A Bunch of Mistletoe Page 4

  She turned her head to smile at him and caught the gaze of the Duke of Trensom. Blinking, she retrained her gaze to her original target, but she couldn’t forget that intensity, the power, the longing she saw there.

  Impossible. She must be imagining things. Seeing what she wanted to see in him.

  The Duke of Trensom seemed a completely different person to Harry, the man who’d caught her when she fell out of the tree. That man was smiling, affable, approachable. Everything this man was not. The Duke of Trensom was magnificently dressed, smelled of something expensive, probably a scent he had made for his exclusive use, and never smiled. He just brooded. He did speak, though, of politics and investments, discussing the affairs of mutual acquaintances, but never participating in gossip.

  In short, a dead bore. Except for his appearance. No figured velvet could hide the powerful muscles Matilda had experienced firsthand, wrapped around her. And much though she knew she should forget that, she was determined not to. That brief, delicious sensation would remain with her for a long time. She’d make sure of it. Even a woman in control of her own destiny wanted to feel helpless once in a while. In the right circumstances, naturally.

  If he hadn’t turned out to be such a stick, then he could have been the man.

  She risked another look, planning to use Gerald as a shield. Flick a glance past him to the man standing just behind him.

  Only he wasn’t there. Only the duke stood nearby, glowering at her. Before she could curb her unruly tongue, she said, “What? Is there a smut on my nose?”

  “Nothing that I can see,” he answered. But this close, she noted something she hadn’t when he was standing farther away; the gleam in his eyes that told her he’d noticed and he was waiting for her to say something else. Something to amuse him. And that wasn’t her imagination.

  “I beg your pardon, your grace.” Circumspection, she reminded herself. She had to support the earldom, do the right thing. Help Annie and Gerald build their family anew.

  Not literally, of course. They were doing that very well on her own. Annie was in the early stages of pregnancy, never an easy time for her, but she was doing her part. Matilda had to do hers.

  But the duke wasn’t playing Matilda’s game. “Don’t do that. Don’t your grace me. After all, I know what lies under that delectable silk. Or at least, I’ve had a better guess at it than most.”

  Matilda nearly choked, so she greeted Lady Comyn, who was stepping into the middle of the company, with relief.

  “Because of the storm, we’re sadly depleted,” her ladyship said, smiling brightly. In total, there were eight guests; Annie and Gerald, Damaris and her duke, Dorcas, Delphi and Matilda herself. And the single guest of honor.

  “I had the leaves taken out of the dining table,” Lady Comyn said, “So we may not be so formal. However, if you prefer, we can go in by rank.” She looked doubtfully at Trensom.

  He gave the trace of a smile, barely there at all. “Not at all, ma’am. That storm will pass, and our guests will arrive,” he said.

  Trensom offered his arm to Delphi, who laid her hand on it as if she were born to the role. She’d make an excellent duchess, just as Damaris had, given the chance. And Trensom was giving her every opportunity.

  Matilda was left to keep Dorcas company. Normally, that would suit her fine. Today, she could only cast a wistful glance at the duke before she took her seat at the table. Lady Comyn took her place at the bottom.

  Annie sent Matilda a quizzical look and lifted her brow slightly. She could hardly say anything, since Trensom was sitting in between Delphi and Dorcas on the other side of the table. Matilda had Dorcas on one side, and Damaris’ husband, Glenbreck, on the other, an arrangement that would normally please her. Despite a deep and abiding love for Damaris, Glenbreck never forgot his manners, and Annie could look forward to a pleasant dinner.

  The servants had already set the first course in place, and they sat before a goodly array of dishes. “The servants will eat well tonight,” their hostess remarked caustically. She lifted the silver lid of the dish nearest to her, releasing the delicious aroma of lamb fricassée.

  At the head of the table, Lord Comyn was slicing into a joint of beef. He was generous with his portions and gave the servants full plates to hand around.

