SEVENTEEN
Over the following days, Matthias’s words would not let Cecily be.
A creature must be exposed to the thing that causes alarm. Over and over, he had said, and eventually the instinctual fear would abate. The notion struck her as an extension of his comment on riding—that she needed to practice until she accomplished her goal.
Could she begin a practice of confronting her fear of being close to a man and move on from this half-lived existence? Just the thought provoked a churning panic in her belly.
But sitting atop Indira and experiencing that fleeting taste of her younger self . . . she desperately wished for more. Love and a purpose, she had told Matthias—the two most precious things.
So . . . she let the idea take root as she counted the linens and tallied household accounts and listened to Cook complain that Farmer Scott had watered down milk from his dairy again.
Day after day, the items on Cecily’s own wee list haunted her.
She was rapidly accomplishing the first—become a proficient horsewoman once more—as Matthias encouraged her to ride Indira each morning.
Sometimes, Cecily would trot out of the stableyard, leaving Matthias to work with a horse in the paddock.
But even then, she would revel in the relaxed calm of his body and admire the assured tilt of his shoulders as she cantered by.
She would gallop across fields, refusing to let person-shaped shadows frighten her.
Other times, Matthias accompanied her. On those occasions, they talked of anything and everything.
He described his training techniques. She recounted stories of growing up in her grandfather’s household.
If she asked, Matthias would talk about Lady Isla.
He even described Tavish Balfour teaching him how to shoot a Baker rifle with one hand.
Notably, however, Matthias spoke no further about the horrors of his childhood—the cruelty of his nurse and being locked in a wardrobe.
Similarly, he didn’t ask her about her marriage. She suspected he understood that George was the source of her fear. But as a healer of wounded creatures, Matthias knew when to push and when to pull back, and for the time being, he had chosen retreat.
He still denied visitors. Invitations went unanswered.
He certainly refused to entertain the idea of hosting a dinner party himself.
They had each taken steps forward, but much work remained, particularly with the lingering items on their respective lists.
Cecily wasn’t sure how to confront her fear of men.
Or if Matthias wished her to push him to practice being in company.
One simple fact remained constant—despite the growing familiarity between them, theirs was not a relationship of equals. As his employee, Cecily knew the difference in their stations remained stark, and she would be a fool to forget it.
Ten days after Cecily first rode Indira, she was discussing a budget issue with Rawkin when a footman stepped into the room.
“Lord Matthias is asking for yourself, Mrs. Armstrong,” he said.
Cecily’s heart performed a ridiculous capering bounce in her chest. Rawkin lifted an eyebrow as she stood. Only then did she realize her smile shone far too brightly.
“Good news, is it?” the butler asked. “From his lordship?”
“Something of the sort,” she replied, sternly ordering her lips to stop curving upward.
Given that Rawkin’s eyebrow drifted higher, she was only minimally successful.
Drat.
Truthfully, she had no idea why Matthias had summoned her. But she worried that Rawkin suspected the feelings growing between herself and their employer.
Still . . . she all but raced up the stairs.
Matthias looked up as she slipped into the wee study and half closed the door. The sight of his welcoming grin released fizzy bubbles into her veins.
Yes, Rawkin probably had cause to be concerned.
“I fear I am in a bit of a conundrum, Cecily.” Matthias lifted a letter from a pile of correspondence on his desk. “The invitations to dinners and other gatherings have not dwindled.”
Cecily slid into the chair opposite him. “Hope springs eternal that you might accept one. A duke’s son residing in our small corner of the Highlands will always raise expectations.”
“How do I navigate this?” Matthias fixed her with his dark gaze. “I’m waving a white flag overhead as I go down with the ship of my awkwardness and inexperience.”
Window light washed his face, highlighting the strong angle of his jaw and the whisky flecks in his eyes.
Heavens, but she adored the look of him.
The kindness in his expression. How easy it would be to fall in love with Lord Matthias Kinsey.
If Rawkin’s reaction were any judge, Cecily feared she was already halfway there.
“Well.” She touched a fingertip to his desk. “As your particular friend, I would suggest choosing one invitation that appeals to you and accepting it. Expose yourself to your fear.”
“None of these are appealing.” He poked through the pile. “A soirée with the Carters? A picnic luncheon with one Sir Thomas and his wife? The thought gives me indigestion.”
