The Spinster's Secret (17 page)

Edward paused to savor the sight—those ripe breasts, the taut pink crests, the glow of pleasure flushing her skin.

“Edward?”

“Mmm?” He bent his head and pressed his lips to the soft curling tendrils at her temple, breathing deeply to inhale the scent of her hair.

“May I do that to you?”

He lifted his head a fraction. “What?”

“Kiss you like that. Your organ.”

Every muscle in Edward’s body clenched. He stared at Mattie, incapable of breathing, incapable of speaking.

“May I?”

Edward swallowed.

“If you would like to.” His voice sounded unfamiliar in his ears, as if someone had grabbed him by the throat and was choking him.

Mattie blushed shyly. “I would.”

Edward eased himself off her. His heart hammered in his chest.

Mattie sat up. “Is there any particular way of doing it?”

He tried to answer to this question, but his brain didn’t seem to be functioning properly. “Uh…whatever you want to do is, uh…good.”

Mattie nodded, her expression serious.

Edward lay back and stared up at the bed canopy, his muscles taut with anticipation. He felt the mattress dip and sway as Mattie moved closer, felt the heat of her knee touching his thigh, felt her hair tickle his skin as she leaned forward.

His entire body twitched at her first tentative kiss.

Mattie halted. “Did that hurt?”

“No.” His voice was hoarse, strangled. “It was good.”

She hesitated a moment and then laid a second kiss on top of her first. The softness of her lips was pure torture. Edward clenched his hands and counted the seconds.
One, two, three . . .

Mattie began to explore, tasting his skin as he’d tasted hers. A groan caught in his throat. Dear God, her tongue!

Four, five, six . . .

She took him into her mouth. Edward squeezed his eyes shut, fighting for control.

Seven, eight, nine . . .

“Enough!” He sat up, pulling away from her.

Mattie sat back on her heels, dismay creasing her face. “Did I do it wrong?”

“No, it was perfect.”
And I can’t last any longer
.

“Oh.” The dismay smoothed from her face.

She smiled at him shyly.

Edward reached for her, rolling, settling between her thighs. Arousal drummed in his veins. He’d never wanted to bed a woman more urgently than he wanted Mattie right now.

“Do you want to do it again?” he asked, panting, hoping he’d have the willpower to stop if she said no.

“I do.”

…

Mattie lay awake after Edward had gone, staring up at the ceiling, guilt twisting in her chest.

She tried to imagine telling him that she was Chérie, tried to imagine his reaction. Would he laugh or be angry?

The candle burned down until it was a guttering stub. Mattie climbed off the bed and lit another one. Then she pulled on her nightgown, sat at her escritoire, and began to write.
Edward, there is something that I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that if I tell you, you’ll have to tell my uncle—or break your word to him, and I don’t want you to have to make that choice.

She dipped the quill in the ink and continued.
This is what I want you to know. I am Chérie. And I know that it is Chérie you are looking for.

She wrote swiftly, telling him about finding the diary and
Fanny Hill
, about her decision to try to support herself through writing.

I know that what I have done is wrong, writing the Confessions, deceiving my uncle and aunt. But I could see no other way.

I am very sorry, Edward. It was never my intention to deceive you. I wish that I could tell you my secret now. I hope you understand why I haven’t.

Yours,

Mattie.

She sealed the letter and wrote Edward’s name and the date on the front and put it in the hidden cupboard. Guilt seemed to sit a little less heavily on her.

Mattie picked up
Fanny Hill
from where it lay, half under one pillow, remembering the rumble of Edward’s voice as he read aloud, remembering the way that he had turned to her afterwards, his hungry passion. It would make a good scene for one of Chérie’s confessions.

She tilted her head to one side, considering this. Yes—although perhaps Chérie should be the one to read a titillating passage aloud, to inflame her lover…

Mattie turned back to the escritoire, pulled another sheet of paper toward her, and began to write.

…

Edward sought an interview with Arthur Strickland after he’d breakfasted. “I’ve thought of a way of discovering Chérie’s identity, sir.”