  The meal was convivial and plentiful. Matilda didn’t eat much, only enough to stop Annie wondering at her loss of appetite. At the other side of the table, Trensom was chatting animatedly to the sisters, but mostly to Delphi.

  Apparently, they had something in common, something Matilda had little interest in, namely the classics. Merrily they quoted pieces of Cicero and Plautus at each other. Matilda wasn’t sure what she discussed, only that it wasn’t the classics. She was very happy that Delphi and Trensom were getting along so well.

  True, he was twenty years or so older than Delphi, but marriages, especially at this level of society, were often made with those age differences. Peers of the realm needed heirs. If they did not get one from their first wives, then their second wives might prove more fruitful. And Trensom’s first wife had only given him daughters.

  Matilda wouldn’t give him heirs.

  She would lock away the memory of that kiss, keep it to herself and store it with the other remembrances of what could have been. There were a few of those to keep it company. At her age, she could expect nothing more. No romance, no suitors, and she had reconciled herself to that. Or she thought she had. Damn Trensom for bringing those foolish dreams back to her, damn him to hell and back.

  His head jerked around, as if he read her thoughts, and he looked directly at her, right into her soul. Matilda stared back, forcing her lips into a polite smile; one that showed nothing.

  He turned away again after a stately nod.

  Matilda let her heart break and then smiled as if nothing were happening. She’d always been too romantic for her own nature. Her mother had told her so and she’d been right. Matilda had passed over two perfectly eligible suitors, in favor of waiting for love. But when love had come, it had betrayed her. She’d have been better off marrying her father’s apprentice.

  Too late now. Far too late.

  After a convivial meal and evening discussing the classics, Matilda took a seat at the harpsichord and trilled a few tunes. Easy ones, not made to attract attention, but to provide a comfortable accompaniment. She preferred to make herself useful. The one thing she hated was to be nothing but an ornament, living off the charity of her niece-by-marriage and her new husband.

  But Annie would need her while she was pregnant. After the child came, Matilda had plans. She would live her own life, be herself. Find out what the rest of her life held.

  Dorcas retired first. She wanted to get to the hothouses first thing in the morning, since Lady Comyn had given her permission to explore. She gloried in them. That gave Matilda the excuse to leave.

  “I’ll come upstairs with you,” she said, getting to her feet as smoothly as she could. “Today has been an unusual one, and I’m tired out.” The sanctuary of her room seemed particularly welcoming tonight. She would leave the lovebirds and the incipient couple to their evening.

  But Trensom got to his feet, after a quiet word with Delphi. “Permit me to escort you. I feel responsible for your exhaustion.”

  Matilda laughed. “If not for you, I’d be much more exhausted. Please don’t let me spoil your evening. I’ll be fine with Dorcas.”

  “I saw you when you stood,” he said, approaching her with a single-mindedness that worried Matilda. “You are not recovered, are you?”

  “Only a twinge,” she faltered. “Nothing to speak of.”

  “As your rescuer, I insist on ensuring you continue to recover from your ordeal.”

  What did that mean? Spoken in his dark, velvet voice, the words held mountains of meaning, none of which Matilda understood. So her torture must go on a little longer. She could bear it. She’d borne worse.

  What was it about this infuriating woman? Despite
his conversation with Lady Delphi, Harry had kept an eye on Matilda. Her laughter and the way she started conversations, then listened to the responses with every indication of being fascinated evoked his admiration. She would make someone a gracious and elegant wife. She might still do that. She wasn’t as aged as she seemed to assume. Not nearly as much.

  But if she stumbled on the stairs, he’d damned well pick her up again, servants or no, hooped gown or not. She’d favored her other ankle all evening, and it had been as much as he could do to ignore it, or pretend to. When she’d played the harpsichord after dinner, she’d sat in an awkward position, presumably to ease the pressure on her ankle.

  Escorting both ladies gave them the veneer of respectability. He recalled his study of Plutarch’s Lives, to give Lady Delphi something to talk about. Which she did, but not for long. Gazing wistfully out of the window at the snow-covered landscape, she murmured, “I’ll be glad when spring comes. Travel is so difficult in this weather. I’ve been at Gerald this age to allow me to go to Rome, but he always says no. Even though Matilda has taken my side.”

