Emerson leaned in. “Shall I open it, my lady?”
She paused.
“I thought perhaps you needed prompting,” he added.
Sadly, the poor man had dealt with every single one of her fits these past eight months pertaining to Matthew. “Will you please stay with me, Emerson? Whilst I open it? I may need someone to catch me, should I faint.”
“It would be an honor to catch you.”
She smiled. “Thank you.” She fingered the satin bow, then gently tugged at its end. The smooth ribbon unraveled. It slipped from the box and her fingers, floating soundlessly to the floor. She left it there. All that mattered was what was inside.
She carefully removed the lid and peered in. There, sitting primly atop beautifully folded white lace was a...calling card.
His calling card. And nothing more.
She stared at it, stunned, and honestly didn’t know what to make of it. Printed on what she knew was a very expensive ivory Bristol card, which she herself used for her own calling cards, it read:
M. J. Milton
28 Broadway
And on the very bottom corner of that elegant card written in his own scribed hand were the initials of p.p.
Her lips parted. By heavens. The man had learned the art of calling-card etiquette. Because p.p. was French for pour presenter, which signaled to its receiver that if there was anyone the receiver wanted to be introduced to, one merely had to send their visiting card and an hour they wished to visit and it would be done.
He was asking her to call on him. She was going to see him! Though more important, he wanted to see her and was asking to see her.
She removed his card from atop the soft lace and held it up before her, handing off the box and lid to Emerson. Matthew was at long last his own man and this was his way of announcing it.
She smiled. Tilting the card, whose inscription had been elegantly scribed across its smooth surface in black ink, she grazed the tip of her finger across it, knowing he had touched it.
Heart still pounding, she glanced toward Emerson, who bent to retrieve the white ribbon at her feet. “Emerson, will you please have a footman send my card over to Mr. Milton’s and announce that I intend to call within the hour?”
Emerson straightened, ribbon in hand and inclined his head. “Of course.” He reached for the card.
She set it protectively against her bosom. “Oh, no. This is mine.” She knew this card was going to change her life.
Emerson paused. “The footman needs the address, my lady.”
Bernadette inwardly cringed. “Of course he does.” She held the card back out. “Please ensure the footman returns it.”
“I will ensure it.” Taking it, Emerson disappeared to hand off the card.
She now had an hour to look...ravishing, as Matthew had called it. Oh, God. She hadn’t given herself much time, had she?
Bernadette frantically gathered her skirts from around her slippered feet. Seeing her lady’s maid rounding the corner, she pointed and called out, “Samantha! Samantha, by all that is blessed, I need you like a horse needs hay. Bring out every last gown, all of my boots to match, as well as my fur mitts, as it’s snowing outside. And, oh! Lay out every last perfume I own.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Oh, Ireland. Is there not as bright an hour reserved for thee? Yes. Yes, there is.
—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen
RECOGNIZING THE SQUARE up ahead enclosed by the wide snow-covered road and tall, stone-washed Italian row houses, Bernadette inhaled a breath of crisp, cold air and gripped the edge of the upholstered seat of the open sleigh to keep herself steady.
In a blinking blur of softly falling snow, the sleigh pulled to a halt. The footman hopped down and bustled toward the small door at her side, yanking it open. He leaned toward her and held out a hand.
She stood. Though barely. She was so nervous. What if these past eight months had changed him and he was no longer the Matthew she adored? What if he had forgotten what had once been between them?
Taking the footman��s white gloved hand, she stepped out. “Thank you.” Once her booted feet touched the snow-covered stone walk leading to Matthew’s home, she drew in one last steadying breath.
The large gray stone townhome was surrounded by bare oak trees and black wrought-iron gates rimmed with gathering snow. It was elegance at its finest. She felt a swell of pride. Matthew no longer lived with broken windows and walls with exposed lattice.
Gathering her full skirts, she hurried up that path, past the gates and up the wide stone stairs that had been swept clean of snow. She rang the bell, not once but twice, and faced the double doors, untying the satin ribbon on her bonnet so as not to waste time.
Moments later, the doors edged open. A thin, gray-haired man dressed in dark blue winter livery peered out. He inclined his head. “Lady Burton, I presume?”
She bit back a gushing smile. “Yes. I am, indeed.”
“A pleasure, my lady.” The man dutifully pulled the doors wider and stepped aside.
Bernadette swept into the large foyer. As the door closed behind her, she paused well beyond the entrance, shaking off the snow from her skirts. She slowly removed her bonnet in dazed disbelief, along with her gloves and fur mitt. Countless beeswax candles illuminated a stunning chandelier. Paris pale palomino silk-brocade clothed the expanse of endless walls that nestled a sweeping mahogany staircase.
The butler rounded her and extended his hands.
She handed off her bonnet, gloves and mitt. “Thank you.”
The man set everything on a carved mahogany side table and then dutifully brought over the silver calling-card tray, which already held at least a dozen other cards. Apparently, Matthew was popular in New York society, to have collected so many in one day. And though she wasn’t supposed to peer at the cards, which were spread out to display the visitors who had called, she rudely scanned them all the same and was rather pleased to see that there wasn’t a single female name amongst them.
