16. Two Portraits, One Curious Woman
Chapter Sixteen
Two Portraits, One Curious Woman
Meanwhile, at Gunter’s Tea Shop
Catherine’s heart skipped a beat at the suggestion they go to Matthew’s house directly from the tea shop.
“You do realize if anyone sees me entering your house at this time of night, you’ll be the topic of gossip in your neighborhood?
” She had the benefit of a woolen mantle with a hood, which would easily hide her identity.
Matthew lifted a shoulder. “I rather doubt it. Most of my neighbors aren’t even in London this time of the year,” he replied.
“Oh?”
He seemed to regret the comment. “Uh, most are members of the peerage. They left in July and probably won’t return until February or March.”
“Oh. Of course,” she said, realizing the address put his townhouse in Mayfair near Hyde Park. She was still trying to decide if she should be shocked or gratified by his offer. She did wonder at the sense of excitement she experienced.
For years, she had deliberately avoided the company of men in favor of well-read women, fellow bluestockings who had strong opinions on the state of the world and who weren’t afraid to voice them.
The guests at her father’s dinner parties tended to be from literary circles, authors who wrote on a variety of subjects, but who could be terribly stubborn or set in their views.
Never had she been attracted to any of them.
The thought of having to share a dinner table with them nearly every night for the rest of her life had helped cement her decision to choose the life of a spinster.
She couldn’t stop herself from staring at Matthew then, struck by how handsome he appeared in the light from the chandelier—only one was still lit at the front of the tea shop. She tried to imagine how his appearance would change over time.
Would he grow more attractive? More distinguished as his hair grayed and his features hardened?
Or would he gain a good deal of weight and look more like an ogre?
Or perhaps he would appear emaciated, like Great Uncle Frederick, whose nose was so long and hooked, she wondered how he could drink from a glass without drowning.
“Do I have something on my face?” Matthew asked, lifting his napkin to brush at the edge of his mouth.
“Oh, no. Apologies. I didn’t mean to stare,” she said.
He furrowed his brows. “You’re having second thoughts.”
Catherine inhaled softly. “I am not,” she replied, shaking her head from side to side. “Truth be told, I was admiring your visage.” She felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment.
He straightened in his chair. “Oh?”
She tittered, mostly from embarrassment. “Perhaps I have read too many novels, for I am attempting to envision what you will look like in thirty or forty years,” she admitted.
“Dead, you mean?” he countered, chuckling. His momentary humor had his teeth showing in the dim light. Perfectly straight and pearly white, they made it apparent he had been blessed by the dental gods.
Given a few minutes, Catherine might sort exactly which Greek god was responsible for teeth. At hearing his response, though, she was momentarily horrified and scoffed. “Dead?” she repeated. “You’re the picture of good health.”
“My father died at five-and-fifty,” he said. “But it’s true his death was probably hurried by drink and gambling.” He paused. “There is a portrait of my parents at the townhouse. I think it was done when he was fifty,” he said. “I often wonder if I will look like him when I am that age.”
Catherine glanced around the tea shop and noted how only a few other patrons remained.
A couple sat at a table in one of the front windows while a solitary, black-clad man sat facing the window, apparently watching the traffic go by in Berkeley Square.
No wonder the chandelier near them had been extinguished.
With the falling snow, it was doubtful people would be venturing out for an ice at this time of night.
Remembering to keep up her end of the conversation, she asked, “Do you bear a resemblance to your father when he was your age?”
“Slight,” he admitted. “There’s a painting of him in Wing…” He suddenly paused. “In a wing at the house in Berkshire. When he… well, it was done shortly after his father died,” he stammered.
Catherine wondered at his hesitance. “Tell me more about Berkshire,” she urged.
Matthew leaned back in his chair, relieved he had caught himself before saying his father had inherited the Wingfield earldom.
Remembering what Mrs. Dove-Lyon had said about Catherine and aristocrats, he decided now was not the time to admit he was one.
“I have a manor house near Hungerford,” he stated.
If he mentioned its name, he feared she would guess he was a titled man.
“Plenty of rooms, including one that might work as an office. Right next door to the library, in fact.”
Catherine reacted with surprise at hearing the words “manor house,” and it was apparent to him she was reassessing him—hopefully in a positive light.
“Maintaining two homes must be a challenge for you,” she said. “How often do you come to London?”
About to respond by saying, “Whenever Parliament is in session,” Matthew blinked. “I, uh, usually come to town for the Season,” he replied.
“But… that’s only a few months, is it not?”
Matthew stiffened, realizing she probably hadn’t envisioned running her company from outside of the capital. “We can stay in London longer,” he offered. “But I do think you’ll prefer summers in Berkshire.” He watched with bated breath as she considered his words.
“I probably would,” she agreed, her attention drawn to the door when the last of the other patrons—the man wearing the black greatcoat and top hat—had taken his leave. “We’re the only ones left,” she whispered, and then added, “We should probably go.”
Matthew nodded and pulled his purse from his waistcoat. He dropped several coins on the table and offered his arm. “Was the ice as good as you remember?”
She nodded. “Better, I think. And for you?”
He grinned. “Exactly as I remember it tasting,” he said.
They took their leave of Gunter’s and stepped into the town coach.