TWENTY-SEVEN #2
Had he been practicing the waltz? His skill had decidedly improved. The idea that he might have held another woman in his arms stoked Cecily’s anger. How dare he cast her out “for the greater good,” and then replace her with another.
Consequently, she asked him. “You appear more comfortable with the waltz than when last we danced it together.”
“I have been practicing,” he confirmed. “Isla is an exacting dancing master.”
Ah.
His sister.
He had practiced with his sister. Cecily tried to let the information mollify her temper . . . with only marginal success.
They spun in an elegant circle. Cecily could feel the eyes of her neighbors and family members drilling into her shoulder blades. Matthias remained focused on her, oblivious to their attention.
“I was hoping I might call upon you tomorrow morning,” he continued.
Call upon her? Was he daft? She wasn’t waiting until tomorrow to have this conversation—wondering what he might say, pacing the floorboards into the wee hours of the morning, working her emotions into a tumultuous state.
No.
Just . . . no.
And as she was speaking her mind tonight, she said as much.
“No.”
He laughed. “No?” He. Laughed!
“I will not wait until tomorrow,” she said on a sibilant whisper. “You may say your piece now.”
“You appear angry.” His tone was low but conversational. As if the turmoil of her emotional state mattered not at all to him.
“I am.”
A beat.
“May I ask why?” So courteous, that question.
A tiny grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. Cecily found it appalling.
“Yes.” She tried to stem the tide, but her quiet words hissed out like steam from a kettle.
“It has been well over three months since I’ve seen you, and now you arrive without a breath of warning.
You toss me out like yesterday’s news and then have the gall to think I will wait to discover what—eep! ”
Matthias spun them right off the dance floor and through the open main doors.
“Matthias!” Cecily gasped, knowing for certain that every person present had just watched him whisk her away from the ball. He wrapped his strong fingers around hers and tugged her down the stairs.
“If you don’t wish to wait until tomorrow,” he said as they stepped out into the warm night, “then I will happily have this conversation right now.”
Carriages lined the street, coachmen lounging beside them.
Several grooms crouched in a circle, playing at dice while they waited for guests to finish their merriment at the ball.
To a man, they stared as Matthias tucked Cecily’s hand into his elbow, turned right, and strolled down the street toward the River Severn.
It was impossibly scandalous. Together. The two of them. At night. Matthias without his hat or walking stick. Both of them in dancing slippers, the soles so thin she could feel each individual flagstone.
She didn’t stop him.
Reaching the river, they continued across the arching bridge, finally halting in the middle. A warm August breeze blew off the nearby hills, and moonlight glimmered on the flowing river.
“Why are you here, Matthias?” Cecily asked, aspersion still in her voice.
“I missed you.”
That was all. The full extent of his explanation.
Oof!
“You missed me! You’ve come all this way, dragging Lady Isla and Mr. Balfour in tow to—”
“They insisted on joining me. I did not ask.”
“Regardless, you are here, when you could have written or—”
Cecily broke off on a start as Matthias closed the space between them, his toes stopping mere inches from her own. Slowly, giving her time to react, to flinch away or reject him, he lifted his hand to cup her cheek.
She knew his expression. The one where his brown eyes resembled warm treacle, and his lips curved into a smile. He was seconds from kissing her. Here, on this bridge, where anyone could see.
Her pulse battered her ribs.
“I missed you,” he repeated, smiling that dratted smile again. “Every day without you has been a misery. I wanted to give you more time, but I couldn’t help myself and—”
“You gave me up!” A tear hit her cheek. “You have no right to miss me!”
“No, my love.” His thumb brushed away her tear. “I gave you time. I gave you a future absent of worry. I gave you the freedom to decide your own path.”
“Perhaps, but you made those choices for me. You promised Grayburn you wouldn’t marry me, if he . . . with Drempton . . .”
“I said Gray demanded that promise—that in return for his help in silencing Drempton, I not go through with our marriage.” A pause. “I never said I agreed to his demands.”
“Pardon?!”
Matthias shrugged. “Gray ordered me to give you up entirely. I refused. We compromised, and I agreed to a separation. A window in which he would work to secure your reputation, ensuring the Kinsey family name —as well as your own—would remain pristine should we decide to marry in the future. Our separation also afforded you a wee bit of space to understand what you wanted your future to be outside of me and the fear of Drempton’s scheming. ”
A long pause ensued.
Cecily was unsure if she wanted to scream in frustration, deliver a scathing put-down, or kiss Matthias senseless.
Perhaps all three?
“Why. Didn’t. You. Tell. Me. This?” she bit out on sharp syllables.
Matthias didn’t so much as blink. “Because I wanted you to feel free of any obligation to me. Had you known what I planned, you would have still felt beholden. You can deny it, but you know I speak truth.”
Cecily crossed her arms over her chest, the joy at seeing him warring with her fury over his deception.