  Lady Dorcas’ room was the first they reached, so they bade her goodnight. She smiled at them sweetly and went into her room.

  He gazed after her. He liked Dorcas, but he felt no compunction to further the acquaintance. In his experience, either a spark flared between him and another person, or it did not. With Dorcas, it did not. While a spark couldn’t be a reliable guide to a long-term connection, no spark meant there would probably be none in the future.

  Besides, sparks were fun. He enjoyed the hell out of sparks.

  When Matilda tried to do the same, he said, “No you don’t,” as firmly as he could, then switched sides, to give her the opportunity to lean on him. When she showed no inclination to do so, he said, “Don’t hold back. I know it’s still bothering you.”

  With a sigh of what sounded like relief, she subsided, and he braced his arm to accept what weight she cared to grant him. “You should not indulge me. I’ll be fine.”

  “Why should I not?” he demanded. “It was entirely my fault, after all.”

  She snorted, an inelegant sound he reveled in. Her naturalness made him smile. “I overestimated my ability to climb the tree in the snow and then the ladder fell. You were my rescuer. I could have been up there for hours. I could have frozen to death.” She shuddered dramatically.

  Her reaction made him laugh. “I doubt that. You’re essential to your family, are you not?”

  She looked away, pretending to study a landscape hanging on the wall, so old it was a brown, dark mess. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s only that at this stage of her pregnancy, Annie is easily tired. In a few weeks, she’ll be back to her old self. I will stay with her until the baby comes.”

  Her reply stopped him in his tracks. As she tugged at his arm, he stopped cold, forcing her to turn into him. While he hadn’t intended that to happen, he wasn’t sorry for it. She carried a faint scent of oranges. He’d always liked oranges.

  “I thought you were permanently settled here. Is your nephew-by-marriage forcing you out?”

  “Oh, no!” She gave a soft laugh. “He treats me as a member of the family, even though, strictly speaking, I am not. I’m the boys’ great-aunt, that is all. I don’t want to live as a poor relation, however kind they are to me.” She gazed up into his eyes. He couldn’t look away. Or perhaps, he simply didn’t want to. “I have some money of my own. I’m not entirely destitute.”

  “I see.” Probably her dowry. It couldn’t be much. Matilda came from the City. “Is it enough for you to live in comfort?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said airily. “More than enough.”

  He wouldn’t press further; it wouldn’t be gentlemanly. All the same, he’d like to know. He didn’t want to think of Matilda living in genteel poverty. She was much too lively for that to happen. Or perhaps he meant lovely.

  Without actually thinking about it, he bent and brought his lips to hers.

  She jerked, but then came back. Good, because he wanted more. Matilda tasted even better when her lips were warm. He couldn’t imagine tiring of her anytime soon.

  Or ever.

  No, he was thinking that way because her kisses were sweet, and they fit together as if they really worked. As if they’d been doing this for a long time. And yet not, because the thrill of the new and fresh sent sparkles of awareness through his veins.

  He wanted to kiss Matilda for a long time. She was the one who pulled away. “You’re very good to an old lady,” she said with a smile.

  He gave her a little shake. “Stop it. Don’t keep saying things like that, Matilda. You’re lovely, stylish and old ladies don’t kiss like you do.”

  She lifted her brows. “Am I your first, then?”

  “No…yes. You’re not an old lady. How old are you?”

  She swallowed. Every time she said it, she could barely believe it. How had the time flown by like this? “Forty-three.”

  “So I’ve been kissing an older woman? And before you ask, I’m forty-two. A veritable youth, or so my admirers keep telling me.”

  “You’re in your prime,” she said. “I’m a dried-up old maid, and although I didn’t hear that from my admirers, I’ve heard it often enough to believe it.”

