SEVEN
The Duke of Grayburn cantered away from Avoch Castle, taking Cecily’s sense of dread with him. It was a relief to walk through the castle without feeling the heavy judgment of his gaze. Lord Matthias, she was sure, would prove a more personable employer.
However, over the following days, she decided Lord Matthias was more wraith than governor.
He never spoke with her, and whenever their paths crossed, he averted his gaze, as if looking at her pained him.
Or, perhaps, it was simply his manner. Certainly, he was unlike any gentleman of her past acquaintance.
His words that day in the snug lingered with her:
I am merely a deformed man—demon spawn, some have called me.
Demon spawn.
He had said the cruel epithet matter-of-factly, as if he heard it so frequently, it had become truth.
But pain had reverberated between the syllables.
Someone in his past, perhaps many someones, had convinced Lord Matthias that he was undeserving—of respect, of acceptance, of love.
That his quirk of physiology dictated his worthiness as a human being.
It was a bitter sort of unfairness that Cecily understood all too well, and it kindled a sense of kinship in her breast. They both lived on the outskirts of the life to which they had been born.
But with one keen difference:
Once, Cecily had belonged. Grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, friends. A perfectly matched hue in a kaleidoscope of color.
But as the days at Avoch turned to weeks, she doubted Lord Matthias had ever felt such acceptance.
There remained a reticence in him. Grayburn had dictated how the household should be run, and aside from requesting dinner to be served earlier, Lord Matthias had yet to make any changes. He still slept in the smaller green bedroom and made no adjustments to Mrs. Finlayson’s daily menus.
Without Grayburn in residence, Lord Matthias retreated into himself.
Breakfast was taken in his rooms, before he emerged neatly pressed by Hansen, his valet.
Lunch was eaten in the stables where he spent nearly every waking hour, laboring with his horses.
Cecily had learned from Mr. Forbes that his lordship had a talent for retraining the mistreated animals and hoped to establish a reputation for his skills.
The only time Cecily truly saw his lordship was during dinner service.
Initially, Lord Matthias took dinner in the large dining room.
To her chagrin, Cecily found herself spying on him from the snug.
She told herself—and once Rawkin, who came upon her tucked behind the door—that it was only to ensure the food was to their employer’s liking.
His lordship had yet to make any requests for his meals, leaving her to simply guess.
Observing as he ate gave her some indication, did it not?
Yet, there was something forlorn about him sitting alone at the cavernous table, two footmen at the ready.
The meal was always brief and perfunctory.
He finished in under half an hour and only spoke to request a footman cut his beef or lamb into smaller pieces.
Then, he drank precisely half a glass of port before retiring to his rooms or the library for the evening.
The dining room arrangement lasted all of a week. At which point, his lordship requested dinner be served in the snug. Cecily took heart in the change—Grayburn didn’t dictate everything, it seemed—but the shift in location meant she could no longer spy without being noticed.
Instead, she resigned herself to hovering in the kitchen, anxious to observe what foods returned on his plate and which were devoured, adjusting menus according to what she could discern of his taste.
Lord Matthias said nothing to Cecily herself and made few demands or requests of the staff. He even granted them all an afternoon of leisure one day a week to be coordinated by Rawkin and Cecily. It was an astonishing act of kindness—a sharp awareness of his servants as people.
The free time proved a boon, enabling Cecily to retrieve her post from a local widow, as having letters sent directly to Avoch was far too risky.
Unfortunately, the most recent missive from her Uncle Moulton spiked her terror:
Lord D hunts for you. He arrived at my door today, demanding to know your whereabouts.
I told him that I supposed you were still living on George’s small estate as his widow.
His lordship roundly abused me and said he knew I was lying, as he had proof that you and I have been communicating.
I denied it. He grew agitated and accused me of hiding you from him.
I informed his lordship that, with Mr. Miller deceased, he has no legal claim on you.
The information only inflamed him further.
I will spare you the rest of our argument.
Do not fret. I told him nothing, dear Cecily. Your current whereabouts is still a secret, but Lord D was in so high a dudgeon after our exchange, I feared for my own safety.