She paused and confided to the butler, “I already sent over my card. An hour ago.”
The servant inclined his head, acknowledging her words, but continued to hold out the tray. “Mr. Milton respectably instructed that you deposit your card again, given this is your first visit into his home. He is hoping to keep the card permanently in the tray for all to see.”
Oh, now this she had to donate to. Opening her reticule, she deposited her card. “There. For good luck.”
The butler smiled and set aside the tray. “He will be most pleased. This way, my lady.” He ushered her toward a large parlor through paneled doors he slid open and pushed into the walls. “Mr. Milton will be down shortly. There are a few pending matters he must tend to first.” He departed.
A few pending matters? Ha and ha. With Matthew now owning a successful business that printed well over five thousand papers every Saturday, whilst attending countless charities and events all across New York and playing guardian to Ronan, whom she was anxious to meet, she had no doubt the man had more than just a few pending matters.
Lingering in the parlor alone, the ticking of a French clock set above a marble hearth pierced the deafening silence. Wood crackled and popped against flames, emitting a warmth worthy of a winter day. She paused when she reached the middle of a most impressive parlor.
Embroidered green velvet curtains framed sweeping windows that displayed the large treed square beyond, allowing the remainder of the day’s gray light to pour through. Countless candles in sconces beautifully brightened the elegant room as gold hooks displayed paintings of what she knew to be Ireland.
There was even a piano set in the far corner of the room. A smile touched her lips. No parlor was complete without one. By heavens. Everything was just perfect. Nothing was overdone. The room was elegant but gloriously simple, holding no clutter aside from necessary basic furnishings. She slowly wandered from one side of the parlor to the other and back again, glancing toward th
e open doors.
She seated herself, slipping her reticule from her wrist. Setting it aside, she folded her hands. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen.
Exasperated, she stood and wandered over to the lacquered mahogany piano. She paused before it. The small bronze plaque above the black-and-white ivory keys read: Conrad Graf.
She leaned toward it and blinked in astonishment. It had come all the way from Vienna. A Graf piano was esteemed and coveted by all the greatest pianists. And here it was sitting in Matthew Joseph Milton’s parlor. Huh. Imagine that.
“I bought it for you,” a deep voice rumbled out from behind.
Her heart jumped. She turned, her gaze darting toward him. “Matthew.”
A broad-shouldered man loomed all but ten steps away, dressed in expensive gray morning attire, consisting of a white silk cravat, embroidered waistcoat and matching trousers with leather boots. The commanding stance of his solid and well-muscled body told her he was not only the master of this here house but of himself. That sunlit chestnut-colored hair had darkened considerably to a rich brown and had been trimmed and swept back, tapering down neatly to the sides of his stiff, white collar.
He wore no patch. His dark eyes, including the one clouded by blindness, heatedly captured hers.
She fought from locking her knees together.
He wordlessly lingered. That clean-shaven jaw tightened as his gaze slid down the length of her body from face to breasts to waist to slippers, making no attempt to hide that he had missed her in that way.
Searing heat crept up the length of her thighs and chest as she struggled to remain indifferent. Even if she did have any words to share outside of how incredible he looked, she doubted she’d be able to utter them.
That silk embroidered, seam-pinched waistcoat sat against his firm, narrow waist in the most tantalizing of ways. Those well-fitted trousers were as equally tantalizing, being kept taut with foot straps buttoned beneath black leather boots. He looked nothing like the Matthew she remembered.
Still holding her gaze, he now made his way toward her, shrinking the parlor with his presence, that long stride pulsing with an assurance and dominance that was as alluring as it was intimidating. The room hummed until his large frame paused before her, barely a foot away. The sweet, earthy scent of expensive cigars drifted toward her.
Apparently he really did smoke cigars.
He folded his strong arms across his chest, the broad outline of his shoulders straining the tailored fabric of his fine gray morning coat. Still observing her, he eventually provided in a low tone, “How have you been?”
She didn’t know why, but she didn’t quite expect those words. She blinked and managed a mere, “Good. And you?”
His voice dipped into the realm of smooth and husky. “Incredibly well.” He scanned her face and hair, lingering. “Would you like to sit?”
Again, she didn’t know why, but she didn’t quite expect those words. It was like this man had been domesticated. She shook her head from side to side, never once breaking their gaze. “No. Thank you.”
He lifted a dark brow. “Are you hungry? The chef always has something in the kitchen. I can have the servants bring everything out. You can have whatever you want. Caviar, wine, wilted cress with quail.”
She blinked again. Why, he was— Her eyes widened. It was London all over again. Only, this time, the roles had been reversed. “Very amusing, Matthew.”
He smirked. “I thought it was.” His smirk slowly faded. He searched her face. Unfolding his arms down to his sides, he stepped closer. So close, his black leather boots touched the hem of her pale pink gown.
Her breath hitched and though a part of her wanted to grab him and kiss him and never let go, she felt that in doing so, she’d be ruining this incredible, aching anticipation tightening her throat and chest. It was without a doubt the sweetest thing she’d ever experienced. In fact...she’d never felt it before.
