TWENTY-TWO
Cecily’s heart clanged at his words.
Everything.
Surely Matt didn’t mean . . . everything everything? Honorable-intentions everything? Commitment and marriage and drifting toward old age hand-in-hand everything?
Before she could ask for clarification, he took her mouth in another kiss. This one more urgent than the first, but still tentative, still gentle. As if she were the most delicate of spring blossoms and he a mere ripple of air.
As with his first kiss, she tensed, waiting for panic to flood her. But, again, it didn’t.
“Are you positive you are well?” He pulled back. “A statue would appear more at ease. Or am I so very bad at this?”
She swallowed, attempting to gather her thoughts. Why would an embrace cause fear, but not a far more intimate kiss?
The answer came quickly.
“I . . . I am not so very practiced at kissing,” she said.
He frowned, a question in his eyes.
“George . . .” She cleared her throat. “He wasn’t terribly fond of kissing, so I cannot say I have been kissed much.”
In fact, as she pondered it, she could scarcely conjure a memory of George’s mouth atop hers.
“That seems a travesty.”
Raising a finger, she traced his jaw, his night whiskers scritching under her fingertip.
That same finger continued down his throat, between his collarbones, only stopping once she reached his sternum exposed by his unbuttoned shirt.
How simple it would be to slide her palm under his collar and explore the firm muscle of his chest.
His eyes closed as if in pain, and his lungs swelled like a bellows. She could feel the leashed tension in him, the fevered yearning.
His hand cupped her nape, his thumb stroking the side of her neck. “George, it must be said, was an ass.”
Now, she laughed, a wee bit watery. “He was.”
“The lack of kissing is deplorable, as I fear you were made for the pastime.”
Matthias pulled on her neck, coaxing her mouth back to his, and finally, Cecily permitted herself to relax.
Sliding her fingers into his hair, she held his lips to hers. A moan rumbled through his chest, a male sound of desperation and hunger. And still, he held her loosely. Even in this, he thought only of her.
Moving from his mouth, she pressed a kiss to his jaw, his neck, the hollow at the base of his throat. He instantly reciprocated, tracing the same path, nuzzling beneath her ear.
She ran her palms up the firm planes of his chest and reveled in his reaction—spine arching to draw closer to her.
Theirs quickly became a game of follow-the-leader. She would demonstrate some fact—earlobes are wonderfully sensitive, you will get gooseflesh if I press my lips here—and he would mimic her actions.
As well she knew—Matthias Kinsey was a quick study.
Her body went languid, melting into his like cold butter atop a warm bannock. A sliver of her mind rejoiced at this, at the evidence of how much she had healed.
Time floated amorphous until a deep bong from the case clock in the corner behind the map table brought Cecily back to herself with a start.
“I should go,” she whispered against his mouth.
He nodded, but kissed her again, destroying her resolve.
The case clock bonged again a while later, and Cecily finally slipped off his lap. But even then, Matthias stood and cupped her cheek, bending to kiss her goodbye. This morphed into him kissing her against a bookcase and then against the library door itself.
“I’m letting you go,” he murmured, “but know that it’s not willingly.”
Her body hummed as she stole back down the stairs to the basement—a giddy, effervescent joy bubbling in her veins.
She touched fingertips to her mouth, her lips swollen and surely bee-stung.
The phantom warmth of Matthias’s touch lingered—the press of his fingers against her waist, the scrape of his mouth along her neck.
Everything he had said. Fear had stopped her from asking him to expound on that. But now it filled her vision. How she longed for that everything.
She had never felt this before—certainly not with George—this incandescent happiness that—
A large form moved in the shadows outside her bedroom door.
Cecily froze, all that lovely warmth instantly morphing to terror. Her muscles locked and her throat closed, stifling a surprised scream.
The shape moved. Light from a dark lantern softly illuminated the wee hallway, revealing Rawkin’s face.
Cecily nearly collapsed in relief.
“Gracious! You scared me nigh to death, Rawkin.” She pressed a hand to her sternum. “Whyever are you up?” The door to his chambers stood ajar farther down the hallway.
He lifted the lantern higher, bathing her in candlelight. “I would say the same of yourself, lass.”
Abruptly, she knew exactly how she must appear. The late hour. Lips puffy and well-kissed. Hair tousled and slipping from its braid.
“Ye must be more careful.” His eyes drifted upward, indicating Lord Matthias two floors above them.
Silence.
Cecily’s heart pounded.
“His lordship told me of your warning,” she said.
“I don’t want to see ye hurt.”
“He says his intentions are honorable.” A pause. “I believe him.”
“Aye. I believe he believes that, as well. But we both know that even the best of intentions cannot always be honored.”