“How?”

“I shall approach her publisher in London.”

Strickland’s wispy eyebrows drew together. “You think he’ll tell you?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

The old man grunted sourly.

“I’ll leave for town this morning. By the end of the week I should know something.”

Strickland nodded. He didn’t thank Edward or apologize for the days he’d wasted in Soddy Morton. He seemed to take it as his due.

They weren’t wasted days
. Edward let himself out of the old man’s study. There’d been kittens and gingerbread and kisses in the hayloft—and two astonishing nights with Mattie. And there had been her comment last night.
I think Toby would be glad that you survived
. A handful of words, and yet they had changed his world. He felt lighter this morning. It wasn’t merely the aftermath of sex. The crushing burden of guilt he’d carried for the past five months was gone. In place of guilt was only regret.

Mattie had done that.

Mattie.

Her name conjured an image of her: the grey eyes that were sometimes serious, sometimes sparkling with mischief, the lush mouth, the strong, beautiful body.

He couldn’t leave without bidding her farewell, without telling her that he would be back.

Edward climbed the stairs two at a time and met Mattie coming along the dark, draughty corridor. She was dressed for outdoors, a letter in her hand.

They both halted.

Edward stared at her, remembering how she’d looked when he’d last seen her, naked, flushed, her hair tumbled across the pillows. His skin tightened in memory of the intimacies they’d shared.

Edward cleared his throat. “I have to go to London.”

“When?”

“Now.”

Mattie nodded. He couldn’t see her face clearly in the dark corridor. What did she think of him leaving so precipitously? He’d taken her virginity, bedded her not once, but thrice.
An honorable gentleman would marry her.

“I…er, I should be back by the end of the week.”

Mattie nodded again.

Damn it, what was she thinking?

Edward shifted his weight uncomfortably. He felt as if he was abandoning her, escaping to London while she was trapped at Creed Hall, with its bricked-up windows and freezing rooms and dank, leafless woods.

His eyes fastened on the letter in her hand. “Is that letter for your friend in London?”

“Yes.”

“Let me take it. It’ll get there faster.”

“No, really, Edward, it’s not necessary . . .”

“Nonsense,” he said, taking the letter and tucking it into his breast pocket.

It made him feel slightly less guilty. He was doing her a service, not simply walking away and leaving her.

Mattie opened her mouth as if she wanted to protest and then closed it again. She looked down at the floor.

Edward shifted his weight again. “I…uh…”

He couldn’t think of anything to say—and then came a flash of inspiration. He dug in his pocket, pulled out a few coins, and held them out to her. “For gingerbread, while I’m gone.”

Mattie’s head lifted.

In the dim light he saw her cheeks flush. “I don’t want your money, Edward.”

Blood rushed to Edward’s face.

He shoved the coins back into his pocket. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

I didn’t mean you’re a whore
. He tugged at his neckcloth. It was uncomfortably tight.

“Er…is there anything that I can bring back for you from town? A book? Er…anything?”

“No, thank you.”

Edward shifted his weight again. The horses would be harnessed to the curricle, Tigh waiting.

“Good bye.”

“Good bye.”

He turned away from her, took a step, and then swung back to face her again.
An honorable man wouldn’t walk away like this.
He owed Mattie more than this. Because he’d bedded her. Because she was Toby’s cousin. Because she needed rescuing.

“Mattie…” He took a deep breath. “Marry me.”

The words seemed to echo in the corridor, bouncing off the paneled walls, ringing in his ears. Edward wished he could swallow them, could cram them back into his mouth.

“I beg your pardon?”

Edward took another deep breath and said the words again. “Marry me, Mattie.”

Chapter Thirteen

Mattie stared at him. Her heart began to beat fast.
Marry Edward
. Her imagination took flight, giving her a glimpse of the future. A home, a family, a husband she could love, could laugh with.

But Edward didn’t look as if he had the same happy vision of their future. There was no smile on his face. The line of his jaw was grim.

Mattie’s joy began to seep away. “Why?”

