TWENTY
The following week passed in a blur.
Every morning, Cecily would become her youthful self.
She would don her habit and descend to the stables, looking for all the world like Miss Moulton, eager for a morning ride with a gentleman.
Once atop Indira, she and Matthias would practice his conversational skills and laugh and give both their horses a good run.
She still flinched occasionally at shadows—at the tingling sense she was being watched.
But as the days progressed, she became proficient at ignoring the feeling.
After exercising Indira, she would return to Avoch, change into one of her serviceable dresses, and become Mrs. Armstrong once more. She would spend the day tending to her duties as housekeeper and disregard the maids’ pointed looks and Rawkin’s even more pointed questions.
But the lines between her two selves always blurred in the late afternoon—the moment of the day when she would slip away to join Matthias in his study just before dinner.
Dressed as Mrs. Armstrong and standing before the fire there, she would muster her courage and hug him. Initially, she struggled to hold the embrace for long, particularly once he wrapped his arm firmly around her.
But as days passed, she concentrated on replacing memories of George with those of Matthias.
Anytime George raised a fist in her mind’s eye, she replaced it with Matthias extending his hand to her .
. . entreating her to dance or to step into his arms. George’s sneers were exchanged for Matthias’s easy smile and kind eyes.
And with each substitution, each change in her thoughts, her fear retreated. Or perhaps it was merely her growing affection for Lord Matthias which cushioned the horror of her past.
“May I ask a question?” he asked one rainy afternoon as they stood in his study. She had just arrived, an eager mix of trepidation and anticipation churning in her gut. Would today be the day the fear retreated entirely?
“A question?” She tilted her head.
“Yes. One for Miss Cecily Moulton, if I may.”
That caught her attention. “Of course.”
They both did this . . . spoke of her as if she were two separate people—the London débutante and his Scottish housekeeper.
Matthias visibly gathered himself—shoulders pressed back, hand fisted.
“I must know . . . or rather, I have been pondering . . . and, well—dash it all—”
He ran a flustered palm through his hair and paced to the window and back. She remained before the fire, torn between concern for what agitated him and a tender affection for how adorable he appeared when in distress.
He stopped before her, gaze determined. “Had I mustered the courage to approach you all those years ago in London, would you have noticed me? Perhaps it is an unfair question because I would surely have been tongue-tied and gauche and hardly appealing. But I have to know how much I should berate the cowardice of my past self.”
His question caused her breath to hitch. Because it obliquely referenced the other matter they had yet to address—
Their increasing attachment.
If Cecily thought about it overlong, she became weepy.
How cruel of Fate to place a gentleman like Lord Matthias in her path now, after life had forced her to rescind the title of lady.
Heaven knew, the Duke of Grayburn would never accept her tarnished self as a potential bride for his only brother and heir.
But . . . would she have been drawn to Matthias ten years ago? Back in that heady first Season when gentlemen buzzed about her like bees to a flower?
Possibly. He was well-formed, and kindness shone in his eyes.
Even then, kindness had attracted her. His missing hand, which dominated his thoughts and opinions of himself, would not have factored into her decision.
That much she could say with certainty. As the son of a duke, even a younger one, he held precedence over most other gentlemen in Polite Society. That would have also turned her head.
“You are thinking overlong on this, Cecily,” Matthias said softly. “I gather that is an answer in and of itself.”
“No. I am merely rooting through my heart and memory to give you a true reply.”
“And what have you concluded?”
“Truthfully, I cannot say. I would have been flattered, I imagine. You would have been the highest-ranking gentleman to pay me notice.”
“You would have appreciated me for my rank, then?”
She smiled at the displeasure in his tone. “Your handsome face and fine form wouldn’t have hurt matters, either.”
His brows lifted, and disbelief curled his lip. “Handsome? Fine form?”
“Oh, come now. Surely you know your features are akin to those of an Adonis. And I have hugged your solid body many times over. You hide the physique of a true Corinthian under those expensive coats.”
Heat burned her cheeks at the admission, but it was a testament to the closeness of their friendship that she didn’t censure herself. Life was too short to dance around obvious truths, particularly with a friend.
