When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,16
unsaid—Matilda gathered that he was required to make up numbers at his neighbors’ gatherings.
And therein lay one last problem she’d have to resolve before she took her leave of him. “Please have a seat, Mr. Wentworth. We must broach a delicate topic.”
He took the chair behind the desk, a chilly perch because Matilda kept the draperies open. She needed the warmth and respite his hearth provided, but she needed to see freedom more.
“I’m not paying you enough,” he said, rearranging pencils in a silver pen tray. “Very well, your wages are increased by half.”
He shouldn’t be paying her at all, especially in light of how she planned to return his hospitality. “That will not be necessary.”
“You are giving notice, then, mere days after taking on your task. I cannot blame you. If I can’t read my own handwriting, then there’s little hope—”
She rose and rearranged her shawls. “I am not giving notice.” Nor would she ever give notice. She’d steal away under tonight’s cold quarter moon when the rest of the household slept. “My concern at present lies elsewhere. You have been socializing with your neighbors.”
Mr. Wentworth made a face like a boy served a plate of cold turnips when he’d expected pudding.
“According to some law held sacrosanct by rural hostesses,” he said, “males and females must be matched, like bookends or Dutch trotters. We’re to parade from the parlor to the dining room in pairs, converse in the same fashion at table, and waste our evenings in twosomes. God forbid the carpet should be rolled back for dancing after supper, and some unfortunate is forced to sit out a reel for lack of a partner. I suppose this explains why a gentleman always turns pages for a lady and, conversely, so the Commandment of Two remains unbroken.”
He wasn’t even peevish. He offered a bored aside, his chin braced on his hand, index finger extended along his cheek.
“What have you told the neighbors about me?”
“Do you know, Miss Maddie, that when I enter a room, you immediately position yourself between me and the door, or at least as close to the door as I am?”
A man who’d observed everything from the forced smiles of Parisian coquettes to the Roman bridges still in use in Vienna would notice that.
Matilda returned to her seat. “I sit for long periods poring over your essays. I pace to stave off restlessness. Your staff looks in on me from time to time, and they will doubtless mention in the market and to their families that you have a female guest. How will you explain me?”
Mr. Wentworth pinched the bridge of his nose—a nice nose. Neither too large nor retiring, but assertive enough for a man of his intellect. His chin and jawline were similarly just right—defined without shading into boldness. Gainsborough or Lawrence wouldn’t have done him justice—they created portraits of fashion on human mannequins—but a Bernini sculpture would have been a fine medium for Mr. Wentworth’s likeness.
Provided the sculpture was one of the artist’s works portrayed with clothing.
“How will I explain you.” Mr. Wentworth rose and went to the hearth, putting Matilda in mind of a scholar getting to his feet to demonstrate his rhetorical skills. “I am required to explain another human being? Is it not burden enough making sense of my own situation? You decline to explain yourself, therefore, the question vexes me. You appeared in my woods at a time when an ally was much needed, and I repay my debts. Is that sufficient explanation?”
Something was vexing him, though he hadn’t raised his voice. He used the coal scoop to add fuel to the fire, and then rearranged coals on the grate to allow air to circulate.
“In the village,” Matilda said, “somebody will mention that a lady has come to bide at Brightwell. The poachers, wherever they are, will grumble about a woman waving a gun at them on the Wentworth property. Sooner or later, over a glass of port or in the churchyard, somebody will inquire of you regarding your guest. What will you say?”
She needed to know this before she left Brightwell: What tale would he concoct about the woman he’d found in his woods, if he’d say anything at all?
He replaced the fire screen flush against the bricks and tapped the end of the poker against the hearthstones, shedding minute portions of ash and coal dust onto the stones. Next, he swept the leavings into the ash scoop, and dumped the lot into the dustbin.