“Because, er…”

She remembered what Cecy had said when Edward first arrived, that he wasn’t looking for a wife. Suddenly, she understood. “You feel you ought to, because of what we’ve done?”

His cheeks reddened. “Yes.”

Stupidly, Marrie felt as if she might cry. “No, thank you.”

“But, Mattie . . .”

“Have a good journey to London,” she said briskly and turned away from him, hurrying down the corridor in the direction of her bedchamber.

Edward came after her, grabbing her elbow, halting her. “It’s not just because of that, Mattie.”

“What, then?” She tugged her arm free of his grip. “Is it because you pity me, living here at Creed Hall? Because you think I need rescuing?”

She could tell from his expression that that was precisely what he thought.

“I can rescue myself.”

“By running a boarding house?”

“Yes!”

“But Mattie . . .”

“It’s a perfectly respectable occupation for a woman.”

“Not for one as well-born as you!” And then, in the manner of one clinching an argument, he said, “What would Toby say if he knew?”

Mattie stiffened. “Is that what this is about? Because you feel you owe Toby?”

“Of course not!” Edward said, but his tone was too high-pitched.

He was lying.

Mattie took a step backwards, away from him.

She folded her arms across her chest. “Edward, when you came to Creed Hall, were you looking for a wife?”

“Well, no, but…but I always planned to marry one day and…and I think we should suit!”

I do too.
Sadness squeezed in her chest.

She shook her head. “I won’t marry you, Edward.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Mattie’s face felt as stiff as a statue’s. “Because when you marry, it should be someone you
want
to marry, not someone you feel you
ought
to marry.”

“I do want to marry you!”

Her eyes met his steadily. “If we hadn’t done what we did, would you have offered for me? Truthfully?”

Edward flushed again. “Well, no, but . . .”

“Thank you for your offer, Edward. But I must decline it.” Mattie turned away from him.

The urge to cry was choking her.

“Damn it, Mattie!” Edward caught her arm again. “I’m trying to do the right thing here!”

“I know you are.” From somewhere, she found the strength look at him, to smile brightly, to utter a light laugh. “But Edward, you can’t force me to marry you!”

He released her arm. “No, but . . .”

“If I had thought that you would feel compelled to offer for me, I would never have asked you to…to do what we did.”

“I know,” Edward said. “But Mattie . . .”

“My virtue is intact to the world. There’s no reason for us to marry.”

Edward frowned at her. “But the boarding house . . .”

“Has absolutely nothing to do with you.” She laid her hand on his sleeve. “Thank you for your offer, Edward, but it’s quite unnecessary. Surely you see that?”

He stared at her for a long moment, narrow-eyed, his mouth tightly compressed. “Please think about it.”

“I shan’t change my mind.”

She removed her hand from his arm. Edward caught it. “Please,” he said again, gripping her fingers tightly. “Think about it.”

Mattie looked at him, seeing his square, scarred face. If he was making this offer from his heart, not from a sense of honor, she’d agree without hesitation.

“Think about it, Mattie. Please.”

She should say no, but if she spoke, she’d start to cry. Instead, she nodded.

Edward released her hand. “Thank you.”

Mattie nodded again.

Edward hesitated, then bent his head and placed a light kiss high on her cheek. “I’ll be back by the end of the week.”

Mattie watched as he strode down the corridor, carrying Chérie’s latest confession in his pocket. She touched her fingers to her cheek, where he’d kissed her.

She managed to hold the tears back until she reached her bedchamber, but once in the privacy of her room, they spilled over. Mattie curled up on her bed and cried as she hadn’t cried since her parents died. Outside, she heard the clatter of hooves and carriage wheels. Edward was leaving.

Loneliness enveloped her. Her parents were gone, Toby was gone, and now Edward was gone too.

Stop it!
You still have Cecy
.
You’re not alone
.

She blew her nose and climbed off the bed. Edward had asked her to think about his offer—but no thinking was necessary.