“I don’t know that any lady has ever described me as handsome, much less an Adonis,” Matthias said on a surprised huff that made Cecily want to shake sense into the female population. “Isla claims I’m not entirely unappealing, but then as my sister, I consider her obligated to say such things.”
“You believe I am merely being kind, don’t you?”
He winced in reply. The window at his back limned his head in soft light.
“Matthias Kinsey, you are a remarkably attractive man!” She pressed a fingertip to his firm chest. “Never mistake a lady’s blushes in your presence as those of discomfort due to your arm. It is more likely the lady feels overwhelmed by your lofty nobility and the lures of your stately appearance.”
“The lures of my stately appearance?!”
Cecily waved a hand at the light blue superfine of his coat and gold embroidery on his waistcoat.
Matthias blushed, a charming pink that clung to his clean-shaven cheeks. “So you might have noticed me? Given that I am . . . handsome.”
“And titled and wealthy and tall. Let’s not forget those important points, as well.”
He swallowed and took in a slow breath.
“You appear sad,” she said.
“More like furious with myself. Young Matthias was a coward, indeed.”
“Just as Young Cecily was impossibly naive.”
“We would have made a sorry pair, I suppose.”
“Or, at the very least, had a tremendous amount of growing up to do.”
He nodded. The grief of what might have been hung between them.
“Well.” His chest rose and fell on a long breath. “The past is done. But we know where we are now.”
He opened his arms. His daily invitation for her to test her nerve.
Cecily took a breath to savor the moment and commit it to memory—his extended hand and stump, the soft gentleness in his gaze, the welcoming smile tugging his lips.
Yes, this was the vision she wished to ponder when accepting a man’s embrace.
Without hesitation, she closed the distance between them.
His arms folded around her, holding her to him, but not squeezing.
She held the image of Matthias close, letting the patter of her heart drum through her skeleton and then imagined it vibrating out her feet and dispersing into the floorboards.
She stood in his embrace until the clock chimed the hour.
Matt had called his younger self a coward, as if the moniker no longer applied.
But that would be a lie.
He still hadn’t informed Gray of the two letters he had received.
If Matt were intent on reforming his ways, he would follow Cecily’s example, face his fears, and speak with Gray about the matter.
The excuses he gave in his head—a dislike of Gray’s temper, the emotional turmoil the topic inevitably churned up, the futility of ensuing discussion—were simply that: Excuses.
Matt disliked discussing the matter, and so, like the coward he was, he avoided it.
Unfortunately, the one thing he hadn’t avoided was tumbling deep into love with Cecily. He was currently drowning in a raging sea of affection and longing—emotions so tumultuous, so forceful to combat, that mere navigation felt fraught.
She was his employee. Confessing his sentiments would force her into an untenable position—agree with him or risk being sacked.
It was the cardinal reason why gentlemen didn’t carry on with their staff.
Moreover, if she rejected his declaration and felt the need to find a new position, he would lose her altogether.
Better to remain friends.
And so he said nothing . . . praying that perhaps Cecily would broach the topic herself. But again, was it the best course, or a coward’s way out?
Matt could scarcely discern the difference anymore.
Tonight, however, he had a dinner with the Listons to endure.
He longed to send his regrets and remain home—tucked into his library with a good book and the prospect of Cecily knocking quietly at the door.
But alas, he knew canceling would be unforgivable.
Despite his own shortcomings, the Listons had been overall kind and welcoming.
So he dressed in trousers, low-slung evening shoes, and a cutaway coat, even permitting his valet to slip an evening glove of kid leather onto his hand.
Matt dreaded the moment before dinner when he would need to surreptitiously tug it off with his teeth.
One of the thousand indignities of not having two fully-formed arms. But arriving without a glove on his hand would be beyond the pale.
Briefly, he let himself imagine attending an evening like this with Cecily on his elbow as his wife. How different matters would be! She would quietly remove his glove and ease conversation, and well . . . surely even the candles would sparkle brighter for her presence.
Instead, Matt descended the stairs and allowed Rawkin to draw a caped greatcoat around his shoulders, accepting the hat and cane the butler offered. Mackenzie had yet to bring the carriage around. So Matt and Rawkin stood in the entryway, waiting.
Rawkin cleared his throat.
Matt lifted an eyebrow.