Helena grimaced and shook her head. “I’m hiding from Robert and Prue.”

  “Oh, dear. What have you done?”

  There was an indignant huff as Helena sat down. “Why do you imagine I’ve done anything?”

  “Because we’ve made your acquaintance,” Jemima said with a placid smile.

  Helena glared at her and then shrugged. “I can’t argue that, I suppose, and it is partly my fault. But, I ask you, how would you fare against Minerva Butler’s determination to ruin herself for that wretched man?”

  “What’s happened?” Matilda and Jemima asked in unison as they sat down on either side of her.

  “Prue found out that Min spent the whole day with Mr de Beauvoir yesterday, and she’s furious. Not only because the foolish chit went there alone in broad daylight again, but because I helped her go with no one noticing. Robert doesn’t know why Prue’s furious, only that she is and that it’s mine and Minerva’s fault, and so he’s angry with us for upsetting her in her delicate condition. Honestly, though, I’ve seen military men less delicate than Prue in a temper. She’s scary.”

  “What is Prue going to do? Will she tell your brother?” Matilda asked, worrying for Minerva and what might happen if the duke found out.

  “I don’t think so, not yet anyway, but Prue doesn’t know the madwoman is intent on going back to him again this afternoon. I told her I can’t continue to help her ruin herself, assuming the damage isn’t already done,” Helena muttered, sounding angry, though the worry in her eyes gave away her real emotion. “But I wanted to be out of the house so I couldn’t be coerced into helping her again, and then blamed for doing it.”

  Jemima nodded and covered Helena’s hand with her own, but Helena looked to Matilda.

  “Am I a bad person? A bad friend?”

  “No,” Matilda said, smiling at her. “You want to help her, and protect her too, but you can’t do both. Minerva is a grown woman, though, and we all make our own choices. She knows the risks.”

  “You approve?” Helena said in outrage.

  Matilda felt her blush returning and wondered if that was what she meant. No, she didn’t approve; she was terrified for Minerva and what might become of her if she was discovered having an affair with de Beauvoir. Yet she admired her. She had the courage of her convictions. She’d decided on what she wanted, and would do everything in her power to take it for herself and damn the consequences… and the consequences would undoubtedly damn her.

  “Not approve, exactly,” Matilda said, choosing her words with care. “But I understand, and… and, if I’m honest, I rather envy her.”

  Helena stared at her in shock.

  “She loves him, Helena,” Matilda said gently. “More than she’s afraid of what will happen to her. I… I would like to know how that feels.”

  Helena frowned, but it was the sharp glint in Jemima’s eyes that made Matilda look away.

  “Well, then,” Jemima said after a rather tense silence. “What shall we do to occupy ourselves this afternoon?”

  Matilda bit her lip, knowing it was madness just as well as Minerva knew it, and for once allowing herself to act without thinking it through. “Well, I… I was considering a trip to the British Institution.”

  ***

  Inigo stared at the tray of glittering, shockingly expensive rings before him and scowled. He had no idea what to choose. He wanted to buy something with diamonds and sapphires, something that would sparkle like Minerva’s eyes, but if he was to have any chance of supporting a wife, he could not spend nearly everything he had on a ring.

  “I just want a wedding ring,” he said, glaring at the man behind the counter, who was clearly not interested in his business now as another customer had entered the shop.

  The new fellow was a dandy, dressed to the nines, and obviously a great deal wealthier than Inigo.

  “A wedding ring,” the impatient jeweller said, nodding as he watched the newcomer take a jewelled fob watch out and flick it open with a pointed sigh.

  A new tray of rings appeared, plain gold or silver bands this time.

  “That one,” Inigo said in a rush, panic crawling up the back of his neck.

  “An excellent choice, sir,” the jeweller said with an insincere smile that made Inigo want to upend the tray and throw it at him.

