FOUR
Matt stared sightlessly out the window, ears ringing so loudly, he scarcely heard the quiet clack of the door closing behind the butler and housekeeper.
Cecily.
The name was hardly common enough to be a coincidence. Mrs. Armstrong had to be the former Miss Cecily Moulton. Here was definitive proof.
What now?
There was no law against a gently-bred lady taking a position as a housekeeper.
It might be beyond the pale, but it wasn’t illegal.
And a lady, accustomed to managing her husband’s household, would have the knowledge and skills to become a competent housekeeper.
Matt merely needed to acclimate to seeing her as a servant, not the lovely young lady who—
“Did you hear what I said, Matt?” Gray interrupted. “You will need to dismiss Mrs. Armstrong immediately. You cannot remain under the same roof as such a young housekeeper.”
Matt flinched. “Pardon? Whyever not?”
Gray stirred the fire. “She is far too pretty. There will be talk.”
“And what of it? She is a servant. So are housemaids. They’re often pretty. As a gentleman, I don’t interact with staff in a lascivious manner. End of story.”
Though even as he said the words, Matt feared he might be lying.
Seeing Mrs. Armstrong and remembering Miss Cecily Moulton would be torture, pure and simple.
A daily gauntlet. The line dividing lord and servant was sacrosanct—Matt would never cross it.
But was he a good enough actor to hide his attraction and knowledge of Mrs. Armstrong’s true identity?
To avoid contemplating the pearly luster of her skin or studying the silver flecks in her blue eyes or . . .
Gray might have a teeny, tiny point here.
“Matt.” Gray straightened, giving his younger brother that look. The one that said he was thirteen months older, possessed two functioning arms, could engage a stranger in conversation, and therefore, understood the world in ways Matt did not.
Matt hated that look.
“Colonel Gordon sees to staffing needs,” he said. “I’m not sure removing Mrs. Armstrong is something—”
“Bah!” Gray waved a hand. “You’re a duke’s son. You don’t require a mere colonel’s agreement to effect a change. You make a decision and then inform Colonel Gordon of your actions.”
“I won’t sack Mrs. Armstrong for the crime of youth or physical appearance, Gray.” The words came out with more bite than Matt expected. “She can’t help the comely arrangement of her features any more than I could help being born with only one arm.”
“So you agree that she is pretty?”
Matt turned back to the window, jaw clenching.
Pretty was too tame a word to describe Miss Moulton . . . ehr, Mrs. Armstrong. She was more akin to the rose garden at Malton Hill—Isla’s estate in Gloucestershire—on a perfect summer’s day. Bursting with warmth and vibrance. The very definition of a lady.
But hearing Mrs. Armstrong speak today . . .
Matt had never heard Miss Moulton’s voice, but he had assumed it would be soft and high. Fluttery and gentle, like a butterfly’s wing.
Instead, it had thrummed, low and rich, flaring gooseflesh to attention and igniting an ache in his breathing that—
No.
This would not do.
She was his housekeeper. Housekeeper.
House. Keep. Er.
House. Keep. Her.
That was what Matt had wanted all those years ago, was it not? To wrap Miss Cecily Moulton in his arms, bend his head to hers, and . . . keep her.
Bloody hell.
Gray was probably right. Matt likely would need to dismiss her.
Botheration.
But . . . why was Cecily Moulton employed as a housekeeper?
Why had her prospects plummeted so dramatically?
Matt had always imagined her married to a doting Mr. George Miller, managing a thriving household with a brood of children at her knee.
Truth be told, more than once over the years, Matt had felt a jealous hatred for George Miller and his good fortune.
A terrible sentiment to hold for a man he had never met.
But . . . Miller had come to represent everything that Matt lacked—charm, good looks, and the verve to win a wife like Miss Moulton.
And yet, Mrs. Armstrong wasn’t married to George Miller. Why?
Matt’s heart gave a sharp thump.
“Retaining Mrs. Armstrong will only lead to trouble,” Gray repeated. “Give her a glowing letter of recommendation, a few months of additional wages, and send her on her way.”
“I shall consider your recommendation.” That was as far as Matt could bring himself to commit.