  Fury simmered inside him to hear her described that way. Mixed with a little incredulity. “They’re all lying. Every one of them.” Unable to resist the temptation of those soft, pillowed lips, he kissed them again. Soft, luscious. He finished his thought aloud. “Not dried-up at all.”

  “When you do it, they don’t feel that way,” she murmured.

  “Keep thinking that. And believe me. Don’t believe them.”

  Footsteps sounded behind them. By the time their owner had rounded the corner, he was standing a foot away from her, giving her a punctilious bow. “I’m glad to hear your ankle is better, but don’t try to do too much for a day or two.”

  The footman walked past them. Neither of them acknowledged his presence, so he didn’t stop to bow. Perfectly trained.

  Without looking back at Matilda, Harry walked away, ensuring he followed the servant and he was seen. He headed to his own chambers. His mind was still with Matilda and the people cruel enough to discuss her as if she couldn’t hear them. He would find out who they were and punish them, because they deserved to learn better. And so did she.

  If not for that footman, he might have persuaded her to let him into her room. What would have happened there remained to be seen. Harry was no ruthless seducer, exerting all the skills at his command to take what he shouldn’t. No, he preferred a woman to be perfectly in harmony with him, to want what he wanted, as much as he wanted it.

  Unfortunately, he had yet to find that ideal. His wife had been compliant, but she had never asked him or initiated their lovemaking. She’d enjoyed what they did, or she told him so, but preferred him to take to his own bed afterwards. The other women he’d taken had been few, but enjoyable. He didn’t number his conquests. What was the point in that?

  He was smiling when he went into his bedroom. Although his valet didn’t question it, Harry suspected he knew what he was smiling about.

  He was still smiling as he fell asleep.

  The next day witnessed a rush of arrivals. Matilda enjoyed the flush of enjoyment marking Annie’s cheeks at her acceptance into society but watched her carefully and sent her upstairs for a rest in the early afternoon. In the drawing room before dinner, she quietly took her place at Gerald’s side as he greeted the guests. He was doing well, but the strain of greeting the guests was telling on him. His nostrils were pinched and he was standing rigidly, as if at attention.

  The Duke of Blackridge, dark and glowering, had arrived and studiously ignored Dorcas. Something was going on between those two, but Matilda didn’t know what it was.

  Undeterred by his forbidding appearance, Matilda greeted him warmly. He met her gaze and his lips twitched as if threatening to break into a smile. Matilda liked him. Unlike
many of his kind, he did not despise her for her origins. Neither did he treat her like a servant or paid companion, as many others did.

  “I remember this place as terribly daunting,” Blackridge commented, gazing around him. The drawing room was magnificently arranged, but Matilda privately considered it could use a personal touch, some family pieces. And the furniture need not be so rigidly arranged. Once Advent was over, sprigs of holly from the trees on the estate would give the room a festive touch. Formality would take another step back.

  One day, a new mistress would take hold of the place and turn it into whatever she wanted. Matilda wouldn’t be here to see it. She’d make sure of it.

  Chapter Six

  Perhaps Matilda should revive her youthful plans to travel. What was good for the Duke of Trensom was good enough for her. Matilda allowed herself a few minutes of vivid daydreams. That was why she’d agreed to accompany Delphi to Rome, but Gerald had turned the idea down flat. “We’re hardly established in society,” he said. “And it would take a great deal of planning, more than we can achieve in a few months. I cannot believe you would wish to go gallivanting off abroad, Matilda.”

  Oh, but she had. Once, in her giddy youth, she’d seen engravings of people in Rome, all well-born and cultured, and read the stories of what those men got up to. Because it was almost always men. They had their portraits painted, spent fortunes on statues and relics that were, in fact, made yesterday, and squandered even more on the ladies offering their favors. Venice was notorious for that, but Delphi wasn’t interested in Venice. She wanted Rome, the cradle of civilization.

  Reality had intervened, as it always did. Once the cost of such an adventure was pointed out to her, Matilda had put the notion aside. Even now, when she could consider the venture, she had thought of Delphi rather than herself.