24. One Title, One Upset Woman
Chapter Twenty-Four
One Title, One Upset Woman
Meanwhile, back at Wingfield House
“What did you say?” Catherine asked, sure she had misheard Matthew’s words.
Her entire body still felt foreign to her, her limbs buzzy and her skin far too sensitive to touch.
Even if she had read every book she could on the topic of sexual congress, nothing had prepared her for the sensations she had experienced the night before—nor for the aftereffects.
Even the slight move to set aside her breakfast plate on the nightstand had her nipples feeling especially sensitive as they brushed against the bed linens.
Matthew inhaled softly. “I know you told Mrs. Dove-Lyon you didn’t wish to marry a member of the peerage—”
“Because I don’t,” she said, her eyes wide.
“But I had hoped that once you met me, and you understood we shared a love of literature, that you might reconsider.”
Catherine gasped and got out of the bed, almost immediately regretting the move.
The bedcovers—and Matthew—had provided a warm haven, and she was naked.
She hadn’t realized just how cold the bedchamber was now that the drapes were open and the coal in the fireplace was barely lit.
She struggled to keep her teeth from chattering.
When she couldn’t find the dressing robe she had worn the night before, she grabbed the counterpane from the end of the bed and wrapped it around herself. “You’re a… you’re a peer of the realm?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.
Matthew sighed and sat up straighter in the bed, the breakfast tray and blankets no longer hiding his bare chest from view. “I am,” he acknowledged. “But you needn’t make it sound so vaunted. I am just a man.”
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, one hand going to cover her mouth. “I… I need to leave. I need to…” She hurried over to where her day gown lay draped over the chair.
“You cannot leave,” he argued. “It’s cold, it’s snowing, it’s windy, and there’s already too much snow out there.”
“I can hail a hackney,” she argued, shaking out her stays.
“There won’t be any hackneys this time of the morning. Besides, it’s Sunday.”
“Then I’ll walk,” she said, falling into the chair as she attempted to pull a stocking over one foot.
“Catherine. My love. I will not let you go out there,” he said in a far more commanding voice. Before she could argue, he was out of the bed and headed in her direction.
She cowered at his approach. In daylight, every muscle of his legs and chest and arms was evident. The dark hair sprinkled over his chest continued down to the apex of his thighs, where, despite the cold, his manhood pointed directly at her.
Angry at how her body reacted to his nakedness—the heat had once again returned to pool at the top of her thighs—Catherine closed her eyes to stave off the tears she felt pricking their corners.
Only the night before, his body had brought her pleasures she couldn’t have imagined. His kisses had set her own body aflame, her heart soon following. Now as she opened her eyes to watch him approach, she wondered how she could feel affection for someone who had lied to her.
Well, not lied, exactly. Lied by omission, though. Matthew had admitted he knew she didn’t wish to wed an aristocrat, and yet, he had still pursued her.
And Mrs. Dove-Lyon? Why, the matchmaker was just as guilty! Catherine had made it clear she had no interest in marriage to an aristocrat. She would be writing a letter to, nay, paying a call on the matchmaker to express her anger just as soon as she could get herself dressed and out of the house.
She watched as he drew closer, wondering at his intent. Was he angry with her? But Matthew stalked past her to snag the dressing robe from where he had dropped it the night before.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said in a quiet voice. “And I am certainly not going to allow you to go out there”—he pointed to the window—“when the weather is so awful. You’ll freeze.”
She tossed the stocking to the side as her shoulders fell in defeat. “How could you?” she asked as tears dripped down her cheeks. She managed to get up from the chair despite the yards of fabric from the counterpane pooling around her.
“Well, it’s not as if I had any choice in the matter,” he replied.
“Choice?” she countered. “If Mrs. Dove-Lyon told you I didn’t wish to marry a titled man, then why would you even agree to meet me?
” She struggled to breathe. Goosebumps had begun to form on the arm that was outside of the counterpane, and she quickly drew it inside before moving toward the fireplace.
He once again sighed. “Like I said…I saw you. The night you were speaking with the manager at the Temple of the Muses, and, well, I was quite taken by you,” he claimed.
“I thought of what it would be like to be married to someone who loved to read books as much as me. Who would go so far as to request employment at a bookshop so she could spend her days surrounded by books.”