  Why was he doing this? What had happened to his life? He didn’t want to get married. He didn’t want a wife and a family and… and suddenly he was thinking about Minerva carrying his child and his hands were shaking. Sweat prickled down his spine as too many conflicting emotions surged in his chest. Longing, terror, and guilt. No matter what he wanted, he had to protect Minerva. Thanks to his complete lack of sense yesterday, she might already be pregnant. They must marry, no matter what he wanted. That he couldn’t bear the thought of getting through a whole day without seeing her was irrelevant. His obsession wasn’t a reason for marriage; keeping her safe was the only reason that mattered.

  The jeweller came back with the ring in a small blue velvet box and Inigo handed over the money. He snatched up the ring and shoved it into his pocket before hurrying out of the door. Once outside, he drew in a deep breath, willing the cold air to steady his nerves.

  “Inigo?”

  He turned, cursing whoever it was before seeing Solo hail him from across the street. Knowing he’d not escape now, Inigo crossed the road, fastidiously avoiding the squelchy filth that yesterday’s rain had washed into mucky puddles, and nodded a greeting to Solo.

  “I don’t believe it,” Solo said, a crooked smile at his lips as he regarded the jeweller’s shop on the other side of the road. “You took my advice.”

  Inigo huffed out a breath. “I didn’t have a lot of choice.”

  Solo frowned at that, nodding towards a chop house a few doors down. “I’m famished,” he said. “Come and eat and you can tell me all about it.”

  He hesitated, considering how long it would take him to get home. It was only half past ten, but he needed to be back in plenty of time in case Minerva came around earlier than she’d suggested.

  “Have you eaten breakfast?” Solo demanded with a sigh.

  Inigo rolled his eyes. “What is this overwhelming need everyone has to make me eat? You’re not my bloody mother.”

  “That’s why, you fool,” Solo retorted. “You’ve had no one to look after you but you’re not capable of doing it yourself.”

  “I’m thirty years of age!” Inigo protested. “I’ve managed so far.”

  Solo gave him a long, considering look that Inigo didn’t doubt took in a hastily tied cravat and crumpled coat. To his mortification, his stomach decided that would be a good moment to join in and gave an audible grumble. Solo raised one eyebrow.

  “Fine,” Inigo muttered, cross for no reason other than he’d felt cross when he woke up and the feeling hadn’t dissipated.

  He’d been cross that Minerva wasn’t beside him, cross that he missed her so badly, cross that she couldn’t come that morning, cross with her family for keeping her from him and ever crosser that they’d allowed her to come after him in the first place. Everyone was causing him aggravation, and he longed for the time when he’d been all alone with only his experiments for company. Life had been so very simple. Empty and lonely, perhaps, but simple.

  They found a table in a relatively quiet corner of the busy chop house and ordered lamb chops, potatoes, peas pudding and two glasses of porter. It was delivered with remarkable speed and they ate in companionable silence for a while, for which Inigo was grateful. He knew it wouldn’t last.

  “So, you bought a ring?”

  Inigo stabbed a potato with his fork and scowled at it. “Yes.”

  “When are you going to ask her?”

  He shrugged. “Today, tomorrow, what does it matter?”

  Solo rolled his eyes. “Do you even have any idea what you’re going to say?”

  Inigo chewed the potato, glowering at Solo and wishing he’d mind his own business. “What’s it to you?”

  Solo sighed and returned his attention to his dinner. “Because I’m afraid you’ll mess it up, and then I’ll be stuck with watching you tumble into a big dark hole when you realise what an ass you’ve been.”

  Inigo stabbed another potato, frowning. “I’ve ruined her. She’s got no choice.”

  Solo stared at him in disbelief and then rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. “You really do not understand women, do you?”

  “What?” Inigo demanded. “She might be with child, and no matter what else she’s an intelligent woman. The answer is obvious.”

  Inigo felt uneasy as Solo just shook his head and returned a pitying expression.

  “Have you told her you love her?”

  Inigo opened his mouth to object, but Solo forestalled him.

  “Don’t even bother denying it. I’ve heard all about the lust with a ring on its finger argument and whilst I’m not pretending there’s no truth in that, there is truth in how you’re acting, too. You love her, and if you don’t tell her so when you ask her to marry you, you really are an ass.”

