The Bumblebroth (16 page)

"Thank God."

She heard his rush of relief, and the thought that she had pleased him gave her a burst of happiness.

"Have I rushed you, Mattie?" he asked. "It could not be soon enough for me, but I had planned to take longer. I had a feeling that you would need more time to feel as deeply for me as I do for you. If you wish, I will court you more slowly."

William's thoughtfulness brought tears into her eyes in the same moment that an unaccustomed greediness prompted her to say, "Yes, please. I would like that."

Gently, he held her away, then planted a kiss upon her nose. "Perhaps I should send you roses?"

Mattie chuckled. "No, you needn't do that. I think I have enough of them."

"Then what would please you, my love? You have only to say."

A pulse started up in her throat as she asked, "I would like— very much— for you to tell me why you love me."

"Why." William considered. "Now let me see. . . ."

Mattie giggled at his earnest expression.

"I simply could say that I do not know why. I cannot help myself. But I doubt that that would satisfy."

Mattie shook her head, suppressing a dimple.

"Perhaps I could tell you the things I love about you? Would that do?"

"Yes," she said, trying to hide her eagerness.

"That will be easy."

William's arms tightened about her waist. His lips softened as she gazed deeply into his dark eyes.

"I love the way you dress in faded old gowns," he said softly. "I love it that smudges find their way onto your nose. I love the way you seem blind to any mistakes your daughter makes, but that you blush for your own quite charmingly. I love it that— "

"But those are all faults!" Mattie protested, not sure that she wanted to hear more.

"Oh, no, my love. You are very wrong. Each of those things is a sign of your unspoiled nature and your generous heart. Those are what I love you for, Mattie."

When she peered up at him, still not convinced, he grinned, "I might want you because you are beautiful and have a splendid figure, but I love you because you are a kind and gentle soul, Mattie. There is no one else like you."

A catch filled her throat as she said, "I love you, too, William." She threw her arms shamelessly about his neck, and he held her tightly.

"There is one thing I would request," he murmured into her ear.

"What is that?" Mattie would do anything. She had never been so happy. At this point, she only wanted to know how they would manage to be together, for she did not think the shrubbery would be a comfortable place to meet.

"Promise me," William continued in a sober tone, "that once we are wed, you will go back to gardening in your outmoded gowns. They have the most splendid effect on my— "

"Married!" Mattie gasped as his words sank in. She pushed away from him in order to see his face. "But we are not to be married!"

"Not . . ." He frowned, and bewilderment clouded his features. "What the devil do you mean? I thought you said yes."

"I did. But not to marriage!"

Mattie waited for the truth to register on his face. When it did, she felt a stab of shame.

"Mattie, you cannot mean— you did not think that I was offering you carte blanche?"

The hint of anger in his voice made her wince. "But, of course, I thought so! What else could I think? You could not possibly mean to marry a woman my age."

"I could mean it, and I do mean it. I have no intention of giving you a slip on the shoulder. You must think I'm the devil of a fellow."

"No, oh no." Mattie could see that he was hurt, but she would not blame herself. "You said nothing of marriage. How was I to know?"

"How? Did you think that I would so mistreat you? Haven't I just said how much I love you, Mattie?"

"Yes, but— " Distress clogged her throat. "Now this is a bumblebroth!"

"It doesn't have to be one. Now that we are both clear on what I do want, you have only to say yes again."

"But I cannot!"

"For God's sake why?" William ran one hand through his perfect locks.

Mattie stared at him helplessly, unable to believe that he would not understand. "The talk— The things people will say— "

"What things?"

"They will say that I robbed the cradle!"

"Nonsense. They will look at me with envy and say how clever I was to win you before the Ton laid eyes upon you."

"No, William." Mattie's eyes filled with tears. "You cannot know— you cannot imagine the cruelty— "

He took her by the elbows and gave her a little shake. "What cruelty? What did they do to you, Mattie?"

She hung her head. She wanted to throw herself in his arms, but she dared not. She had to make him see that it was impossible. "When I was first married, His Grace took me to London to be presented. Everyone turned their noses up at me. I heard what they said— they did not try to hide it. They said I had married him for his money and his position, but— " she grasped William by his lapels— "I did not, William! I had a fortune of my own."

William's lips curved indulgently, as if he failed to see how miserable she had been. "I know you did not," he said. "I think I know how it was. But that is all in the past, Mattie. It has nothing to do with us."

"Yes it does. Don't you see? They will remember that old scandal and say that I married just as callously the second time as I did the first."

"You're a grown woman now. You must not care for what people say."

"Not even Lady Westbury?"

"Particularly not my mother."

Mattie shook her head vehemently. "I cannot face her, William. Not her, not anyone. I cannot live through another scandal when I have Pamela to think of. You want a wife who can take her place in the Ton, but I cannot be that person. They will say you should have chosen a wife who can give you children, that it was selfish of me to marry such an eligible man. I know how they think!"

William was smiling broadly now, as if she were simply being foolish. "You are taking a pet for nothing. Those people are not worth worrying about. And whether we have a child or not does not concern me overmuch. I mean to enjoy trying, but if we are unsuccessful, Gerald will make a fine viscount."

