“Then my answer is,”—he scooped Jane into his arms and grinned like a plundering buccaneer—“of course.”
* * *
In Matilda’s opinion, most French men knew how to be naughty and gentlemanly with the same woman. They treated their mistresses with exquisite politeness in public despite the intimate nature of the relationship. They could also conduct a discreet, passionate affair with a well-born woman and still spend an evening partnering her at whist without considering the hours wasted.
Matilda had brought some experience to her marriage. If the duke had noticed, he’d been too polite—or too interested in his next invention—to mention it.
Prior to her marriage, when in Paris—and in Lyon, Nice, and Marseilles—Matilda had done as the French women had done and enjoyed the company of those fellows who’d caught her interest. Only two had progressed past the point of flirtation, and those two had been sweet, considerate, and dear without capturing her heart.
Even those two, though, had offered overtures, leaving Matilda with the question of whether and how to respond. Duncan Wentworth gave her the entire field, invited her to take the white army, in other words, and decide everything.
Wrapped in his arms, she chose not to rush, but rather to savor what had to be a stolen moment.
She started by reveling in the pleasure of Duncan’s embrace. He was lean and muscular, and when his arms came around her, Matilda relaxed in a way she hadn’t relaxed for months. She was safe when he held her, sheltered from every peril except the very great danger of trusting him.
Before that injustice could poison all of her joy, she listened to his heartbeat, a slow, steady pulse beneath her cheek. Duncan wasn’t a randy boy, giving in to a whim. He was all adult male, making a choice he’d justified with no less than three reasons.
And he wasn’t ashamed to let Matilda know he desired her.
She anchored a hand at his nape and kissed him right on the mouth—no venerable, cautious Italian game, this. His lips were softer than she’d expected, and he tasted sweet and buttery, as if he’d pinched a few biscuits before their chess game.
When his hold on Matilda became more snug, she went a-plundering with lips and tongue. She felt the shock of that boldness go through him, a start perceivable only because she’d tightened her grip on him too.
“I’m sorry,” she said, disappointment crowding her pleasure. “On the Continent…”
He resumed the kiss, this time tasting her as if she were a delicacy made up of complex spices. His kiss was a thinking kiss, one that gathered impressions and measured reactions.
Heaven help her, he could make a chess game of a kiss.
The emotions that swamped Matilda then came too fast to ignore. Rejoicing, to have found this man whose intelligence and compassion had formed a pact of mutual invisibility. Duncan was good-hearted, he was much smarter than he let on, and he was aroused.
Answering desire rose in Matilda along with a flood of yearning that revealed her previous encounters to have been mere dalliances. She wanted to consume Duncan Wentworth, to bolt him down like a starving wretch’s first decent meal in ages.
And amid the clamorings of desire and joy ran a countercurrent of despair. She could enjoy Duncan Wentworth as a respite, a boon, an unlooked-for pleasure, but she’d have to let him go. If she cared for him at all, she’d have to let him go.
He could make her weak and stupid, an easy capture for the colonel, and then where would Papa be? That question had her easing back, though not even thoughts of Papa’s possible arrest could inspire her to move away.
“We would suit,” Duncan said, his hand moving slowly on Matilda’s back. “I am almost certain we would suit.”
He could speak coherently, the blighter. His heartbeat was faster, some satisfaction, but he was entirely self-possessed, despite the arousal pressing against Matilda’s belly. In bed, Duncan Wentworth would be formidable. His hand on her back said he’d be tender, too, and if she was starved for anything in this life, it was tenderness.
“This is not what I had planned,” Matilda said.
“Nor I.”
How bemused he sounded. Matilda tarried in his arms for another luscious half minute before she realized that he’d left up to her even the decision of when to abandon his embrace. He’d hold her until springtime, if that was what she wanted.
And it was.
“We must come to an agreement,” he said, his lips near her ear.
“I cannot marry you.”
“I was under the impression a courtship preceded that decision. Will you allow me to court you, Matilda?”
“Could I stop you?” He was still aroused and he could have this debate. What a singularly focused man.
He massaged her nape, slow circles that melted Matilda’s knees.
“You could stop me with a word, my dear, and all that has passed between us since the end of our chess game would be forgotten.”
She could not resist this studied, perfect intimacy. Not now. “Court me, then, but know that your efforts are doomed.”
“Wentworths thrive on a challenge.”
He whispered that warning in Matilda’s ear, and she knew she’d be daydreaming of whispers shared with him in a darkened bedchamber.
“I referred, though, to a different agreement.”
“I shall sit on the sofa now,” she said, moving not one inch, “because as long as you’re touching me, I’m witless and wanton.”
“Then this will be a very tactile courtship, for your caresses have the same effect on me.” He dropped his arms and took Matilda by the hand.
He might have been leading her to Cathay for all her mind could function, and yet little time had passed since the end of their chess match—their first chess match and their first kiss. How appropriate, that the two occasions should occur in that order.
“What is this agreement you seek?” Matilda said. “This other agreement?”
“The agreement we must reach has to do with your past, the secrets you are keeping, and my obligation as a gentleman to safeguard your welfare.”