Regardless, Gray nodded as if the matter were already concluded. “If you wish, I can have my solicitor begin a search for a suitable replacement.”
“I will see to my own staff, Gray, but . . . thank you.”
The words grated on his tongue, but Matt knew from long experience that his brother was a dog to a bone with matters like this.
The letter burning in Matt’s pocket was already problem enough. It pricked at the emotional wounds of his past, a noxious mixture of pain and guilt. As if he had stepped into a thicket of gorse and emerged shot through with thorns.
He needed to disclose the letter’s contents to Gray, but as with most painful things, this one was difficult to address.
Perhaps if Matt waited, the situation would correct itself.
At the very least, maybe he could uncover some course of action that might mitigate Gray’s rage without reopening Matt’s own wounds.
A few minutes later, a tidy maid entered carrying a tea tray laden with shortbread, fresh scones, thick clotted cream, and precisely-cut triangles of roast beef sandwiches.
Gray may dislike Mrs. Armstrong, but the woman ran an orderly household.
Matt said nothing.
Neither did Gray.
They enjoyed the excellent sandwiches and sipped their perfectly-brewed tea in silence.
The dark smelled of tar and mildew. Matt curled his hand around the stump of his arm, rubbing it. Light flickered around the wardrobe door. He licked away a tear before the moisture could spot his shirt. The only thing Nurse hated more than his missing arm was any sign of “unmanly emotion.”
“Romans left deformed babes to die,” she had said earlier. “Tossed ‘em into the heather with the rest of the rubbish.” She glared at his arm. “Pity the law doesn’t allow for that anymore.”
Now, he could hear her bustling around his bedchamber, making the bed and tidying his clothing. She locked him in the wardrobe every morning that Father didn’t take him riding.
“Unnatural child,” she muttered. “A sign of the Devil hisself.”
Her palm smacked the wooden door. Crack—
Matt awoke with a start, his heart a drum. His eyes focused on the dark green bed canopy overhead.
Damn and blast.
It had been years since that old nightmare had haunted him.
Other memories joined it. Nurse crossing herself before she had to touch him. The maids recoiling when he passed too close. His mother pulling her skirt against her shins—Take him away, Nurse. The sight curdles my stomach.
He sat up, pushing back the heavy bed curtains, legs swinging to sit on the edge of the mattress. He wiped sleep from his eyes, air a rasp in his lungs.
Don’t dwell on it. You were a boy then. You’re grown now. Stronger. More capable.
Their long-dead words and actions mattered not at all. Not at this juncture.
He tried to believe his own thoughts. But he knew from long experience that such memories were thorns of the soul, embedded deep. Occasionally, they would prick. Or appear in some tangible, torturous form.
The letter he struggled to mention to Gray was ample proof of that.
A clatter of hooves and tackle sounded outside the window.
Ah.
The noise that had awakened him.
He stretched and stood. A fire popped in the hearth, and the shutters had been opened; a maid had been in earlier.
Stepping to the window, he saw that the travel coach, horses, and servants had arrived. The carriage stood before the castle door, splattered and muddy.
Behind the carriage, Mr. Forbes, Matt’s assistant and head groom, guided a string of horses—the stock for Matt’s proposed business venture.
A spirited filly, Indira, tossed her head and pranced sideways.
A light dun color with a dark mane and tail, Indira was beautiful, and well she knew it.
The mare possessed stunning lines, elegant athleticism, and a hot-blooded restlessness that would make her a joy to ride.
If she ever permitted a rider, that was.
As with Zephyrus, Matt knew nothing about Indira’s history.
He had purchased her for a pittance at auction.
She had been trained at some point in the past, he suspected, but then not handled with care.
He would have to start at the beginning with her and meticulously work through all the phases of horse training.
But if Matt reformed Indira’s manners, he could resell her for a tidy sum and use the much-needed funds to increase his stock.
In short, his future plans hung on Indira.
Given how the mare reared and pulled on the tether now, the journey north had not improved her behavior. Forbes, ever patient, clucked and brought her under control.
Yes, Matt had his work cut out for him.
He swallowed back a surge of nervousness and ignored the hissing mental voice that sounded a lot like Nurse—hell spawn.
