TWENTY-SEVEN
Bewdley Guildhall
Worcestershire, England
Cecily stood against the wall of the upper floor of the Bewdley Guildhall, fanning herself and watching dancers twirl.
As ever, the Bewdley public ball was a bit of a crush. Every well-to-do family from the surrounding area had donned their finest and paid the five-shilling entrance fee for the opportunity to tap their feet to the orchestra and drink watered-down punch.
The large upper room of the guildhall functioned as a courtroom when the Assizes were in session. But outside those times, the pews would be pushed to the walls and a small orchestra installed on the judge’s bench.
“Will you dance tonight, dearest?” Cecily’s aunt murmured at her side.
This was the third public ball they had attended this summer, and Cecily had yet to dance once.
She always begged a megrim or found another excuse.
Though she enjoyed attending social events and chatting in company—and she had vanquished George’s specter, she had!
—the notion of being held in a stranger’s arms still filled her with distaste.
Only Matthias’s embrace would do.
As ever, thoughts of him and her time at Avoch evoked a host of conflicting emotions—gratitude, hurt, sadness, frustration.
She kept expecting the soreness in her heart to ease.
However, with every passing day, the pain of losing him increased.
A slow and steady crescendo that hammered a relentless beat.
Yes, he set her free, but he doomed her, as well, to a life of yearning.
She wasn’t quite sure she could forgive him for it. A not insignificant portion of her wished to climb atop Indira, run Matthias to ground in the wilds of Moray, and demand he take them both back.
Instead, Cecily stood at the edge of Bewdley Guildhall, fanning her face and watching couples laugh and chatter. The whole was rather too much merriment for her mood. She should have remained at home with a novel for company.
At her side, Aunt gossiped with Mrs. Smith, the vicar’s wife, about the new King and his current attempt to divorce Queen Caroline.
“The divorce trial has been most scandalous,” Mrs. Smith was saying. “Poor Queen Caroline deserves none of this. I cannot see how—”
A ripple moved through the crowd, heads swiveling and bodies turning toward the large doors at the end of the room.
An unknown gentleman and his lady had just arrived, pausing, perfectly framed in the wide doorway.
And they were decidedly a gentleman and a lady.
Richly dressed in the latest London fashion, the lady was blonde and fine-boned with an elegant beauty that shone across the room.
Tall and red-haired, the gentleman matched her—well-cut superfine evening coat over the fashionable trousers that had been slowly replacing breeches as evening dress for men.
In short, both were arrayed in elegance rarely seen in this rural corner of Worcestershire.
But it was a second gentleman, stepping into the room beside the lady, who arrested Cecily’s attention. Dark-haired with a jawline like cut glass. Evening dress meticulous and well-pressed, silver buttons and ruby cravat pin winking in the candlelight.
Cecily inhaled sharply.
Matthias.
Lord Matthias Kinsey was here. In her town. At this very ball.
She blinked.
But no. He was still there, right sleeve neatly folded and pinned. He appeared every inch the wealthy, titled gentleman that he was. Given the rush of whispers, Cecily wasn’t the only one to surmise the same.
The mayor and Reverend Smith hurriedly crossed to greet the late arrivals with warm smiles and handshakes all around.
Cecily’s poor brain was too stunned to do anything but stare.
Matthias was here.
Bewdley was too far afield from the wilds of Scotland for his presence to be a coincidence.
No. Lord Matthias had come to see her.
A wild patter seized her heart, the thumping so rambunctious that she struggled to identify the emotion. Elation? Surprise? Nervousness?
Moments later, Mrs. Allen, a wealthy widow and neighbor, slipped into place beside Mrs. Smith and Aunt Moulton.
“Oh! What excitement!” Mrs. Allen’s gray head bobbed, trembling the curls beside her face.
“Our newcomers are Lady Isla Balfour, sister to the Duke of Grayburn, and her husband, the Honorable Captain Tavish Balfour, son of the Earl of Northcairn. Colonel Jones says Captain Balfour was in the Rifles—a celebrated crack shot.” The squeak of delight in Mrs. Allen’s voice proclaimed that this was thrilling news indeed.
“But most significantly, the dark, handsome gentleman is Lord Matthias Kinsey, brother and heir to the current Duke of Grayburn. The heir! To a dukedom! His lordship must be a former military man, as well, given his bearing and missing arm.”
“Such news!” Mrs. Smith pressed a hand to her bosom. “Is Lord Matthias married?”
Mrs. Allen laughed. “I would think every lady with an unwed daughter is asking that very question at this moment!”
Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Allen both laughed. Cecily managed a wan smile. Aunt Moulton gave Cecily a wide-eyed look.
Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Allen, proficient gossips that they were, noticed said looking.
“Is ought amiss, Mrs. Miller?” Mrs. Allen asked Cecily, head tilting. “Are you acquainted with our newcomers?”
And how was Cecily to respond? Why, yes, I worked as housekeeper for Lord Matthias until a few months ago. His kisses rather curl one’s toes.
“Yes.” Cecily hated the breathlessness of the voice.
The overwhelm it communicated. “Lord Matthias and I are acquainted.” And then, because she couldn’t bear to watch him field the same question over and over tonight, she continued, “His lordship is not a military man, though I daresay his upright comportment and Corinthian physique proclaim him so—”
“Corinthian physique!” Mrs. Allen tittered.
“Lord Matthias was born without his right arm.” Cecily cleared her throat, a blush scalding her cheeks. “And to your other question, his lordship is currently unmarried.”
“Indeed!” Mrs. Allen flicked her gaze over Cecily in a way that said perhaps she saw too much.
“Well, if you know his lordship, you should certainly greet him.” Mrs. Smith grinned and linked arms with Cecily. “You may introduce us in the process.”
Mrs. Smith all but dragged Cecily across the room to where Reverend Smith and the mayor chatted with the Balfours and Lord Matthias. It was rather dreadfully gauche, and yet, Cecily couldn’t summon a word of protest.
Matthias turned as they approached, as if the weight of her gaze had its own gravity and demanded his attention.
“Ah, Mrs. Smith!” The lady’s husband grinned as their small party stopped beside him. “Come to meet our newcomers?”
“Not quite newcomers to all of us, Husband. I have learned that Mrs. Miller already has an acquaintance with them.”
“Mrs. Miller.” Matthias bowed, perfect and precise.
“Lord Matthias.” She curtsied, ever so polite.
“A pleasure to see you again, madam.” A gentle smile touched his lips. “I trust you have been well?”
“Yes, I have. And yourself?”
“Passable.”
So polite their words, rote and banal.
As if they had never been Cecily and Matthias to each other. As if her palms didn’t intimately know the contours of his chest and the slight hitch her kiss could draw from his lungs. As if he didn’t haunt her nightly dreams and fill her with an aching sorrow for the future that he had denied them.
Cecily could feel herself sinking into his dark eyes, nearly drowning in their warm depths.
He didn’t appear stricken or overset. No, if anything, he appeared pleased to see her. Happy, even.
Abruptly, all that heart pattering morphed into something clear and recognizable—a rather surprising fury.
Now, he arrived, dressed to the nines like an angel fallen from heaven.
Now, he appeared to taunt her with what could never be.
What was his intent here? She couldn’t imagine that he would renege on his promise to Grayburn. Would he?
Would he?!
Her mind a whirlwind, Cecily curtsied and murmured greetings as Matthias introduced her to Lady Isla and Mr. Balfour. In return, Cecily presented him to her aunt and companions. Mrs. Allen simpered and curtsied a bit too low, nattering a long-winded welcome.
Matthias handled it with a calm grace. How different from the nervous man Cecily had met all those months ago. She marveled at his air of self-assurance and ease within his own person.
But Cecily knew him. The slight clench of his left fist and tick in his jaw indicated some nervousness yet. He was still, in all ways, her Matthias.
At the first break in conversation, Matthias fixed her with his dark eyes.
“May I have the honor of the next dance, Mrs. Miller?” He extended his left arm.
“Of course.” Cecily wrapped her hand around his elbow, permitting him to draw her onto the dance floor. In her periphery, she noted Lady Isla smiling a bit too wide.
Matthias led Cecily into place on the floor.
The dance was to be a waltz, and she was unsure if that was good or bad.
Perhaps a bit of both. Bad, because she would have to feel the closeness of Matthias’s body and remember how well she loved him.
Good, because it would allow them to converse with some modicum of privacy.
As the orchestra struck up the opening bars, Cecily and Matthias assumed a dance position—left hands above their heads, his right stump against her ribcage.
Just looking up at him hurt—the way the candlelight caught the whisky highlights in his eyes, the fullness of his bottom lip she longed to kiss.
Every wee detail assaulted her with pain for what might have been.
Why this torture? What was Matthias Kinsey about?
His gaze skimmed Cecily’s person, lingering on the fashionable cut of her new gown. “You look remarkably well.”
Oh, for the love—!
It appeared they were going to play this farce.
“Thank you.” The words came out snippy.
Matthias appeared not to notice as he pulled Cecily into the first turn, pivoting expertly around another couple.