SEVEN #3
“Do you like to hunt, my lord?” Miss Carter asked.
“No,” his lordship replied.
A while later, Mrs. Liston asked, “Do you intend to stay long at Avoch, my lord?”
“I cannot say,” he said, and nothing more.
Conversation dwindled after that. What were ladies to do when a host refused to be drawn into dialogue?
They took their leave after a polite half-hour.
Once Cecily heard the ladies’ chatter descending the stairwell, she entered the great hall to retrieve the tea things.
Lord Matthias stood before the fire, his gaze on the flickering coals.
He glanced up at the rustle of her skirts, eyes going from wary to relieved.
That relief ensnared her . . . a rush of gladness that, at the very least, her presence did not cause him distress.
She gave him a smile of support, mouth opening to speak .
. . something. A word of encouragement, perhaps.
But before a syllable left her lips, the departing ladies’ voices carried up the stairwell.
“. . . such a dreadful lack of conversation,” Miss Carter was saying. Cecily had heard her petulant complaining carry across the Sunday congregation on more than one occasion. “One wonders how Lord Matthias feeds himself, much less oversees a household.”
“Truly,” Mrs. Liston agreed. “It is odd that he does not have a maiden aunt or cousin in residence to help smooth matters. His lordship would benefit from a woman’s soft management.”
“Not to mention, the presence of a lady would stem gossip,” Mrs. Carter added. “Mrs. Armstrong seems a wee bit young to be a housekeeper, does she not?”
“I do not mind his quiet ways,” Miss Liston said.
“Better you than me,” Miss Carter said. “Can you imagine the embarrassment of being married to such a man—deformed with stilted manners and awkward speech? I would spend my life apologizing for his gauche ways.”
One of the ladies hushed her.
Miss Carter would not be deterred. “’Tis true, and well you know it,” she said on a sibilant whisper that carried louder than a shout. “Money and title can only compensate for so much.”
More shushing. Their voices faded out the door.
The conversation had lasted perhaps thirty seconds. Cecily had held Lord Matthias’s gaze through the whole of it. She had watched the ladies’ words land with cruel precision. At the word gauche, he had visibly flinched.
Color scorched both their cheeks.
Cecily wanted to stretch out a hand of comfort. To insist, in no uncertain terms, that the ladies were wrong—silly and prejudiced and blind. That she herself, as a lady, was an expert in such matters, and therefore, his lordship could trust her opinion.
But before a word passed her lips, he turned abruptly.
“Thank you, Mrs. Armstrong.” He cleared his throat. “That will be all.”
Cecily watched his broad shoulders rise and fall on a long sigh, settling into a posture that looked far too much like defeat.
With shaking hands, Cecily gathered the teacups and stacked the plates, refusing to ponder why tears burned in her throat.
The door closed behind Mrs. Armstrong with a quiet snick.
Matt remained standing at the window, blood whooshing against his eardrums.
The embarrassment of being married to such a man.
Money and title can only compensate for so much.
How dreadfully ironic. Ten years on, and young ladies’ opinions of him were unchanged. No matter how diligently he tried to smooth his lackluster manner or improve his tepid conversation, the result remained the same.
Worst of all, Mrs. Armstrong had heard every word—
No. Scratch that.
The worst had been the lack of surprise on Mrs. Armstrong’s face.
She had met his gaze and absorbed the words spoken with nary a twitch of her expression.
As if she had heard such criticism of him many times over and was inured to it.
Granted, as his housekeeper, she likely would know everything that was being said of him—the good and the bad. Most of it, he now realized, was bad.
Matt had always assumed the problem was his missing limb and others’ discomfort with it. His lacking arm primed strangers to think of him as damaged, and so the slightest aberration in his manner magnified his defect.
However, after weeks of attempting to socialize, he had come to the depressing conclusion that the reverse was more likely the case—his stilted manner caused others to view the loss of his arm as a sign of mental deficiency.
He knew he needed to learn to ask questions and engage in conversation.
But when face to face with some potential conversationalist, his mind flattened into a white sheet of panicked nothingness—a formless mass where ideas refused to adhere.
In short, Matthias Kinsey was a failure of a human being.
The knowledge caused a deep depression of spirit. Maybe it was time to focus solely on his horse venture and accept that improving his manners was a lost cause. Facing his fears was well and good, but a smart man knew when to wave the white flag of surrender.
At the very least, he would be better served to focus on one challenge at a time.