He set his jaw. “I missed you. So goddamn much.”
Her breaths now came in uneven takes. “And I missed you. So goddamn much.”
He leaned in close. Close enough for the heat of his mouth to brush against her forehead. “Court me until you are ready. Will you?”
Her heart pounded. She stared up at that masculine mouth that had uttered those unexpected words. She knew what this meant. It meant matrimonial bells would be ringing all across New York City in honor of them the moment she wished it. Surprisingly, the idea didn’t send her into a panic. At all. And she knew why. Because she trusted him. Completely.
Trying to keep her voice steady, she whispered, “Yes. I will court you until I am ready.”
He lowered his gaze to her mouth, his broad chest falling and rising more visibly. “Good. We start now. Before I digress.” He took several steps back, setting a respectable distance between them.
Her breath whooshed out in astonishment. Whatever rules the man was abiding by, they most certainly weren’t adhering to the beat of her poor heart. “Aren’t you going to kiss me in greeting? At the very least?”
He stared. “As much as I want to kiss you and never stop, luv, no. I specifically remember you once telling me that your first husband never courted you despite you asking for it. And I know I never gave it to you, either. As such, I’ve decided to give you the courtship you never had. In truth, I want us to get to know each other outside of all things physical. We already know of our attraction for each other, but what about everything else?”
She swallowed. This was— “I...this is certainly all-embracing.” She shook her head slightly, still endlessly astonished. “That you want to get to know me in that way and that you even remember that conversation astounds me.”
“Of course I want to get to know you in that way. And of course I remember.” He held her gaze. “When it comes to you, there is nothing I want to forget.”
She drew in a soft breath. How, oh how, was a woman to define a moment like this one? The distance he’d deliberately set between them made her want to burst. “Matthew?”
“Yes?”
“I would really like a kiss hello. Just one. If you don’t mind. I have waited eight whole months for it.”
He smiled. “Bernadette.”
“Yes?”
“Whilst I’m flattered, from what I know, traditional courtship doesn’t include kissing or touching. Am I wrong in this?”
She blinked. “No. You are not wrong.”
“I thought so. Which means...no kiss hello. Sadly. Now, please. Try to respect this courtship you just agreed to. I’ll have you know that I’ve been planning this for months.”
“Months?” Her voice cracked.
“Months. So bear with me. I want to get this right.” Huffing out a breath, he strode past, making his way to the other side of the parlor.
Stunned by him and this and everything that was happening, she turned, unable to resist watching that long-legged stride. Without a great coat covering the length of his body, there was a lot to admire. A lot. And God save her, if he was expecting them to adhere to the rules of traditional courtship, it also meant she couldn’t touch him. It wasn’t fair.
He paused before a mahogany sideboard stacked with unopened letters and glanced toward her. “You look incredible, by the by. Even better than I remember.”
She consciously smoothed her hands against the fullness of her muslin morning gown, pleased to hear that her fussing over her appearance had amounted to something. “Do I really?”
“Cease being coy, woman. You know you do.” Swiping up a stack of letters, he paused. “Though I will say that rose perfume you’re wearing is a bit strong and not to my taste. I prefer the citrus fragrance you used to wear. If you don’t mind me saying.”
Her lips parted. He actually remembered the perfume she used to wear. He remembered everything. “I only wore the rose because I thought that maybe you would like it. I can go back to wearing my citrus perfume. It is my favorite. Would you like that?”
He
intently held her gaze. “Yes.”
The intensity of that stare practically burned her skin and made her only all the more aware of the distance he had set between them in honor of their courtship. “Then I will.”
“I was hoping.” He lowered his gaze, going back through all of the letters in his hands and shifted from leather boot to leather boot.
Sensing he was waiting for her to initiate further conversation, she bit her bottom lip. She honestly didn’t know what she was supposed to say or do next now that they were...courting.
She paused. This moment truly was unprecedented. Old William had never courted her, Dunmore most certainly hadn’t courted her, unless walls and beds were considered courtship, and none of the other countless men who had tried to seize her and her million had bothered to go beyond superficial flowers. Not that she would have let them go beyond superficial flowers.
So now what? It was indeed time that she and Matthew got to know each other outside all things physical.
Dragging her bottom lip free from her teeth, Bernadette eventually offered, “I hear you plan on opening another print shop in the city. Is that true?”
“Yes.” Matthew set aside the stack of letters back onto the desk, except for one. “’Tis remarkable, actually. We’ve outgrown ourselves a bit faster than anticipated.” Glancing toward her, he turned over the letter and broke the wax seal.
Silence prevailed.
Why was she so annoyingly nervous? It wasn’t as if they had never touched or kissed. And yet...this idea of them courting and focusing on everything but the physical really changed everything. It was like being eighteen again.
He angled and re-angled the parchment in his hands. It was as if he wanted to taunt her into knowing that he wasn’t truly interested in reading it but was waiting for her to give him a reason to break away from it.
Drat him. He wasn’t going to make this easy, was he? “So. Given we can’t do anything, what would you like to talk about?”
Forever a Lady Page 20