Matthew

by Grace Burrowes

  Theresa started on his falls next. “And you had the children.”

  “The children, the magistrate’s duties, the estate duties, and then I had an ailing wife.”

  “Right now, Matthew Belmont, you have me, and my animal spirits are much revived by the simple sight of you.”

  Theresa hauled him closer by his elbows, and he came unresisting, his falls half undone, his recounting both sad and precious.

  “I had opportunities,” Theresa said, after a long, hot kiss. “The curate of all people would come around every few months, soliciting for this charity or that subscription. He was unmarried, as curates tend to be, and lonely, and hopeful. Not bad looking, had all his teeth and a sweet smile. I was tempted.”

  “Do you think I’d blame you?” Matthew asked, arms looped around her. “The sheer hypocrisy of a churchman soliciting donations while pandering to a woman without protection… and you politely pretended not to grasp his invitation. Very nearly humorous, also a pathetic comment on the Church of England.”

  And yet, somehow, this coupling with Matthew, in a private little corner of a horse barn, was not pathetic. Theresa purely hugged him, wrapped him in her arms, and hooked a leg around his hips.

  “You are so dear, Matthew Belmont. Please make love with me.”

  Thank goodness she was not in her habit, because Matthew’s hands, warm and competent, could slide up her legs, past her gartered stockings to her thighs.

  “The sheer feel of you…” he said, resting his forehead against hers. “You bring me to life, Theresa Jennings. I go along, a decent fellow who breaks up the fights on darts night, and then… then you happen, and I’m eighteen again.”

  Theresa scooted closer, shoving skirts aside and wishing she’d thought to pad the table with at least a horse blanket.

  “Eighteen,” she said. “Full of hope and determination, full of possibilities and desire, but we’ll never be eighteen again. Never again so naïve, never that ignorant. Never that willing to squander our affections or our time or our—”

  Matthew shifted close enough that Theresa could feel him probing at her sex, but in this position, the initiative had to be his.

  “You understand,” he said, finding her and easing forward. “You understand so much.”

  The sheer glory of Matthew’s loving, relentless and yet utterly controlled, sent Theresa off into pleasure despite her determination to hold back. Despite the humble surroundings, despite the looming altercation with Thomas, this was how lovemaking was supposed to be.

  An island of intimacy and joy amid all of life’s vicissitudes. Why did no one explain this to naïve eighteen-year-olds?

  “I love to give you satisfaction,” Matthew said, pausing for some lazy kisses. “Love to hear the wanting in the way you say my name. Come again, Theresa.”

  She did, and again, until her back ached, her braid was tumbling down her back, and she would have melted into a puddle of bliss on the plank floor, but for Matthew’s arms around her.

  “You’ll be sore,” Matthew said, when for the third time, Theresa had gone boneless against him, the beat of his heart the only sound in her world. If they ever did find a bed, she might not survive the experience.

  “I don’t want to let you go,” was what came out of her mouth. Not now, not when Thomas sent her back to Sutcliffe. Not ever.

  Matthew started moving again, and at any moment, Theresa might have begun another climb to satisfaction. She mustered some self-restraint and instead memorized the feel of Matthew in her arms, the scent of him, the sensations of being joined with him.

  “For now, let me go, you must.” He hilted himself against her, an offer, in case Theresa’s greed overcame her determination not to beg.

  She kissed him thoroughly, then allowed him to ease from her body.

  “Matthew, look at me.” Theresa was not eighteen, thank God. Not seventeen. She was not innocent, and most of all, she was not ashamed.

  He met her gaze, and she scooted back, sliding her skirts up and up yet more.

  “Look at me,” she said again, more softly. “If we were in a bed, we’d have not a stitch of clothing between us. I’d be looking at you, touching you, kissing you…”

  He wrapped his hand around his cock as Theresa got her skirts above her waist. She rocked against the table, giving him as much of an eyeful as she could. She’d never done this before, never been so wonderfully wicked, never been as determined to please a lover.

  “I want to close my eyes,” Matthew said, “lest I spend immediately, and I never want this moment to end.”