Remain quiet as a mouse, my darling child. D may have no legal claim on your person, but as a lord, he is powerful. I worry that Lord Matthias is too well-connected within the ton and will inadvertently draw D to you.
The news sent bile surging up her throat, and Cecily’s hands refused to stop trembling.
Worse, the old nightmare returned. The one where George loomed over her and his sneering face filled her vision and she struggled to breathe.
For the next several nights, she fought sleep.
Each shadow in her wee bedroom had the appearance of a gentleman’s top hat or a walking stick or the edge of a caped great coat.
She had married George over ten years ago and had scarcely known a day without fear since.
All she could do—all she had done—was put one foot in front of the other and press on.
As March turned into April, all of Avoch finally settled into something of a routine with its new tenant.
Cecily pondered more than once how intimate the life of a servant was. Lord Matthias knew next to nothing about herself, and yet, she gleaned so many wee things about him.
Cecily knew that his lordship was neat and tidy. He stacked books with care in the library and always placed tumblers on a handkerchief or plate to avoid water stains on tabletops. He rarely spoke and never raised his voice, even when he had to wait for a dawdling hallboy to retrieve his coat.
In short, everyone at Avoch liked Lord Matthias.
However, as the days passed, Cecily feared that his lordship did not quite like himself.
It was in the way he interacted with others, how he shrank from confrontation and avoided rocking Avoch’s proverbial ship.
She wondered if he kept himself small to spare others the repulsiveness of his deformity (his word).
The problem, of course, was simple—Lord Matthias was anything but repulsive.
Well over six feet tall—not to mention wealthy, titled, and handsome—he might as well have been plastered with advertisements announcing his marital eligibility.
It was astonishing, really, that some enterprising young lady hadn’t attached herself to him like a burr and held on until he made her Lady Matthias Kinsey.
The neighbors had certainly noticed.
Reverend Liston arrived first, bringing his friend, Mr. Carter—a local landowner with an expanding waistline, three unmarried daughters, and pockets to let.
Lord Matthias received the men, requesting tea and someone to pour it, thus allowing Cecily to eavesdrop.
She glided into the great hall, tea tray in hand.
The men sat before the fire—Reverend Liston and Mr. Carter on the sofa, Lord Matthias in a wingback chair opposite. Rain dripped from the windowpanes outside.
Reverend Liston was discussing the virtues of Mr. Carter’s prize hunting hound. Both gentlemen surveyed his lordship as if sizing up a goose for Christmas dinner.
“The beast has an excellent nose for both foxes and Highland deer. Why, just last August, he managed . . .”
The reverend droned on. When it came to hunting, Reverend Liston was indefatigable.
Lord Matthias sat stiff-backed, looking far too much like a cornered fox himself. He glanced at her as she set the tea tray down on a games table behind the sofa, and she hoped it was relief she read in his dark eyes.
Reverend Liston followed Lord Matthias’s gaze, swiveling around. “Ah, Mrs. Armstrong. What a pleasure to see ye this afternoon.”
The good reverend was one of those people who blossomed in the presence of other beings with ears.
Today was no exception. His grin spread wide.
“And yourself likewise, Reverend,” Cecily said on a curtsy. “How should you like your tea, gentlemen?”
She poured tea and handed out plates of Mrs. Finlayson’s delicate shortbread before promptly returning to her seat behind the sofa. She folded her hands in her lap and spoke only when spoken to, as befitted her station.
Lord Matthias set his teacup and saucer on an obliging side table before picking up the teacup.
Holding the plate and sipping tea required two hands, so he had probably moved the table into position as Rawkin fetched the guests—one of the dozens of ways his lordship shifted his world to bring as little attention to his arm as possible.
Today, it had the opposite effect.
As his lordship situated his saucer, Mr. Carter stared inquisitively at Lord Matthias’s missing arm.
“A military man of some honor, I see,” he said. “Where did you serve, my lord?”
Cecily barely stopped a pained inhalation. She dared a glance at Lord Matthias. He had gone stock-still, lips pressed white. Slowly, he set the teacup back on the saucer with a quiet clink.