When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,17
tidy man have left his journals in such chaos?
“I don’t know what to say about you; ergo, I’ll say nothing.” He dusted his hands and perched a hip against the desk. “I had supper last night with Squire Peabody, who is the magistrate for our district, and your situation did not arise at any point in our conversation. Nonetheless, you should know that I won’t lie, Miss Maddie. Not on behalf of a woman who could well bring the constabulary down on my household for high crimes or infamous deeds.”
Was any virtue rarer or more irksome than honesty? “The constables are not pursuing me. Does your penchant for telling the truth stem from your training for the church?”
One boot swung impatiently. “I prefer honesty because lies are a damned lot of bother and seldom solve more problems than they create. I will tell the rubbishing neighbors that you are a connection fallen on hard times, and I am indebted to you for past generosities. You have agreed to assist me in restoring Brightwell to its former glory, and as I am without a hostess, your presence is most appreciated.”
Why must he have such a gift for euphemism? “Don’t add that part,” Matilda said, “about the hostess. Such a comment begs the question of when you’ll be entertaining.”
He rose from the desk. “Excellent point. No mention of needing a hostess, then, though if I did let on that you are here as the lady of the house, then the invitations might cease.” He turned his regard on the ceiling—a plain expanse of plaster—as if importuning the Almighty to deliver him from such tribulations.
“If you don’t want to socialize, then simply refuse the invitations.”
He paced away from the desk, his prowling making the room feel smaller. As estate offices went, the dimensions were commodious, particularly with many of the books shelved and the papers organized into boxes stored in the cabinets. Mr. Wentworth circling the desk made Matilda want to stand closer to the door.
“But how does one refuse an invitation without arousing exactly the sort of questions you allude to, Miss Maddie? If I decline a dinner party, then at the Sunday service, I’ll be asked if I’m under the weather. If I send regrets to my neighbor’s musicale, some squire or other will ask if the plaguy books have fallen behind, which they have, by a decade or two.”
“You dislike accounting?”
He tossed himself into the chair behind the desk. “I have a proper respect for accounting. What’s wanted with Brightwell’s finances is something on the order of legerdemain. Even my cousin, the brilliant man of means, hasn’t found the time to bring this place to heel, suggesting that unless I learn to traffic in the dark arts, the task is impossible.”
Matilda rose, poured him a brandy at the sideboard, and brought it to him. She’d done the same for Papa and the colonel more times than she could count. So far, she’d refrained from helping herself to Brightwell’s spirits.
“My thanks,” Mr. Wentworth said. “Feel free to join me, if you’re inclined to ward off the chill. I have female cousins who can ward off chills at the pace of Scottish coachmen.”
Matilda ought not. Ladies did not partake of strong spirits, though the aroma of apples and sweet spices, autumn sunshine in Acquitaine, and memories treasured by winter fires called to her. Who knew if she’d ever enjoy such a luxury again, much less in such good company?
“Come,” Mr. Wentworth said, rising to put his full glass in her hand. “‘He who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.’”
“Samuel Johnson,” Matilda replied, loving the familiar feel of the glass against her palm. “Dr. Johnson made no provision for what girls, women, or heroines should imbibe.”
“Perhaps he didn’t feel qualified to expound on the subject, or perhaps”—Mr. Wentworth could pour brandy and aim a curious gaze in Matilda’s direction—“he knew that women can be heroines without the fortification of spirits.”
He saluted with his glass and took a sip, so Matilda tasted hers as well.
The nose was exquisite: dignified, complex, and alluring. On the tongue, the brandy blossomed to keep the promises of sunshine on old wood, spices, and a hint of crème brûlée. She swallowed, and the fire in her belly started quietly, then gained strength until another sip became imperative.
“The drink meets with your approval,” Mr. Wentworth said, “while my rejoinder, should I be asked about my houseguest, did not meet with your approval. Consider this, Miss Maddie: The Wentworths