  Theresa jiggled, she rocked, she spread her legs as Matthew’s fingers traced her folds and secrets. He looked at her as he pleasured himself, caressing her, making her very, very glad she was a grown woman who’d taken a detour or two from the path of propriety.

  Matthew was silent in his passion, the only clue to impending satisfaction a hitch in his breathing, a shift in the rhythm of his hand. Theresa passed him the dusty handkerchief and lay back against the table, as exhausted as if she’d come yet again.

  The beams above were festooned with cobwebs, the poor bird made another attempt to fly through the window’s wire mesh, and Matthew climbed onto the table to crouch over Theresa.

  Peace settled inside her, the peace of having loved and been loved, intimately. For a moment, Theresa simply rested in that peace, and in Matthew’s warmth all around her.

  “I ask different questions now,” Theresa said, stroking his hair. “Before Priscilla was born, I never understood why, if fornication was such a great sin, so many people were hell-bent on indulging in it. Some thrashing about, a momentary pleasure if the fellow had any consideration, nothing more. That was ruin? That was the great wicked pleasure young women are warned against? I have a harder time resisting tea cakes.”

  Matthew’s sigh breezed past Theresa’s ear. “And don’t forget the moments afterward, when there’s nothing to say, and you honestly hope she doesn’t want you to linger for another go, even as you make plans to leave the house party before breakfast. You ask yourself what in the hell you could have been thinking—again.”

  “But lonely people don’t think,” Theresa said, kissing Matthew’s eyelids. “Now, I ask myself how something this sublime, this… precious could ever be a sin. I have so many regrets, Matthew, but I assure you, this will never, ever be one of them.”

  “I have no words, Theresa Jennings, other than thank you, and please marry me.”

  Thank you, a respectful sentiment between adults who’d been lonely for too long. Theresa trailed her fingers through Matthew’s hair as she searched for the right words to reciprocate that sentiment, because a mere thank you was also—

  The sense of his words smacked into her mind, like the bird who’d flown into the window screen.

  “You’re proposing now?”

  Matthew eased up to his elbows. “The setting isn’t exactly romantic, I know, but we’ll never forget this occasion. I want you in my bed, Theresa Jennings. I want to ride to hounds with you, I want to surprise you under the mistletoe two weeks from now. I want to dream and argue and while away afternoons with you, to grow old with you. If I’m stealing down to the stable before breakfast, I want you stealing with me. Please say—” He fell silent, gaze focused on Theresa’s shoulder. “I hear—”

  Theresa put her finger over his lips, because she heard it too.

  “Spiker says he’d cleaned the gun just the week before.” Jamie’s voice was perilously near, a few yards beyond the window.

  “Guns misfire,” Beckman replied, as Matthew silently climbed off the table. “Pistols especially. We carry them about, stuff them into saddlebags. If the gun was stored in Belmont’s stable, then dust was a factor.”

  Theresa sat up, praying Jamie’s inherent contrariness would prolong the discussion.

  “Belmont is the father of three boys,” Jamie shot back. “He’s not careless with his firearms and his stable is spotless. You ever see him shoot from t
he saddle?”

  Matthew helped Theresa off the table, and as she smoothed down her skirts, he got to work on his falls.

  “I haven’t seen Belmont shoot from the saddle,” Beckman replied, his tone impatient. “But I’ve shot from the saddle on occasion. What’s your point?”

  “Matthew Belmont’s damned good with a gun,” Jamie said, which inspired a small smile from Matthew. “But in the hunt field, you can come across a rabid animal, an injured horse, a dog that’s got itself in bad trouble. You sometimes have to shoot to kill.”

  “You’re not telling me anything new,” Beckman retorted. “My father put us up on ponies from the time we could walk.”

  “A killing shot has to be steady, the first bullet has to count,” Jamie went on.

  Matthew had gone still, clearly listening to the conversation. Theresa took it upon herself to silently reposition the feed buckets, carrots, and apples on the table.

  “Because the noise alone will cause an injured animal to panic,” Beckman said.

  “If you’re shooting from the saddle, your own mount will dance around, or at least flinch when your gun goes off,” Jamie said, as Theresa tried to recall the exact position of the horseshoe on top of the sheaf of papers.

