn in early, leaving the details of domestic service untended to.
Alice was right, Theresa reasoned as she took her hair down and brushed out the chaos resulting from an evening in myriad small, tight braids. She and Priscilla were safe under Thomas’s roof, and Mr. Belmont was merely a pleasant neighbor….
Who had held Theresa so tenderly, as if she were precious, sharing his warmth and the uncomplicated pleasure of his bodily presence. That was all they’d done—a simple, protracted embrace, his arm around her, his hand in hers, as the moon spread its cool light on the autumn gardens.
The feel of those warm, strong fingers sliding across Theresa’s palm and closing around her cold hand had been enough to steal her wits. Sitting with Matthew Belmont, Theresa had known she would suffer doubts and recriminations for her behavior later, but while she’d been with him, peace had flowed through her.
Matthew Belmont was warm, physically, but also warm-hearted. He would doubtless ascribe the state of his heart to the children he’d raised, and she envied him that. Parenting Priscilla had not left Theresa warm-hearted; it left her tired, worried, and very, very careful.
And for Priscilla’s sake, if not for her own, Theresa would indulge in no more such embraces with Mr. Belmont. He had not presumed, exactly, but he had exceeded the nearer limit of propriety—or rather, Theresa and he had. Both of them.
Theresa fell asleep, lecturing herself sternly about lapses of judgment and wondering why, if Mr. Belmont had been intent on exceeding the bounds of propriety, he hadn’t at least tried to steal a kiss from her.
Chapter Four
Matthew made his way home on Hermes, content to let the horse amble along the lane in the moonlight. He had a hamper tied behind the saddle again, this one full of sautéed vegetables in a crock, perfectly cured and cooked ham, another loaf of fresh bread, and—glory of glories—a fat slice of chocolate cake.
When Miss Jennings had risen from the garden bench, Matthew had expected a stinging rebuke for presuming on her person, or at the least, a chilly comment that indicated she would ignore his forwardness.
Women were like that. A fellow might hold a lady’s hand for twenty minutes, let the fragrance of her lemony perfume entrance him for the duration, wrap her up as closely against his side as he dared, and still, she might hare off without a backward glance, never to acknowledge that poor fellow again.
Miss Jennings had merely stood, smiled an odd, wistful smile, and offered a polite comment.
“My thanks for your company,” was all she’d had to say. Then, “Shall we raid the larder before sending you home?”
He’d walked beside her the length of the house, followed her in through a back door that led to the kitchen, and let her fill up the hamper.
Matthew had known better than to kiss her. Fifteen years ago, even ten, he might have tried to steal that march as well, in the gardens, in the kitchen, or in the darkness of the front terrace as she’d waited with him for the horse.
But Theresa Jennings was not a woman to be trifled with or underestimated. She inspired both Matthew’s highest virtues and his base urges, and simply taking her in his arms had attained the summit of some lofty, majestic peak.
When the moment of parting had come, Matthew had bowed over his hostess’s hand, thanked her for a lovely evening, and established that he would retrieve her and Priscilla the next day after luncheon for a visit to the ponies.
Well done of him, he thought as his gelding came to a halt in the Belmont stable yard. Maybe next time, if the lady seemed willing, he might find a moment to steal a kiss.
* * *
“Do you have lots and lots of ponies, Mr. Belmont?” Priscilla asked before they were out of the Linden stable yard. “And do they like treats? Can I ride them, please?”
“May I,” Theresa corrected from Evan’s sturdy and comfortable back. “Priscilla, remember what we talked about?” Theresa fired a silent maternal admonition at her daughter, who was perched before Mr. Belmont on his gelding, an elegant grey named Hermes.
“But Mama, I am not pestering. I am only asking.”
“I think your mama is suggesting that we neglected the pleasantries, Miss Priscilla. The oversight is entirely my fault, so I’ll begin: Such a pleasure to see you, and might I inquire as to how you fare this lovely day?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Priscilla replied, drawing her fingers through the gelding’s mane. “And how are you, Mr. Belmont?”
“Never better.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is this the part where we talk about the weather?”
“It is.” Priscilla’s nod almost clipped him on the nose with the back of her head.
“We have a glorious day for our little jaunt,” Mr. Belmont went on. “Perhaps you could tell me which of the autumn flowers you find most attractive?”
Priscilla turned to her mother. “What am I supposed to say? Do I ask if Mr. Belmont has a favorite flower?”
Theresa rummaged around in the bottom drawers of her memory, where her governess’s futile lectures ab
out deportment lay collecting dust.
“You could, or you could ask if Mr. Belmont spends much time in the out of doors when the weather is so fine. You could ask him about his ponies, or how his sons are getting along at university.”
But not if he slept well the previous evening. Never that.
Priscilla peered up at Mr. Belmont, her gaze so eager and innocent Theresa had to look away.
“Do you have a favorite pony?”
“My heavenly stars!” The squire appeared utterly flummoxed. “How could I choose among my ponies?” He launched into a detailed description of each little equine’s personality, appearance, and skills, and added several anecdotes regarding his sons’ mounted exploits.
As they walked their horses down the sunny farm lanes, a sentiment grew in Theresa’s heart. She was out in the fresh air, honestly enjoying herself with her daughter. Priscilla was in transports, chattering and pointing, then squirming around to visually reassure herself of her mother’s presence nearby.
Theresa regarded Priscilla and Mr. Belmont, chatting happily about nothing, and tried to locate some guilt, some worry, anything familiar, and found only a sense of… freedom.
“Belmont House’s drive will come up on our left,” Mr. Belmont informed his guests some ten minutes later. “The house sits on a considerable rise, hence the name, belle monte. Somewhere back several generations, my ancestors included a ration of rabid Francophiles.”
“What is a Francophile?” Priscilla asked.
“Somebody who adores all things Frankish, or French. I am a chocolate cake-o-phile.”
“I am a horse-o-phile,” Priscilla said, grinning. “Mama?”
“I am a peace-and-quiet-o-phile.” Though Matthew Belmont’s embrace in a moonlit garden was also quite lovely.
Mr. Belmont sent her a curious look over the child’s head. “That is a contradiction in terms. How can one be passionate about peace and quiet?”
“Live with Priscilla, and you’ll acquire the knack.”
Priscilla sat straighter in the saddle. “I am not that noisy. Certainly Mr. Belmont’s sons were far noisier than I?”
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