  Inigo shook his head, too stubborn to consider it. “I don’t know what love is, what it looks like, but I understand lust and desire. That I recognise.”

  “And that’s all it is?” Solo remarked, setting down his knife and fork on his empty plate. “You feel nothing else for her?”

  The jumble of feelings he’d been fighting when Solo had hailed him rose back up, threatening to choke him, and Inigo pushed his plate away, suddenly queasy.

  “Look, you don’t have to admit a damn thing to me, Inigo,” Solo said. “God knows I’m no advert for happy ever afters, but I’m not such a blasted fool as not to recognise that this woman is important to you. You’re one of the few people I give a damn about in this world, as depressing as that is to admit. I’d like to think you could succeed where I failed.”

  Inigo thought about that for a while before returning his gaze to Solo. “You didn’t fail.”

  There was a bitter laugh, as Inigo had known there would be.

  “Oh, I failed so many people in so many ways it’s hard to credit, but that’s neither here nor there. I won’t fail you by keeping my mouth shut, even though you’d prefer it if I did.”

  He got to his feet, tossing some coins onto the table for the meal and laying a heavy hand on Inigo’s shoulder.

  “Good luck,” Solo said, before heading for the door.

  Inigo watched him go, his gait uneven as it often was in such cold, damp weather. He reached into his pocket and drew out the little velvet box. He opened it and stared at the simple gold band, nestled against its bed of blue silk. A ripple of fear shivered through him as he considered asking Minerva to marry him. Other than the fact that he’d ruined her, Inigo could think of no earthly reason she should do such a thing.

  She loves you, said a little voice in his head.

  “There’s no such thing as love,” he muttered, snapping the box shut and putting it away.

  Minerva was caught up in this destructive obsession, just as he was. That was all. Eventually, those feelings would burn out and disappear, like that blasted diamond he’d destroyed. When that happened, she’d find herself married to a man way beneath her, one who could not give her all the things she wanted and deserved, and—when she realised it—it would crucify him. The idea of Minerva looking at him with anything less than the adoration he saw in her eyes now made his chest tight with misery.

  He told himself it would be better to lose her now than to face the agonising slow death he knew was inevitable as he watched her accept that her feelings had been an illusion. How would he bear it when he saw the scales fall from her eyes and her affection for him diminish by increments? The trouble was, he couldn’t let her go. Though every argument told him it would be best for him, he could not do it.

  Letting her go was so terrifying he couldn’t even consider it, though keeping her with him frightened him just as much. Yet, there was one empirical fact that swayed the scales firmly towards marriage. He’d ruined her, she might carry his child already, and he was damned if he’d be responsible for another fatherless bastard in the world.

  ***

  Matilda looked around the grand building that was the Pall Mall Picture Gallery, or British Institution, and tried to keep her attention on the paintings. Jemima and Helena wandered ahead of her, talking in low but animated tones as they perused the pictures. Matilda stared up at the jostle of images, sky hung, side by side and on top of each other until her gaze landed on one by Thomas Lawrence, whom she greatly admired. She’d considered commissioning a portrait of her brother and Alice with their first child when he or she had arrived, as she thought it would be a lovely present for them. This portrait was of a rather dashing hussar, his sword slung over his right shoulder in a nonchalant pose, all the gold braid on his uniform gleaming, and the fur on his cape so real she felt she could reach out and find it soft to the touch.

  Matilda jolted as something equally soft brushed her hand and looked down in surprise to find it had been grasped by a little girl, who was beaming up at her.

  “Why, Miss Barrington, how nice to see you,” Matilda exclaimed, as delighted to see the lovely child as she was chagrined by the way her heart leaped about in her chest like a mad rabbit.

  For, if Miss Barrington was here, so was her Uncle Monty.

  The child beamed at her, her blonde ringlets framing the angelic face and blue eyes that reminded Matilda so forcefully of her closest relative. She wondered just how beautiful Montagu had been as a child.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Hunt.”