His words were dunking in frigid waters.
Yes.
Rawkin was correct. Of course, he was.
Matthias firmly considered his intentions to be honorable.
But Cecily also knew how far she had fallen from her station in life. Highborn lords didn’t marry their housekeeper. And if she did, Drempton would not hesitate to broadcast her abandonment of George far and wide.
If that happened—when it happened—Matthias would be cut off from her.
Grayburn would never permit the stench of her reputation to pollute the family name.
Goodness, His Grace hadn’t spoken with Lady Isla in two years because she married a respected gentleman he didn’t like.
Imagine his retribution if Matthias attempted to ally himself with her tattered self?
Rawkin watched her. Even in the dim light, Cecily could see the compassion in his gaze. A grim understanding of the workings of the world.
He took a step toward her. “I also must give ye a wee warning, Mrs. Armstrong. Mackenzie mentioned that there was a man in the village last week asking around about a lost cousin. The woman he described could easily be yourself.”
The news quickened her pulse. Uncle’s words drifted through—remain quiet as a mouse. Cecily had been anything but quiet these past weeks. Her hands closed into fists.
“It’s likely nothing,” the butler continued, “but I wanted ye to know.”
“Thank you, Rawkin.”
He nodded and turned back toward his room.
It was only as his door shut with a snick that Cecily realized—
She had forgotten to use her Scottish accent.
And Rawkin hadn’t said a word.
The next week was the happiest of Matthias’s life.
Romantic love, he discovered, was a frenetic, euphoric sort of emotion. His love for Cecily astonished him with its ferocity—pushing against his skin, expanding his body nigh to bursting.
He had told her that his intentions were honorable. That he wished everything with her. She was too clever a lass not to understand the precise import of such a statement. He merely needed to declare his love and request her hand in marriage.
However, Cecily seemed content to linger in their in-between state.
He didn’t doubt that she cared for him as she appeared eager to spend time with him.
But there remained a wariness. As if she couldn’t quite believe her good fortune.
Or felt fearful that Matt might be snatched from her.
But, of course, that couldn’t be correct because anytime he came close to the subject of marriage, she changed the topic.
She wasn’t quite ready, he told himself. Her fears lingered, understandably, and she required more time. And so as ever, he waited patiently.
But having experienced the taste of her lips, he felt insatiable.
He stole every opportunity to touch her.
A brush of hands as they walked side-by-side down to the stables.
Pulling her behind an open door when she brought him tea of an afternoon and kissing her until they were both breathless.
He would worry that Cecily was not as attached to him as he was to her, but she always returned his affection with an equal hunger.
Matt particularly enjoyed their encounter one afternoon when the May sun beat down with cheery warmth.
They were guiding Indira and Zephyrus along a quiet lane when Cecily’s cinch strap needed adjusting.
Matt helped her dismount. But after correcting the saddle, he had spent several glorious minutes lost in the lush wonder of her mouth, their bodies tucked between the two horses.
Neither of them had confessed their affections, but surely it was said in each touch and caress. In each small act of care.
When they weren’t together, he worried. Was she well? Was she happy? Was she fearful of Drempton?
Matt disliked watching her curtsy to him, housekeeper’s chatelaine clinking. She was a lady. His lady. He wanted her dressed in silks and relaxing next to a warm fire with a book and a cat for company.
With every breath, he dreamed of their life together. An estate by the sea, perhaps. Or would she prefer a townhouse in a city like Aberdeen or even Edinburgh?
Regardless of the locale, he would sit beside her of an evening, her head resting on his shoulder, as they shared stories of their day.
He would describe the horses he trained, and she would recount the latest scandal in the village or her opinions on the vicar quoting Milton in his sermon.
And as they spoke, Matt’s wedding ring would glint on her finger, and every moment would remind him that they had chosen to be together.
The weather appeared to approve of his mood. Every day of the week dawned bright and glimmering with promise. The hope of summer shivered through the newly green trees and touched the lemony gorse blossoms.
Indira had improved by leaps and bounds. It was likely time to sell the mare and use the funds to buy more horses to retrain.
But Matt hadn’t the heart. In his mind, Indira was a participant in his love story with Cecily. Selling the horse felt akin to tossing off their love, as well.
Matt ignored Rawkin’s warning looks and the upstairs maids’ hushed whispers.
Gray’s letter went unanswered because, truly, there was nothing to reply.
His ducal brother said he would address the issue with their mother, and Matt knew he would.
So when a third letter arrived from the woman, Matt read it, sighed, folded it into a separate sheet of foolscap, and forwarded the whole to Gray.
Love so tinged his every thought, no other care or worry could penetrate.