His grumpy tone required her to staunch a grin. He tapped the invitations with his thumb.
“I’ve been pondering why stepping into an unknown social situation causes such nerves . . .” He drifted off.
“And what was your conclusion?”
“I feel anxious because I don’t know what I will encounter.
Will I be served food I cannot eat with one hand?
Will I be asked about my deformity in some derogatory way?
Will I be required to dance or perform a pantomime?
Will people stare and whisper, and will I, yet again, have to endure cruel descriptions of my person? ”
Cecily sat, unsure what to say. Because . . . he was correct. Any of these invitations could harbor such challenges.
“I won’t argue with your logic,” she finally replied. “Unfortunately, most people do not understand how to sit with their own discomfort. They see your difference and feel unsure how to respond, so they speak in their own floundering and cannot help but offend.”
“Perhaps . . . but I tire of playing the helpless victim in such circumstances. If I could learn to better control a conversation, I could steer participants away from embarrassing topics.”
Cecily nodded as that was also an excellent point. His courage caused her own to swell.
“Bravery is the best course here.” He pushed the pile of invitations toward her.
“As my particular friend, as you said, would you assist me in choosing an invitation to accept? Just one. A place for me to practice these conversational skills. You know my neighbors better than myself. Help me decide on an invitation that won’t offend too many people when I don’t reply to any others. ”
“I should be honored. I will look them over and give you my opinion. You are brave indeed, Matthias.”
He pinned her with his brown eyes. Cecily read a challenge there.
Could you be brave as well? his gaze asked. Will you join me?
She tucked a fist into her shawl, clutching the fine wool for support. Before his arrival at Avoch, Cecily had believed herself mended. But recent events had revealed that her fear was as present as ever.
“I made a small list of my own goals . . . a sort of vision for my future. You inspired me in that.” Cecily stared at her hands. If she met his gaze, she feared she might weep. “My aims are small.”
“What are they? Will you share them with me?”
She lifted a finger to mark each hope. “Become a proficient horsewoman once more. Be brave enough to tolerate a gentleman in close proximity. Uncover a way to reclaim my status as a lady.”
She kept her head down, but tears pricked anyway.
“I was wondering . . .” She cleared her throat. “That is to say, you do still owe me a boon . . .”
“You wish my help?” His voice held a rasp.
“Yes.” The word wobbled, but she lifted her eyes. “I’m so weary of my fear.” Her tone added help! to the end of the sentence.
A beat of silence.
“You needn’t call in your boon for this,” he said. "You are assisting me, as well, remember?”
“I know, but I would feel more comfortable if this were done as an exchange.”
“Well . . . we might have to agree to disagree. Regardless, I would be honored to assist where I can. You have done well with your first item. You are remarkably proficient in the saddle. I’m unsure how to help with number three, but . . .”
“Number two,” she whispered.
“Yes, number two. What would be the best way to accomplish it, do you think?”
Cecily rolled her lips inward. “I’m not sure, but perhaps we could begin with dancing?” It came out as a question. “It’s on your own list, and it’s a socially acceptable means of close proximity to a gentleman.”
He smiled faintly. “I’m a poor dancer at best. It’s why I put it on my list. I will likely humiliate myself.”
“Then let us be humiliated together.”
Cecily suggested meeting in the library the next day, Tuesday, for their first dancing lesson. Most of the staff had the afternoon off, so they wouldn’t be interrupted.
At least, that was the reason she gave Matthias.
But he had to know she was concerned for her reputation. Rawkin hadn’t said anything, but she noticed his weighted looks and the dent in his brow when talk of her horse riding surfaced.
Speaking with the lord of the manor behind a closed door was already pushing the bounds of propriety. Dancing in the library? Scandalous.
“Here is the invitation you should accept,” she said to Matthias after closing the library door.
She handed him a slim bit of foolscap. He unfolded it.
“A dinner party with the Listons?”
“You sound as if you expected something more grand, but it is a good choice. Many have supposed that Miss Liston would be a good match for yourself.” The lady would be a good match for him, Cecily didn’t add.
However, encouraging him to court another woman was beyond her ken.
“Others will assume that you accepted due to interest in the lady.”