Matilda settled on the sofa, across the room from the chess set. “Duncan Wentworth, are you preparing to turn up possessive now?” She could not allow that, not for all the kisses in England. For his sake, she could not allow any meddling possessiveness.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Duncan took the wing chair and crossed an ankle over the opposite knee, the picture of masculine pulchritude at its handsome ease. “You have managed on your own for some time. You found your way to Brightwell, where, but for my unexpected appearance, you’d likely have spent a cozy winter subsisting on snared rabbits, fish, and overlooked potatoes and turnips with nobody the wiser. Any fool with pretensions to possessing you would soon find himself in the colonel’s situation.”
“What col—?” Oh, dear. Of course, Duncan would notice that slip. That slip too. “So what is this agreement you seek?”
“If you give me information, Matilda, I will use it to protect you. I will not share that information and I will not act without consulting you. In the instant example, however, if some colonel should come nosing about, I will consider him suspect on general principles. If a man claiming to be Thomas Wakefield corresponds with me, I will regard him as a threat unless you reassure me otherwise.”
“You will interpret Stephen’s theory to mean that what information I let slip, I let slip willingly.”
“I shall.”
This was…not good, that Duncan would involve himself in the capacity of bodyguard, without knowing why Matilda might need one. Not fair.
“What if you are protecting a traitor or a murderess?”
“You could, of course, have put a period to my existence the day we met, but your murderous impulses were apparently on hiatus that morning. If you are a felon of some sort, then I’m a fool, and I deserve the consequences that follow from believing you innocent.”
Patently impossible, for Duncan Wentworth to be a fool. “I’m
not a murderess.” She might well be a traitor. Matilda herself wasn’t sure.
Duncan’s mouth remained a perfect uninflected pair of lips, while his eyes danced. “Ever so relieved to hear it.”
Matilda should not be relieved. She should be packing for her often-delayed unannounced departure, burning her Book of Common Prayer—a grievous sin, surely—and leaving a note telling Lord Stephen to forward funds to her without a word to Duncan.
“I limit myself to one game of chess a day,” Matilda said, “when I have a partner who can hold my interest.” This was an admission, though Duncan likely couldn’t appreciate it as such.
“Do I have the honor of holding your interest, Matilda?”
Matilda saw no advantage in dissembling. “You do. I wish it was not so, for all concerned, but, Duncan Wentworth, you do hold my interest.” To make matters worse, she was beaming at him, like sunshine determined to melt away the final snow from early spring.
“Then I’ll look forward to our next match.” He rose and offered his hand, and Matilda let him assist her to her feet.
* * *
A week of careful study, bad roads, and awful tavern fare had not improved Parker’s mood. Dukes were few and far between, a mere two and a half dozen in number give or take, but every damned one of them apparently owned a country estate to the west of London.
Some of these properties were hunting boxes, others minor holdings for warehousing dowagers or younger sons. Still others were lovely estates let out to climbing cits or ambitious horse trainers. To the extent Parker could inquire, he’d not found anybody of Matilda’s description recently hired at any of them.
“The whole business wants more effort,” Parker grumbled into his ale.
“Shall I fetch another pint, sir?” a serving maid asked. The Waddling Goose was a proper establishment, so her smile was merely polite. She was pretty, though, not one of the gap-toothed dumplings on offer in the humbler establishments.
“No more ale, thank you. When will my meal be served?”
“The private dining room is spoken for, sir. If you are willing to eat here in the common, the food is ready now.”
“Are there many ducal properties hereabouts?” The locals knew more than Debrett’s and would chatter at length on the least provocation.
She set her pitcher on the table. “Several, sir. There’s His Grace of Grafton’s stud farm, His Grace of Devonshire has a hunting box, and His Grace of Windham owns a significant parcel—”
Parker was coming to detest the words His Grace. “Have any of those dukes died in recent years?”
She looked at him the same way the old tollkeeper had, the same way many people had in the past week—as if Parker had left his wits back in London.
“I’m a military man,” he said. “I’ve been gone from England for years. I haven’t kept up with the doings of dukes.”
“His Grace of Devonshire went to his reward the same year the Regent took the throne. So did the late Duke of Grafton. As far as I know, the Duke of Windham is in great good health, may God bless and keep him.”
Oh, right. God bless and keep a man who likely owned five hundred times what he and his family needed to survive an English winter, while Parker, who’d risked his life repeatedly for the likes of their various graces, drank flat ale and grew saddle sore.
“Do any ducal holdings lie to the west of here?”
A trio of swells arrived at the front desk, bringing in a draft of cold air and the smell of wet wool. “Bring me a flagon of ale, wench!” one called. “I’ve always wanted to say that. Sounds jolly, don’t you think?”
“Teddy’s foxed,” a second man said.
“Miss,” Parker nearly snapped his fingers. “About the ducal holdings.”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. We’re a market town, and I was born and raised here. I’ve never traveled to the west or even into London. You might ask the young gentlemen. Excuse me.” She was off across the common, her smile shifting from polite to friendly.
Parker’s coachman sidled past the newcomers, who were making loud noises about needing the private dining room ee-meed-jately.