  Matilda forced herself to remain calm as she turned to regard Lord Montagu and curtseyed to him. As ever, he was impeccably dressed in a dark blue coat with a snowy white cravat, the usual large, single diamond pin glinting among the pristine folds. He held a silver-topped walking stick in one gloved hand. There was no hint in his eyes of the desperate need to see her of which he’d written, or of the desire that made him fear he’d run mad. He was as cool and precise as he always was. No doubt it was all a game to him, and he felt nothing at all. It was certainly easy to believe.

  “Do you like the pictures, Miss Hunt?” Phoebe asked, staring up at her. “I like the one of the horse best, do come and see.”

  She tugged at Matilda’s hand, and Matilda was powerless to refuse her.

  “It’s a Stubbs,” Montagu told her, giving her a sideways glance. “Whistlejacket. She’s rather taken with it.”

  Matilda smiled and nodded, wondering what on earth she was doing. “Are children usually allowed in the galleries?” she asked quietly.

  “Some children,” Montagu replied with a quirk of his lips.

  Matilda laughed. Of course.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  She looked around at him, surprised by his soft tone, the sincerity in his voice.

  “I hardly need tell you it was against my better judgement.”

  “Hardly,” he agreed.

  “Look, isn’t he beautiful?” Phoebe said, pointing at the huge painting of the chestnut stallion.

  “Very handsome indeed,” Matilda agreed as the child stared at it a moment longer before moving along the gallery to stare up at another painting, this time of a monkey.

  “Phoebe looks well. Happy.” She studied Montagu’s face before he answered, transfixed by the change in his austere expression as he looked upon the little girl.

  He could love, then… at least, he could love this little girl.

  “You think so?”

  It seemed to be a genuine question, one with something that sounded like concern behind it, and Matilda continued to survey him.

  “Yes, I do. Why?”

  He was silent for a moment, his blond brows drawn together. “It is often lonely for such a child and I…” he gave a surprisingly self-deprecating laugh. “I am hardly ideal parent material.”

  Matilda tried to imagine Montagu playing with a doll’s house or reading bedtime stories, and failed utterly, though the idea made something inside of her ache with a sudden sense of emptiness.

  “She has playmates?”

  Montagu hesitated before nodding and she was struck by how different he seemed today. He was usually so forcefully in control of himself and the conversation.

  “Yes, but….”

  He stopped, and Matilda sensed he’d say no more on the subject, but she couldn’t resist pushing a little.

  “But?”

  He glanced back at her, frowning. “I’m too overprotective. Children can be cruel and, the last time we had young guests, there was a falling out. She was upset. I’ve been rather concerned about repeating the incident.”

  “That’s only natural, I suppose,” Matilda said carefully, aware of the exclusivity of this moment of candour and not wanting to do or say anything to end it. She knew Phoebe was his only living kin, his family having been touched by too many tragedies. “But children fall out all the time, and are best friends a moment later.”

  He nodded, looking unconvinced.

  “I worry for her,” he said, a dark look that Matilda did not understand clouding his eyes.

  “She’s your only family. Of course you worry for her. You’re a devoted uncle and want to do what’s best for her, that does you credit.”

  He glanced at her and shook his head, a smile that had no humour in it curling his lip. “How you can say such a thing?”

  “What?” Matilda asked, perplexed by the bitterness of his tone.

  “I have not always been kind to you, Miss Hunt, and I know that whatever is between us is there against your will, your judgement, your hopes for the future. Yet you are always kind. Fair. You have a generous heart. I do not deserve your understanding, and yet I want it, very much.”

  Matilda stared at him, astonished, and knew she was in very grave danger. Panic rose in a sweep of colour as she recognised the feeling in her heart for what it was. She had to get away.

  “I’m going to marry Mr Burton.” The words escaped her before she’d even really registered them, forced from her in a jumble as the intensity of her emotions threatened to have her do or say something very, very foolish indeed.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26