  “And because you’re holding the gun,” Beckman said, “you can’t have both hands on the reins. Jamie, what are you getting at? Belmont is a first-rate huntsman, and his horses don’t panic at the sound of gunfire.”

  Theresa moved the shovel away from the door.

  “Beckman, think,” Jamie said. “Picture this: Squire is in the hunt field and comes across a stray dog, a sickly cur that might be rabid. He won’t dismount, he won’t waste a moment. He’ll get out his pistol, signal his mare to stand. The shot has to count. Belmont raises his left arm to eye level, and steadies the barrel of the gun on his forearm. I’ve seen him do this. He sights, lets a breath halfway out, the gun practically at the end of his nose, and bang.”

  Theresa nearly dropped the shovel as the import of Jamie’s words struck her.

  “That pistol could have blown up in Belmont’s face,” Beckman said. “The gun he routinely carried as master of fox hounds, the one unlikely to have ever been fired by another hand, could have blown up in his face. I don’t think you’re right, I don’t think you’re half right, but somebody needs to find Matthew Belmont and put this before him, immediately.”

  * * *

  Agatha’s hip was paining her. She, of course, did not say a word, but Emmanuel knew from the compressed line of her lips, from the quality of her silence, from the way she perched on the saddle rather than rode in the saddle, that she was uncomfortable.

  “Did you enjoy the morning’s outing?” Emmanuel asked, tipping up his second flask and finding it empty.

  “I did, thank you, though the cold weather feels like it’s about to pounce in earnest. I take it you had a good time?”

  She was reliably civil, his Agatha. Also boring as hell. “Racketing about in the undergrowth while catching up on the latest gossip isn’t exactly a riveting diversion. Matthew’s idea of riding to hounds has little to do with ridding the countryside of vermin, and the rest is so much tedium and protocol.”

  “To take the fresh air is still a healthful pastime,” Agatha said, which for her was close to outright disagreement. “You did not wish Matthew good night.”

  One always wished the master good night when leaving the hunt breakfast, even if sunset was hours and hours away.

  “I dispensed with hunt protocol because our dear Matthew was too busy ogling the Jennings creature.” Miss Jennings was worth an ogle too. Not only was she generously proportioned in the places that fired a man’s imagination, she was bold.

  Matthew had apparently developed a taste for a bold, curvaceous strumpet, which would not do at all if matrimony was under consideration.

  “Her name is Theresa,” Agatha said, sitting taller, “and she’s a baron’s granddaughter and a baron’s sister. If Matthew has taken a fancy to her, she’ll be treated with the same courtesy as was shown to my own sister. Don’t publicly disrespect her, Manny. We mustn’t have it said there’s discord in the family.”

  Oh, the hilarity of marriage to a decent woman. The horses plodded along, while Emmanuel considered just how badly to shock his dear wife.

  “Theresa Jennings was once known as the Sutcliffe Strumpet, madam. She wasn’t exactly available on street corners, but neither was she… don’t give me that look. Her daughter is nearly half grown, a pretty little thing by all accounts, brought along on this visit to Linden as bold as you please. I tell you these things that your judgments about Miss Jennings might be well informed.”

  Though Agatha, in her quiet way, seemed to come across all the gossip. Quilting parties, social calls, and even Bible study gatherings allowed the women to exchange information without benefit of male supervision. Fortunately, she passed anything relating to Matthew Belmont along to her devoted husband.

  “Spare me your lectures, Manny Capshaw. The holidays approach, and Miss Jennings will doubtless be included in the Linden household’s socializing. You will be on your best manners, or after all these years, the neighbors will think we are no longer cordial toward Matthew.”

  Manny. Emmanuel hated that nickname, but he hated more that connection to the Belmont family fortune was doubtless the gossamer thread from which Emmanuel’s own meager credit dangled.

  “We will always be cordial toward Matthew, my dear.” They’d remain cordial toward Matthew’s wealth, at least. “We owe our nephews that effort, and we owe it to dear Matilda’s dear memory.”

