When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,3
wet plop followed, though the river was a good twenty yards on.
“My gatehouse is uninhabited, like the rest of my outbuildings. I came up the drive last night after moonrise, and what should I see but smoke drifting from the chimney. No lamps lit, the windows shuttered, but clearly, somebody in residence.”
He noticed smoke by moonlight. I really must learn to curse. “Perhaps Jeffrey and Mr. Treacher availed themselves of your hospitality.”
Mr. Wentworth put Matilda in mind of the leather that had snared the rabbit. Lean, supple, and strong, though his strength would be hard to discern beneath fine tailoring and society manners. He noticed his surroundings, and thus Matilda nearly hated him.
“Perhaps you will avail yourself of my hospitality,” he said. “I am new to the area and would acquaint myself with a neighbor whose timely appearance spared me a good deal of bother.”
I am not your neighbor. “It was of no moment, Mr. Wentworth.” I frequently take the air in woods I don’t own and wave a pistol at ruffians. “I really must be going. Good day.”
She gathered her skirts and would have moved off toward the river, but Mr. Wentworth’s hand on her arm stayed her.
“I must insist, madam. Midday has arrived, and I neglected to break my fast. My cook will be wroth with me if I similarly disregard my luncheon. You did me a great service, and the least I can do is offer you some sustenance.”
His invitation balanced a vague plea with a vaguer threat. Matilda did not believe the plea for one moment, no matter the sincerity in his blue eyes.
She didn’t dare ignore the threat, however, not when he could have her arrested for breaking and entering. With that air of gravitas, he’d easily convince the magistrate that Matilda had been intent on poaching.
Then too, his threat came with an offer of free food.
By tonight, she’d be ten miles away, though she had hoped to winter at Brightwell. The property had belonged to an aging duke who’d died without sons. She and Papa had visited the duke years ago, making Brightwell a regular stop on their summer travels. His Grace would part with a painting in exchange for a manuscript or figurine, and Papa would come away richer for having imposed on ducal hospitality for a fortnight.
In the past week, Brightwell’s gatehouse had been a sanctuary, though, of course, Matilda was trespassing. Another activity for which a lady’s education hadn’t prepared her.
While Matilda sorted through options and mentally bemoaned a lack of criminal skills, Mr. Wentworth pretended to admire the autumn foliage. He was tall, brown-haired, and looked of a piece with the trees shedding the last remnants of their summer finery. Matilda put him at “indisputably mature.” Well north of thirty, still south of forty. He would age well and slowly, and most women would consider him handsome.
Matilda considered him a serious problem.
“The house is in that direction,” he said, gesturing away from the river. “The day is cold enough to justify a toddy, though I’m also in the mood for beef and barley soup. My tastes are not refined, which doubtless drives Cook to despair.”
Oh, ye winged seraphs. A hot, spicy, restorative dose of spirits, a steaming bowl of beef stew…Matilda’s feet started moving without her giving them permission to do so. She hadn’t had fresh bread in weeks, hadn’t had butter since losing her post at the inn.
“I cannot stay long, Mr. Wentworth.”
“All the ladies say that, which is a polite way to remind me that I’m poor company. I set a humble table, my conversation is dull, and my favorite society is that of long-dead philosophers. You may limit yourself to two bites of ham and a single spoonful of compote, then be on your way, if you’re still awake. Ladies have been known to catch up on their slumber when assigned to be my dinner companion.”
He was making a jest of himself, though Matilda found no humor in his remarks. Desperation did this—stole humor, rest, pleasure, all the blessings in life. Then came autumn, when pilfering by moonlight from neglected gardens was no longer possible and orchards were stripped of their fruit. Every ounce of Matilda’s energy was often spent piling up deadfall to burn at night.
Her plan—take a job in service, save money, and eventually take passage from England—had turned out to be no plan at all.
“I have bored you already,” Mr. Wentworth said. “I’d discuss the weather, but that strikes me as belaboring the obvious