“Have a seat,” Parker said, having taken John Coachman into his confidence of necessity. “We won’t be overheard as long as that farce is unfolding at the front desk. What did you learn?”
The coachman spared a pointed look at Parker’s half-finished ale, which was what came from borrowing a marquess’s equipage. Parker was a tolerated burden, rather than a respected employer. Because Parker had dealt with many a posturing general and pouting lieutenant, he pushed the tankard to the coachman’s elbow.
“The stables are busy,” the coachman replied, sampling the drink, “with half the local gentry heading north for some foxhunting, and the other half coming and going from London. This is good ale.”
“It’s tolerable, but then, this is a proper inn.” A properly expensive inn, in other words. His lordship the marquess stayed at this establishment on the way to visit family in Bristol, which was why Parker had chosen to make camp here.
“No word of any young ladies fallen on hard times,” the coachman said, downing the remaining ale. “The ducal properties are numerous.”
“One gathered as much.” Parker was haunted by the possibility that he’d already missed the ducal property he needed to find. Worse, Wakefield might have mis-remembered whose home had been memorialized in that landscape or mistaken a duke for an earl.
Or purposely sent Parker off in the wrong direction, except Parker had already combed most of Kent, Surrey, and Sussex looking for Matilda.
“Might I ask a question, sir?”
“You may.”
“If we’re looking for a female without means, one seeking to avoid notice, why are we looking at only the best inns and raising questions with only the innkeepers or grooms? A woman in trouble would ask other ladies for aid and avoid drawing any attention from men.”
The three dandies had taken over a table and were making rapid progress through a pitcher of beer.
A bolt of irritation shot through Parker to think of Matilda risking her safety among such as that lot. Those three probably considered themselves gentlemen, though by the time they’d swilled another pitcher, they’d pinch the bum of any woman foolish enough to come near them.
“You raise a valid point,” Parker said. “What do you propose we, as a company of men, do about it?” Subordinates with any intelligence knew better than to bring up a problem without also having a solution in mind.
“Gentzel is a handsome lad, sir. He could chat up the ladies.”
“He’s one of our footmen?”
“A good man, though a Devonshire accent makes him hard to understand. Might I raise another thought, sir?”
No. No more thoughts, questions, or problems. Find Matilda or shut your gob. My career and possibly my life depend upon it. Except that Parker could ill afford to offend his brother’s second coachman. In truth, this westward gambit was the most promising development Parker had pursued since Matilda had disappeared.
She was in more danger than she knew, if she was still alive. “Say on, man.”
“We should be asking the local parsons about recent funerals of young women answering to the missing lady’s description. Accidents happen, women despair, rogues abound.”
The coachman was fairly young, but, like most of his kind, his countenance was weathered. He offered his observations gently, for Parker was the young lady’s heartbroken fiancé, as far as anybody knew.
“As much as I’d like to, I cannot disagree with you,” Parker said slowly. Matilda’s death would be lamentable, very lamentable. Parker still hoped to make her see reason and go through with the marriage. He’d resume the duties of a senior officer, leaving Thomas Wakefield to deal with the consequences of his folly.
Parker would marry Matilda out of pity, because the daughter of a traitor could not expect to find any better source of protection than an unassailably loyal military officer. She’d be
grateful to Parker for honoring their betrothal, and contrite for having shown such infernally awful judgment by running off.
And Parker’s superior officers would commend him for discreetly managing a very delicate business.
“I can have Fitzsimmons inquire of the clergy,” the coachman said, lifting the empty tankard a few inches in the direction of the serving maid.
“Thank you,” Parker said. “When we quit this establishment, we’ll find humbler lodgings to the west and continue our search.”
The door to the private dining room opened, and a finely dressed older couple emerged. The maid curtsied, and the white-haired fellow passed her a coin.
“I believe my meal will soon be served,” Parker said. “Would you care to join me?” Loyalty should be rewarded, as should initiative. Besides, Parker might need his brother’s coach and four again, and the coachman’s good opinion would be useful.
“I’d like that, sir. Nothing like fine English beef three times a day, I always say.”
Parker had risen and caught the eye of the serving maid when the three dandies shuffled past, bringing their tankards and pitcher. They made straight for the private dining room, the third one closing the door firmly behind them.
Chapter Ten
Duncan considered meeting Trostle in the study and rejected the notion. Matilda worked there, and the steward mustn’t see her. The family parlor would send the wrong message altogether, and the formal parlor was for respected guests.
Duncan chose instead the frigid expanse of the portrait gallery, which the footmen and maids had thoroughly cleaned. Generations of Wentworths looked down upon spotless hearths, sparkling windows, and ornate plaster bearing not one speck of dust or a single cobweb.
Cold, lovely, and ostentatious. “No fires,” Duncan said, when Manners would have ladled hot coals onto the grates. “Mr. Trostle won’t be staying long.”
“He’s in the kitchen now, sir. Demanding his nooning and making talk.”
“What sort of talk?”
Manners took down a lathe-turned wooden candlestick from the mantel and re-fitted the beeswax taper so it stood straight in the socket.
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