Tears continued to fall as Catherine stared at the meager flame in the fireplace. “Who are you? Really?”
Matthew joined her at the hearth. He captured a couple of lumps of coal with a set of tongs and placed them in the firebox next to the one that still glowed.
When he straightened, he held out his right hand.
“I am Matthew, Earl of Wingfield. My family’s name is really Higby, though,” he assured her.
Catherine gave a start. “You’re an earl?” she asked in disbelief, ignoring his outstretched hand.
“I know. It doesn’t seem possible to me, either. Most days,” he said, dropping his hand. He stepped closer to her, apparently intending to wrap his arms around her, but she stepped back. “Catherine,” he whispered sadly.
“Do you realize what a hypocrite I would be if I married you?” she asked.
His head jerked back as if she had slapped him across the face. “Hypocrite?” he repeated. “What are you talking about?”
She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I’m one of the bluestockings who doesn’t believe we should have an aristocracy in this country,” she stated. “I’ve been quite vocal about it at our meetings. During dinner parties,” she added. “At our literary soirées.”
Matthew shrugged. “I am in agreement.”
“Can you imagine what they’ll think of me if I agree to marry you? I would…” She stopped, gave a start, and stared at him. “What did you say?”
Matthew once again stepped closer, but this time she didn’t back away. “I am in agreement. If it were up to me, we would only have a House of Commons making the laws for this country. Members elected by the voters,” he said.
Catherine gave him a stare, incredulous. “If that’s true, then why haven’t you renounced your title?” she challenged.
Sighing, he tugged on his earlobe and glanced back at the bed.
“May I?” He held out an arm and wrapped it around her back to lead her to the bed.
Before they had made it halfway—the counterpane nearly tripped her twice—he scooped her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way to the mattress.
He followed her in, quickly covering them both with the blankets.
“If you’re going to try and change my mind—”
“I am.”
“—it’s not going to work.”
Matthew displayed a crestfallen face. “Catherine,” he whispered. “If it would make a difference, I would renounce my title,” he said softly. “The Wingfield title and properties would go back to the Crown, as would both houses.”
“Even the houses?”
“They’re all entailed,” he replied. “The farmlands, the manor house, this house.” He waved a hand in resignation. “Where would I live? Where would you start your business?”
Reminded she had been offered the salon to use as an office for her publishing company, Catherine dipped her head, but tears had already once again formed in the corners of her eyes.
“I would not ask you to give up your home,” she murmured.
“But you must understand…” She allowed a sigh that was interrupted by a sob.
Matthew shook his head. “Surely there is a way we can make this work. You don’t have to tell anyone you’ll be a countess,” he offered.
“It won’t take long for this entire town to learn the truth,” she countered. Still wrapped in the counterpane, she stepped off the bed and moved to the chair to collect her clothing. Without another word, she made her way into the bathing chamber and closed the door.
Matthew heaved a sigh and considered his options. Surely he could make her come ’round. Say something to convince her he would make the perfect husband. The perfect partner for her publishing company.
He thought to remind her he had taken her virtue—that much was evident by the blood stain on the bed linens—but he thought better of it. Now that she had experienced sexual congress, she might feel free to explore it with someone else.
The streak of jealousy he experienced surprised him.
“I suppose I must really love her,” he whispered to himself, deciding how he was going to proceed.
He glanced at the clock on the mantel and thought of what he could do. Rushing from the bed, he rang for Chessings and began to dress.
The knock at the door came only a moment later.
“I need the coach readied,” he said.
“I’ve already ordered it, sir,” the butler replied.
Matthew blinked. “You have?”
Chessings displayed a look of guilt. “I thought you might need it.”
From his expression, Matthew wondered if the butler had been eavesdropping since the moment he had delivered breakfast. “Oh. Very good. I do hope it’s not too early to pay a call on Mr. Kingston.”
“It’s too early, sir.”
Once again blinking at hearing the dour response, Matthew huffed as he slid on his shirt. “Then I’ll wait until he’s ready.”
“Yes, sir,” Chessings replied, seeing to wrapping and tying a fresh cravat around Matthew’s neck before he took his leave.
Matthew was buttoning his topcoat when Catherine emerged from the bathing chamber. Her eyes were rimmed with red, evidence she had been crying whilst she’d dressed.