TWENTY-ONE #2
“Matthias! My boy!” she had said, rushing to him with outstretched arms.
Not once in his life could he remember her welcoming him with such enthusiasm. It had immediately struck him as false. A slap of a greeting.
Regardless, he had hugged her in his awkward manner—engulfed in the familiar smell of her perfume and astonished to realize how small she was.
“How big you have grown!” she had exclaimed in a high-pitched tone, speaking as if he were a boy come in from tree-climbing.
No words of apology or contrition for her behavior. No declarations of affection or motherly care.
She had turned back to Gray, but not before her eyes flicked to Matt’s missing arm with a moue of distaste. Not even in penury could she maintain the veneer of liking him. It had been a slicing cut to the already festering wound of his attachment.
Now, Cecily snorted. “How incredibly selfish to think only of herself and not the pain her early death must have caused her children.”
“Yes. I think that action alone fairly sums up my mother. She is rather allergic to the cares and concerns of others or how her behavior impacts them. Isla, in particular, took our mother’s passing to be hard.
” He glanced at Cecily. “She still doesn’t know .
. . Isla. Well, she knows she is not our father’s natural child.
But neither Gray nor I have told her that our mother yet lives. ”
The lift of Cecily’s chin told him that she understood what he hadn’t said—she was now privy to the weight of this secret. She would need to guard it well.
“If the public were to learn of your parents’ choices . . .” Cecily drifted off.
“That is Gray’s biggest fear. Divorce would have been a scandal. Counterfeiting her death is apocalyptic.”
“Are either you or Gray in legal danger?”
“Unlikely. Our parents committed the crime, not us. It was our father who reported our mother’s death falsely.”
Her eyes dropped to the letter beside him. “So what has Gray in a lather?”
“Our mother wrote me a few months ago. The first time she has done so. She praised my goodness as a son and asked for money. I read between the lines and guessed she had applied to Gray and been rebuffed.”
“How did you answer her?”
“I did not. I certainly have no intention of sending her funds. If I do, her requests will never cease, and I cannot say I hold great affection for her.”
“That is understandable. Has she threatened blackmail?”
“No. Telling her tale to some gossip rag would incriminate her more than us. Yes, Gray would abhor the scandal, but our mother would likely face legal repercussions for falsifying her own death. Regardless, I knew I needed to discuss her letter with Gray, but I was a coward.”
Coward. Forever that word.
“I do not consider you a coward.”
“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you suppose. Gray certainly did not spare my feelings.” Picking up the letter, Matt tossed it on the table beside his whisky.
“Correspondence is often unsettling. I dread my uncle’s letters as much as I welcome them.”
Matt’s chin went up. “How uncharitable of me not to recognize that you carry a weight in your pocket, as well.”
“No, it is uncharitable of Grayburn not to grant you grace, given your fraught relationship with your mother. Of course, you do not wish to begin a conversation with her.”
“True. Due to my silence, she wrote to Gray again, asking if I was well because I hadn’t replied to her. Which, of course, informed my brother that she had written me, and I hadn’t told him. His displeasure at my lack of verve, as he described it, was scathing.”
That was perhaps putting it mildly. Gray had been in high dudgeon.
Honestly, Matt, I fear for your ability to survive in the world if you cannot communicate the simplest of facts. If she contacts you, I need to know immediately. Her behavior imperils us all. Stop being a milksop and open your mouth!
Matt scrubbed his hand down his face. At least this sinking sense of failure was familiar. Probably better for Cecily to witness it now.
“What will you do about your mother?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Gray said he will handle it.” Yet one more way Matt had failed. Here he was, thirty-two years of age, and still needing his elder brother to manage his troubles.
His head sagged against the back of the sofa, eyes closing.
He was so tired of not being his own man. Gray’s words had been cutting, but no less true for their sharpness. Matt was acting like a milksop. He did need to communicate more openly and freely.
The seat sagged beside him. His eyes flared open to meet Cecily’s blue gaze.
“You castigate yourself. Stop it.” She placed her hand atop his on the cushion, the heat of her touch searing.
Matt drank in the features of her face. Yes, he had thought her beautiful all those years ago, but now he knew her. The kindness that thrummed in her veins. The quick turn of her wit. The endless well of her bravery.
“I fear I lack your courage.” Tilting his hand, he threaded their fingers together. Her hand appeared so small in his, and yet her grip held a fierce strength.
“I beg to differ.”
Neither of them acknowledged the fact that they were holding hands. Yes, he hugged her regularly, but that was more a tonic for her fear than an admission of physical attraction.
This, however . . .
Yearning burned hot in his blood. Every nerve in his body felt concentrated on the small area where they touched.
Reach for what you want.
Was it the whisky talking? Perhaps. But it softened the world enough to make him brave.
“Gray’s isn’t the only scolding I’ve received today,” he said. “Rawkin warned me off earlier.”
“Rawkin?”
“Yes. Fair blistered my ears for being careless with your reputation.” Matt swiped a thumb across the back of her hand.
Color climbed her throat. He watched it in fascination.
“Has there been talk among the staff?”
“Rawkin mentioned that he overheard the upstairs maids discussing us.” Another swipe. “I’m certain they were referring to moments like this.” He glanced at the closed door.
Silence.
Her breathing quickened.
“How did you reply?” She licked her lips.
He could lie to her, obfuscate the truth.
But . . .
This was the moment, Matt realized. The point where he needed to gather every last dram of mettle and be honest. Sucking in a deep breath, he met her eyes and admitted the truth.
“I told Rawkin that my intentions were honorable toward you.”
Her gaze flared wide. He caressed her hand again.
“The thing is, Cecily . . .” he continued. In for a penny, in for a pound and all that. “I don’t like being your friend.”
“You don’t?”
“No. Friend is a paltry description of what I feel for you.”
He expected her to reply with reproach. To attempt to lighten the gravity of his words.
She said nothing.
Hope swelled his chest. Slowly, giving her every chance to rebuff him, he shifted his hand around her back and guided her to sit across his lap, her spine nestled against his stump of an arm.
She came willingly, her weight settling across his thighs. Her hand wrapped around his nape, fingers trailing into his hair. Gooseflesh tingled his skin and tightened his shoulder blades.
“This is scandalous,” she whispered, so close her breath tickled his cheek.
“It is.”
“I shouldn’t be here. Rawkin was right to warn you.”
“I know.”
She made no move to leave.
Lifting his free hand, he trailed it along the thick heft of her braid, wishing he had a husband’s right to see her hair unbound and free.
“Am I causing you alarm?” he had to ask.
“No . . . at least, not in the manner you suppose.”
He nodded and moved to run the back of his fingers up her throat. She swallowed, her breath coming in short bursts.
“I’m so tired of pretending not to want what I want,” he murmured.
“What do you want—” She broke off as he dragged his thumb across her plush bottom lip. How could something so small have such give?
“Matt . . .” Her voice emerged as the barest whisper. Her eyes drifted closed.
He knew nothing of such matters, but her response felt like permission.
Leaning forward, he closed the gap between them and pressed his mouth to hers. The plump softness of her lips relaxed under his.
At last, his body sighed. At last, he was kissing Cecily Moulton.
A mere brush of their mouths, and yet . . . his hand trembled where he held her. His body pulled at the reins, hungry to explore, to feast. But though her lips were pliant, her body remained rigid.
That would not do.
“Are you well?” he asked.
She nodded, her eyes opening.
“What do you want, Matt?” she repeated.
His eyes dropped to her mouth.
“Everything, Cecily,” he confessed. “I want everything.”