She sat down at the escritoire and pulled out a sheet of paper.
Thank you for your offer, Edward,
she wrote,
but I can’t accept it. Truly, you owe me nothing, most certainly not your name. I don’t regret those two nights, and I hope that you don’t either.

And then, because the words were churning inside her, she wrote
I think I love you.

Seeing the words, black ink on white paper, made her hold her breath for a moment. She wrote them again.
I think I love you, Edward.

The weight of the words, the way they settled inside her with such a sense of
rightness
told her that they were true. She loved Edward.

Mattie took a deep breath. She dipped the quill in ink and continued.
And that is why I can’t marry you. Because I want you to be happy. You deserve to marry when you want to, Edward, not like this, because you feel you have to. And you deserve a wife that you love, not one who merely suits you.

She looked at what she’d written and tried to imagine Edward’s reaction, if he were to read it. Guilt? An even stronger determination to marry her because he felt that he ought to?

Mattie screwed up the piece of paper and burned it in the fireplace.

…

At Bletchley, it began to snow. At Leighton Buzzard, Edward was forced to admit that he wouldn’t reach London that day.

“Sir,” Tigh said as they entered the outskirts of the town. “We can’t go any further.”

“I know, God damn it!”

They rode in silence the length of the main street. As he halted at the Crown Inn, Edward said, “I beg your pardon, Tigh, I’m out of sorts today.” But his foul mood wasn’t because of the weather. It was because of the appalling mess that he had made of proposing to Mattie. He’d been more than inept. He’d been insulting.

An ostler ran up to take the horses. Edward climbed stiffly down from the curricle. The cold weather had made his leg ache. He stood for a moment, massaging his thigh.

Snowflakes gusted in a whirling cloud around his head, mimicking the turmoil of emotions inside him: disgust at himself, anger, shame. And beneath those emotions was one that he shied away from recognizing. Relief that Mattie had refused him.

He blew out a breath.
And you call yourself a gentleman, Ned?
He limped into the inn.

…

Sir Gareth dined with them again.

“I shall be returning to London tomorrow,” he told Uncle Arthur as they waited in the draughty salon for dinner.

Mattie glanced at Cecy and caught the brief, stricken expression on her face. Cecy blinked several times, took a deep breath, and lifted her chin. Her smile was bright and brittle.

Mattie looked down at the floor.
My fault
. She should never have told Edward the truth about Cecy’s circumstances.

The wind whipping the trees outside caught her attention. “Is that . . .?” She hurried to the window, pulling the curtains back. “It’s snowing again.”

Sir Gareth strode over to join her.

They stared out the window. The snow was coming down fast, the flakes streaking past the window at a slanting angle.

Sir Gareth turned away from the window. “I’d best get back to the village.”

“Nonsense,” Uncle Arthur said. “You’ll stay with us until it stops.”

“Thank you, sir, but . . .”

“I won’t allow a man in your condition to ride down to the village in weather like this.”

Sir Gareth stiffened. Color flushed his lean cheeks. “I’m not an invalid, sir.”

“It would be a great piece of folly!” Uncle Arthur said. He thumped his cane for emphasis. “No friend of my son will be out in such weather!”

For a moment Sir Gareth stood rigidly, and then he mastered his temper.

He bowed stiffly. “Thank you, sir.”

The silence at dinner was even less comfortable than usual. Cecy kept her eyes on her plate. From time to time she blinked, as if fighting back tears.

Sir Gareth only glanced at her once that Mattie saw. His mouth tightened, as if in anger, before he looked away.

She wasn’t deceiving you!
Mattie wanted to cry aloud. She speared a piece of boiled cabbage with her fork and lifted it to her mouth. She looked from Cecy to Sir Gareth as she chewed, examining their faces—one miserable, one grim. Resolve grew inside her. She’d ruined Cecy’s chance of happiness.
Therefore, it’s up to me to fix it.

Her moment came the next morning. Mattie was in sole possession of the breakfast parlor when Sir Gareth made his entrance. Outside, snow still fell thickly.