  Agatha—good, silly woman that she was—probably held herself responsible for all the trouble Matilda had got up to. Invoking Matilda’s memory usually resulted in Agatha falling into fuming silence.

  This morning she merely shot Emmanuel a displeased look, touched her mare’s quarters with the whip, and cantered off in the direction of home. Watching her ride away, Emmanuel realized that she needed a new saddle, one that fitted a matronly figure rather than a young woman’s.

  Finances did not permit that extravagance, alas for Agatha. Lately, finances hadn’t permitted any extravagances, though Emmanuel had made some interesting investments and had reason to hope the situation would come right.

  And soon.

  * * *

  Thomas kept his horse to the trot on the way to Belmont House. Rupert was a good fellow, but he’d recently made the journey from Sutcliffe Keep to London, and then from London to Sussex. A sedate pace was only considerate of the horse.

  Thomas also needed the time to think, for Matthew Belmont would not want to hear what must be said.

  And yet, Belmont was gracious as ever, welcoming Thomas into his estate office as if they’d last seen each other over a pint on darts night at the Cock and Bull.

  “Baron, shall I ring for a tray, or may I offer you a brandy to ward off the chill?”

  “Brandy wouldn’t go amiss. Jamie says we’re due for snow.” Jamie had said a lot more than that, but a pair of English gentlemen embarking on a difficult discussion might as well start with the damned weather.

  Belmont passed over a neat portion of spirits in a cut crystal glass. His own serving was more parsimonious.

  “A health to your womenfolk,” Belmont said, saluting with his brandy.

  Thomas silently drank to Belmont’s continued good health, which was apparently in jeopardy.

  Where to begin? “My thanks for looking in on Penny.”

  Twenty years from now, Matthew Belmont’s appearance would be much the same. He’d be lean and fit, his gaze genial to the casual observer. His hair would be wheat rather than gold, and he’d still fool most of the world into thinking he was merely a wealthy yeoman content to tend his acres.

  If he was alive in twenty years.

  “Sutcliffe, whatever has sent you haring from your baroness’s side, you’d best just say on. The daylight is nearly gone, and the clouds will obscure the moon when it ev
entually rises. I should hate for harm to befall you because you sought to spare my sensibilities, particularly when I took no pains to spare yours earlier today.”

  “Harm,” Thomas muttered, stalling with another sip of his drink. “I’ve come to discuss that very notion. Might we sit?”

  Belmont propped a hip on his desk, while Thomas took a reading chair positioned before the blazing fire.

  The room was both a business office and a county gentleman’s retreat. Behind the desk hung a portrait of an eighteen-point red deer amid verdant summer foliage. Small portraits of the three Belmont children were arranged on top of a bookcase, and a painting of hound puppies tussling over a whip hung above the fireplace.

  The air bore the scent of leather and old books, of contentment and ease, but also of loneliness. Not a bouquet of dried flowers, not a miniature of the late Mrs. Belmont, not an embroidered pillow suggested the man who ran his empire from this room was beloved of any woman.

  “Jamie and Beckman have put a theory before me,” Thomas said, easing back into an exquisitely comfortable chair. “I’d like you to hear me out before you dismiss what they have to say.”

  “A magistrate learns to listen, as does the father of three imaginative boys. Out with it, Sutcliffe.”

  Thomas had the sense Belmont knew exactly what was coming, and yet, the squire’s gaze conveyed nothing so much as patient interest.

  “A harrow was found on my property at the exact spot a bridle path crosses the boundary with your woods,” Thomas said. “The placement of the implement was dangerous, for you often take that shortcut when calling upon Linden.”

  “Beckman moved the harrow, and I have since stored it at my home farm.”

  “Your hunting pistol misfired, and Spiker’s hand is the worse for it.”

  Belmont shoved away from his desk and ambled to the bookcase, where he fiddled with the portraits of the children.

  “Pistols misfire, Sutcliffe, though I can guess what you’re thinking.”

  Belmont’s offspring were handsome boys, all brown-haired and brown-eyed, and in their expressions, Thomas saw the same calm, settled outlook Belmont shared. Those children would want their father safe. Thomas wanted their father safe too.