Scandal in Spring
Page 49
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“I can’t wait a week,” Matthew exploded. “I’ve already made appointments. I’ve arranged to meet with everyone from the dockmaster to the owners of the local waterworks company—”
“Those meetings will be rescheduled, then.”
“If you think there won’t be complaints—”
“The news that I will be accompanying you next week will be enough to quell most complaints.”
From any other man such a pronouncement would have been arrogance. From Westcliff it was a simple statement of fact.
“Does Mr. Bowman know about this?” Matthew demanded.
“Yes. And after hearing my opinion on the matter, he has agreed.”
“What am I supposed to do here for a week?”
The earl arched a dark brow in the manner of a man whose hospitality had never been questioned. People of all ages, nationalities and social classes begged for invitations to StonyCrossPark. Matthew was probably the only man in England who didn’t want to be there.
He didn’t care. He had gone too long without any real work—he was tired of idle amusements, tired of small talk, tired of beautiful scenery and fresh country air and peace and quiet. He wanted some activity, damn it all. Not to mention some coal-scented city air and the clamor of traffic-filled streets.
Most of all he wanted to be away from Daisy Bowman. It was constant torture to have her so near and yet never be able to touch her. It was impossible to treat her with calm courtesy when his head was filled with lurid images of holding her, seducing her, his mouth finding the sweetest, most vulnerable places of her body. And that was only the beginning. Matthew wanted hours, days, weeks alone with her…he wanted all her thoughts and smiles and secrets. The freedom to lay his soul bare before her.
Things he could never have.
“There are many entertainments available at the estate and its environs,” Westcliff said in answer to his question. “If you desire a particular kind of female companionship, I suggest you go to the village tavern.”
Matthew had already heard some of the male guests at the estate boasting of a spring evening’s revelry with a pair of buxom tavern maids. If only he could be satisfied with something that simple. A solid village wench, instead of a tantalizing will-o’-the-wisp who had wrought some kind of spell over his mind and heart.
Love was supposed to be a happy, giddy emotion. Like the silly verses written on Valentine cards and decorated with feathers and paint and lace. This wasn’t at all like that. This was a gnawing, feverish, bleak feeling…an addiction that could not be quenched.
This was pure reckless need. And he was not a reckless man.
But Matthew knew if he stayed at Stony Cross much longer, he was going to do something disastrous.
“I’m going to Bristol,” Matthew said desperately. “I’ll reschedule the meetings. I won’t do anything without your leave. But at least I can gather information—interview the local transport firm, have a look at their horses—”
“Swift,” the earl interrupted. Something in his quiet tone, a note of…kindness?…sympathy?…caused Matthew to stiffen defensively. “I understand the reason for your urgency—”
“No, you don’t.”
“I understand more than you might think. And in my experience, these problems can’t be solved by avoidance. You can never run far or fast enough.”
Matthew froze, staring at Westcliff. The earl could have been referring either to Daisy, or to Matthew’s tarnished past. In either case he was probably right.
Not that it changed anything.
“Sometimes running is the only choice,” Matthew replied gruffly, and left the room without looking back.
As it turned out, Matthew did not go to Bristol. He knew he would regret his decision…but he had no idea how much.
The days that followed were what Matthew would remember for the rest of his life as a week of unholy torture.
He had been to hell and back at a much earlier time in his life, having known physical pain, deprivation, near-starvation, and bone-chilling fear. But none of those discomforts came close to the agony of standing by and watching Daisy Bowman being courted by Lord Llandrindon.
It seemed the seeds he had sown in Llandrindon’s mind about Daisy’s charms had successfully taken root. Llandrindon was at Daisy’s side constantly, chatting, flirting, letting his gaze travel over her with offensive familiarity. And Daisy was similarly absorbed, hanging on his every word, dropping whatever she happened to be doing as soon as Llandrindon appeared.
On Monday they went out for a private picnic.
On Tuesday they went for a carriage drive.
On Wednesday they went to pick bluebells.
On Thursday they fished at the lake, returning with damp clothes and sun-glazed complexions, laughing together at a joke they didn’t share with anyone else.
On Friday they danced together at an impromptu musical evening, looking so well matched that one of the guests remarked it was a pleasure to watch them.
On Saturday Matthew woke up wanting to murder someone.
His mood was not improved by Thomas Bowman’s dyspeptic pronouncement after breakfast.
“He’s winning,” Bowman grumbled, pulling Matthew into the study for a private conversation. “That Scottish bastard Llandrindon has spent hours on end with Daisy, oozing charm and spouting all the nonsense women like to hear. If you had any intention of marrying my daughter, the opportunity has dwindled to almost nothing. You’ve gone out of your way to avoid her, you’ve been taciturn and distant, and all week you’ve worn an expression that would frighten small children and animals. Your notion of wooing a woman confirms everything I’ve ever heard about Bostonians.”