“Miss Chapple,” Sir Gareth said with a polite nod. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” She watched as he crossed to the sideboard. “I would avoid the eggs, if I were you. And the toast. The sausages are really the only thing worth eating. Unless you’re fond of gruel?”

“Gruel?” He grimaced.

“My uncle says that a bowl of gruel each day is essential to one’s health,” Mattie said demurely. “He swears by it.”

Sir Gareth glanced at her, catching the teasing note in her voice. A smile quirked up one corner of his mouth.

“If the gruel isn’t to your taste, do try the sausages,” Mattie said, more seriously. “They’re actually rather good.”

“Thank you. I shall take your advice.”

Mattie watched as he awkwardly transferred a number of sausages onto a plate.

It wasn’t until he sat down at the table that she realized he wouldn’t be able to cut them up. “Er…would you like me to cut them for you?”

Sir Gareth hesitated a moment and then passed the plate to her. “Thank you.”

Mattie felt a surge of sympathy for him. It must be galling to need help for the smallest and most mundane of tasks. Every day must be full of mortifications and difficulties.

He deserves to be happy. And so does Cecy.

She bent her attention to the sausages, slicing them into bite-sized pieces. Would it be best to be blunt or subtle?

Blunt, she decided, handing back the plate. Toby had always preferred straightforward speaking to roundaboutness.

“Sir Gareth?”

He glanced at her, his eyebrows rising slightly. “Miss Chapple?”

She took a deep breath. “It’s true that Cecy is poor and that she wants to marry a man who can provide for her, but her regard for you is quite genuine.”

The faint smile vanished from Sir Gareth’s face. His eyebrows lowered. The polite friendliness was gone, as if a door had slammed shut between them.

“She hasn’t been trying to fix your attention.” Mattie leaned forward over her plate. “She truly likes you!”

Sir Gareth’s lips compressed, a bitter movement.

He glanced at his empty sleeve and then pushed to his feet. “Miss Chapple . . .”

She stood hurriedly, reaching out her hand to stop him. “I know it’s none of my business! But please, Sir Gareth, before you judge her,
talk
to her!”

Mattie retreated, leaving Sir Gareth to his breakfast.
Idiot!
she thought as she climbed the stairs to the sewing room. Her bluntness had misfired. All she’d succeeded in doing was making Sir Gareth angry.

She busied herself with the gown that she was making.
The next one I sew won’t be grey
, she promised herself. She imagined a picture of it in her head as she worked. A gown of colored fabric, blue or maybe green, with a fitted bodice. No frills or flounces—she was too much of a giantess to suit such things—but she’d have a pretty trim at both neckline and hem.

A small fire burned in the grate but despite its best efforts the room grew steadily colder. An icy wind rattled the window in its frame and crept in through the cracks. Mattie moved her chair closer to the fire and bent her head over the seam that she was stitching.

She was shivering by the time she’d finished the second sleeve. Laying it aside, she went downstairs to fetch a heated brick from the kitchen. On her way back, the low murmur of voices coming from the library caught her attention. The door was open the merest crack. Curious, Mattie pushed the door open a few inches.

Sir Gareth
had
listened to her advice. He sat alongside Cecy on the sofa, talking with her.

Mattie hugged the warm brick to her chest and watched as Sir Gareth said something and as Cecy replied. Their heads were bent closely together.

Mattie carefully closed the door and tiptoed down the corridor.

She was working on the bodice when she heard light footsteps approaching the sewing room.

“Mattie?” Cecy stood in the doorway, joy glowing on her face. “I have something to tell you.”

Mattie laid down her sewing. “I think I can guess what it is.”

“Oh, Mattie! He’s asked me to marry him!” Tears shone in Cecy’s eyes.

Mattie stood and embraced her friend.

“He says that it was your doing.” Cecy hugged her back, half-laughing, half-crying. “Oh, thank you, Mattie! You can’t imagine how happy I am!”

Sadness clenched in Mattie’s chest.
Yes, I can. If Edward had truly wanted to marry me, I should be this happy too
.