“You will be brilliant, Matt!” Isla had enthused in September when he explained the venture to her.
Matt had spent the month with his sister, her husband, Tavish, and their cherubic toddler, Fletcher . . . or Wee Fletch, as they called him.
“The horse training could all go terribly wrong,” he had confided to her. “I could fail abysmally.”
“True,” Isla said with a soft smile. “But it could also be the best decision you ever made. A step into the unknown is always frightening, Matt. However, if you can confront your fear of failure and move forward, who knows what happiness might await you?”
Isla’s words had sunk deep.
The only way to discover happiness was through the heart-stopping terror of his fears. It was what he did with horses, was it not? Helped them face their fears and learn to trust.
Five years his junior, Isla had always had faith in Matt. From the moment of her birth, she had been the brightest part of his day. Toddling in his wake, quick to wrap her arms around his waist or to press a sticky kiss to his cheek.
Touch was rare in Matt’s life. Nurse had refused to hold or cuddle him.
He could easily recall the few times his mother had initiated physical contact, usually because company was about and she didn’t wish to appear a monster.
Occasionally, his father had placed a hand on his shoulder.
Gray certainly wasn’t affectionate. His lofty dukeness barricaded himself from tender emotions.
But not Isla. Matt’s sister had never shrunk from touching or hugging him. Sometimes, Isla’s unconditional love felt like the only grounding element of his life.
Now, seeing his sister thriving with her husband and wee family had awakened a similar hope in Matt. A profound desire for that domesticity: a home, a wife, children. A purpose for his aimless existence.
To that end, a year ago, he had made a plan. A list of items he wished to accomplish in the next three years. Worthy things that, hopefully, would lead to a happier existence for himself.
The list rested on a tattered piece of foolscap currently tucked into the pocket of his waistcoat.
The first items had been the easiest to accomplish:
Let a residence with land
Purchase breeding stock and horses to retrain
His inheritance gave him the means to let Avoch Castle for a trial period.
Acquiring Indira and several other horses had been similarly easy.
So many gentlemen were eager to purchase a spirited mount without having the skill to properly manage it.
After mistreating a willful beast, they sold the animal in frustration for a fraction of its original value.
The third item on his list gave Matt pause:
Establish a reputation for retraining difficult horses
Retraining horses was Matt’s passion. However, it remained to be seen if others would trust him with their unruly horses. Matt had given himself a year here at Avoch to begin the process. To step into the role and achieve results.
The rest of his list was more personal in nature.
Engage with the local populace and become more comfortable in company
Practice conversing with ladies
Learn to dance
Matt figured if he could do those three things, eventually he would be prepared for the final two:
Kiss a lady
Court and marry a lady
Numbers seven and eight would likely prove impossible.
Not once had a lady looked at him with anything other than disgust or apprehension.
But the yearning he felt outweighed any shame or reticence.
He longed for a touch, some connection—the weight of a woman's hand in his, the press of her palm against his chest. A full-body embrace .
. . his vision went dark at the edges imagining it.
If he reached old age, he wanted to look back on his life—even if alone and childless—without regret. To be able to say he had fought and worked and given it a good go. To know that he had risked his own heart and braved the perils of rejection.
Unbidden, Mrs. Cecily Armstrong’s serene face rose in his memory. Over the years, she had become the embodiment of the perfect lady. A Xanadu of mythical proportions.
Painful as it was to admit, Gray was likely correct. Matt would need to replace her as his housekeeper. Interacting with her day after day, becoming acquainted, but also knowing that he had to maintain a professional distance and couldn’t pursue a true friendship where they would—
No.
Better to cut all ties. He would provide her with a glowing letter of recommendation and half a year’s wages.
But it felt propitious to come face-to-face with her at this juncture.
A few light exchanges, while she remained in his employ, might enable him to discard the past as he forged ahead to the future.
At the very least, it would force Matt to see the reality of her and finally relinquish the fantasy he had venerated all these years.
Out the window, Indira reared again. Forbes danced back.
Right.
Matt had work to perform.
He reached for the bell pull to summon a footman and breakfast. Then, he would join Forbes in the stables.
Thankfully, horses never judged him as lacking.