When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,32
a pair of footmen will do nicely. Your dairyman will give notice within a fortnight.”
Matilda’s hands were in motion before she’d given them leave, and they reached for Mr. Wentworth’s cravat. He stilled, like a wild creature focusing on approaching footsteps. And yet, he tolerated her re-tying his neckcloth, even to the moment when she centered the plain gold pin anchoring the whole.
A man with eyes that blue should have a sapphire pin, even for everyday.
“You have no husband at present,” Mr. Wentworth said, shifting to regard himself in the glass-fronted bookcase near the sideboard. “But you had a father or brother whom you regarded with some affection, or perhaps a husband gone to his reward. Nicely done.”
“I like order.” Matilda craved order, now especially. “I apologize for presuming, but you were off center.”
He swirled her shawl from his shoulders and settled it over hers. The gesture was as graceful as a dancer’s and much more alluring.
“That I am,” he said, “off center. The condition is of long standing. You needn’t trouble yourself over it.”
He remained before her, his hands holding the hems of her shawl. If he tugged, she’d step closer, and she’d do so willingly.
“Onward to Vienna,” he said, moving toward the door. “I’m thinking of hiring an under-steward.”
“A trainee, before you sack the crook you have now. Shrewd. An assistant dairyman hired at the same time would attract less notice.”
“Though paying double wages will take a toll.” He paused by the door to look around the office, which was an altogether lighter, tidier place than it had been when Matilda had arrived. She’d also prevailed on the staff to equip the room with lavender sachets to discourage bugs, and had the carpets beaten halfway to…Dorset.
“You mentioned that Lord Stephen is friendly,” Mr. Wentworth said. “I have instructed him that utmost discretion is necessary regarding your presence at Brightwell.”
“Thank you.” Matilda hadn’t known how to raise that topic.
Mr. Wentworth’s expression shifted, becoming even more severe than usual. “If Lord Stephen’s friendliness ever approaches the point where you feel burdened or threatened, you will apply to me immediately.”
Lord Stephen was a flirt, but as Mr. Wentworth had pointed out, his lordship was a flirt who could not give physical chase. He could reveal a woman’s secrets in the churchyard, though, a thought that had kept Matilda awake at night.
“If his lordship should overstep, what would you do?”
“Break his arms, then put him in a coach for London with instructions never to return upon pain of death.” Arms plural, and Mr. Wentworth was in earnest.
Matilda crossed the room and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. That is the most charming expression of gentlemanly regard I have ever received.”
He slipped out the door before she could make an even greater fool of herself.
* * *
The snow was melting, which Duncan took for a false dawn before winter blossomed into full nuisance-hood. Mud for Stephen was more than a nuisance, though his lordship loved to be on horseback.
“The sunshine feels good,” Stephen said. “That doesn’t change whether we’re in Sardinia, Copenhagen, or godforsaken Berkshire.”
The morning was winter-bright and winter-cold, but, as Stephen had said, the sunshine was a benevolence on Duncan’s exposed cheeks and brow. Like the kiss of a woman who did not bestow affection casually.
“Why don’t you have your own sawmill?” Stephen asked. “You’ve trees enough.”
“I suspect Brightwell still has its hedges, groves, and forests because stealing lumber cannot be done subtly. Had my steward taken down a hedgerow of elms, the theft would have been obvious to all, and the proceeds hard to disburse when lumber must season before being sold.”
As a consequence, the home wood was large and overgrown, the hedgerows wide and equally unkempt, and the game abundant. No wonder poachers had been attracted to the property.
“You like that your manor house hides within a forest primeval,” Stephen said. “If I visit again next year, I’ll find vines choking the drive and ivy enshrouding your windows. I do wonder if I’ll find Miss Maddie tucked away with you here as well.”
“Ask her and I will toss you from one of those windows. She is not to be pestered by your curiosity or by your wandering hands, Stephen.”
Though Maddie’s hands on Duncan had felt…he searched for words, rummaging around in French and German before resorting to English: delightful, soothing, upsetting, presuming, good.
She had fussed with him as women tidy their menfolk, part admonition, part affection, like the tap of the sword on a knight’s shoulder in the accolade ceremony.