“Those meetings will be rescheduled, then.”
“If you think there won’t be complaints—”
“The news that I will be accompanying you next week will be enough to quell most complaints.”
From any other man such a pronouncement would have been arrogance. From Westcliff it was a simple statement of fact.
“Does Mr. Bowman know about this?” Matthew demanded.
“Yes. And after hearing my opinion on the matter, he has agreed.”
“What am I supposed to do here for a week?”
The earl arched a dark brow in the manner of a man whose hospitality had never been questioned. People of all ages, nationalities and social classes begged for invitations to StonyCrossPark. Matthew was probably the only man in England who didn’t want to be there.
He didn’t care. He had gone too long without any real work—he was tired of idle amusements, tired of small talk, tired of beautiful scenery and fresh country air and peace and quiet. He wanted some activity, damn it all. Not to mention some coal-scented city air and the clamor of traffic-filled streets.
Most of all he wanted to be away from Daisy Bowman. It was constant torture to have her so near and yet never be able to touch her. It was impossible to treat her with calm courtesy when his head was filled with lurid images of holding her, seducing her, his mouth finding the sweetest, most vulnerable places of her body. And that was only the beginning. Matthew wanted hours, days, weeks alone with her…he wanted all her thoughts and smiles and secrets. The freedom to lay his soul bare before her.
Things he could never have.
“There are many entertainments available at the estate and its environs,” Westcliff said in answer to his question. “If you desire a particular kind of female companionship, I suggest you go to the village tavern.”
Matthew had already heard some of the male guests at the estate boasting of a spring evening’s revelry with a pair of buxom tavern maids. If only he could be satisfied with something that simple. A solid village wench, instead of a tantalizing will-o’-the-wisp who had wrought some kind of spell over his mind and heart.
Love was supposed to be a happy, giddy emotion. Like the silly verses written on Valentine cards and decorated with feathers and paint and lace. This wasn’t at all like that. This was a gnawing, feverish, bleak feeling…an addiction that could not be quenched.
This was pure reckless need. And he was not a reckless man.
But Matthew knew if he stayed at Stony Cross much longer, he was going to do something disastrous.
“I’m going to Bristol,” Matthew said desperately. “I’ll reschedule the meetings. I won’t do anything without your leave. But at least I can gather information—interview the local transport firm, have a look at their horses—”
“Swift,” the earl interrupted. Something in his quiet tone, a note of…kindness?…sympathy?…caused Matthew to stiffen defensively. “I understand the reason for your urgency—”
“No, you don’t.”
“I understand more than you might think. And in my experience, these problems can’t be solved by avoidance. You can never run far or fast enough.”
Matthew froze, staring at Westcliff. The earl could have been referring either to Daisy, or to Matthew’s tarnished past. In either case he was probably right.
Not that it changed anything.
“Sometimes running is the only choice,” Matthew replied gruffly, and left the room without looking back.
As it turned out, Matthew did not go to Bristol. He knew he would regret his decision…but he had no idea how much.
The days that followed were what Matthew would remember for the rest of his life as a week of unholy torture.
He had been to hell and back at a much earlier time in his life, having known physical pain, deprivation, near-starvation, and bone-chilling fear. But none of those discomforts came close to the agony of standing by and watching Daisy Bowman being courted by Lord Llandrindon.
It seemed the seeds he had sown in Llandrindon’s mind about Daisy’s charms had successfully taken root. Llandrindon was at Daisy’s side constantly, chatting, flirting, letting his gaze travel over her with offensive familiarity. And Daisy was similarly absorbed, hanging on his every word, dropping whatever she happened to be doing as soon as Llandrindon appeared.
On Monday they went out for a private picnic.
On Tuesday they went for a carriage drive.
On Wednesday they went to pick bluebells.
On Thursday they fished at the lake, returning with damp clothes and sun-glazed complexions, laughing together at a joke they didn’t share with anyone else.
On Friday they danced together at an impromptu musical evening, looking so well matched that one of the guests remarked it was a pleasure to watch them.
On Saturday Matthew woke up wanting to murder someone.
His mood was not improved by Thomas Bowman’s dyspeptic pronouncement after breakfast.
“He’s winning,” Bowman grumbled, pulling Matthew into the study for a private conversation. “That Scottish bastard Llandrindon has spent hours on end with Daisy, oozing charm and spouting all the nonsense women like to hear. If you had any intention of marrying my daughter, the opportunity has dwindled to almost nothing. You’ve gone out of your way to avoid her, you’ve been taciturn and distant, and all week you’ve worn an expression that would frighten small children and animals. Your notion of wooing a woman confirms everything I’ve ever heard about Bostonians.”