"But what about Gilly!" Mattie changed the subject, unwilling to talk about such issues as children, when she knew she would never have the chance to know William's child. "Miss Fotheringill, that is. I could not face her, William, and if I could not face Gilly, who loves me, how could I stand up in public with you?"

William's look became stern. "You refine too much upon your servants' feelings. I've noticed that you let them bully you. You must not let anyone bully you, Mattie!"

His tone, when he said this, was so overbearing that Mattie could only stare at him wryly.

A look of sheepishness came over his face, and he apologized, "There I go, doing it, too. I am sorry, Mattie. I will promise never to bully you again if you will marry me."

"But don't you see? Everyone does. I cannot stand up to people, William, and you must believe me. That is why I live the way I do. And I was happy enough. And then you came along, and I thought I could be perfectly happy to love you in private where no one would see or know— "

Mattie broke off at the disapproving look on his face. She gathered her courage and said, "I can be your mistress, William. I very much want to be your mistress. But I cannot be your wife."

"No, Mattie. I will have no backstairs affaire with you. You must marry me."

A determined gleam showed in his eyes as he took a step backwards. "I shall have to convince you. That is all."

Mattie held her quivering chin in the air. "You cannot."

"We shall see." A hint of sympathy tinged his gaze. "I sincerely hope that you are wrong."

"Oh, William— " Mattie reached to brush his cheek— "I do love you, but it would be too great a mistake. You must not try to persuade me."

"I am sorry to distress you, dearest, but I must."

Mattie could not speak. Her tears were too near the surface. She made a sign for him to go.

William raised her hand and kissed it before saying, "I shall call on you soon. Don't worry yourself too much over this, Mattie. All will come right in the end. You will see."

Mattie wished she could believe him. As he turned to leave her, and crossed the great lawn on his way back home, she felt her heart would break. Her one great chance for happiness had come and gone. But she could not give in. She could not, either for Pamela's sake or for William's own.

If she married him, he would regret it as soon as the scandal erupted. He was not like His Grace. William moved about in the world. He would not be happy with a wife whom society rejected.

Mattie turned and fled back into the house, the fabric of her peace all torn to shreds.

* * * *

William walked rapidly, and by the time he reached his door, the greater part of his frustration had been worked off. He told himself that Mattie's reaction was precisely what he had feared it would be when he had determined to woo such a sensitive creature. He had long suspected that something had made her fearful of society, and it was for that reason he had decided to court her slowly.

Now that she had confirmed his intuition, he could imagine how it had happened. Mattie had wed her aged guardian, not out of passion, but out of innocence. At a sensitive age, she had been taken to London, only to discover that society frowned upon such a marriage. William could guess what assumptions had been made about a wealthy old bachelor and a beautiful young wife. Hadn't his mother insinuated much the same?

William's suspicion that Lady Westbury or one of her friends had tipped his hand before he was ready to declare himself made him clench his jaw now. But he would not waste time in anger. What was done was done, and whatever Mattie's fears were, he would soon overcome them. She had admitted that she loved him. With a burgeoning sense of joy, he acknowledged that the battle was half won.

Arriving home, William was not particularly pleased to find his mother waiting for him. She accosted him in the hall before he could make for the relative sanctuary of his library, and said in an injured tone that she would be grateful for a few moments of his time.

William bowed to her, and, restraining his impatience, waited for her to pass into the room before him.

"You wished to see me?" he asked, as he held a chair for her.

"I did," Lady Westbury announced. She seated herself with her shoulders back and her hands clasped firmly on her lap. "I mean to discover what you have been getting up to, William. I could not help noticing that you left the house this morning and set out on foot in the direction of Westbury Manor."

When William said nothing in response, but, instead, took his chair across from her and waited, she continued, "Your attentions in that quarter have been most pronounced, and I had allowed myself to be pleased. You have not always been wont to take my advice, but I had flattered myself that at least this once you had. Then, I spoke to Gerald and discovered that he had made an appointment to ride with Lady Pamela this morning, just— or so he says— as he has done every morning for weeks."

Lady Westbury leaned forward. "Where have you been, William, when your brother has been cavorting about the countryside with your intended bride— and without you in attendance?"

William controlled the retort that sprang to his tongue. It took a few moments before the unmistakable humour of the situation restored his equanimity.

"I have been calling upon the duchess," he said politely, "and, since she has been with me the greater part of each morning, I fail to see how she could be cavorting with Gerald."

His mother's nostrils flared. Her eyes widened as she braced herself to argue. "Whatever do you mean? I had supposed that we were discussing Lady Pamela. You will oblige me, William, by not speaking in riddles."

"I have spoken quite plainly, Mama. You, unfortunately, appear to be labouring under a misapprehension."

"Nonsense!" Lady Westbury fixed him with a stern eye. "I understand the circumstances quite clearly. You have made it your business— and in general I approve of such thoroughness— to be attentive to the girl's mother. But I would not abuse such a tactic, William. I am sure you have proven your worthiness to the duchess. It is time to focus on her daughter instead. I presume Lady Pamela will have some say in the matter."

"Do you think so?" William raised his eyebrows. "I am afraid that your notions of filial rights are far more liberal than my own."

Lady Westbury did not look pleased by this compliment. "If you mean to tease me, William, you will catch cold at it. I was not born yesterday, and I recognize your tone. You undoubtedly refer to my notions of propriety and mean to imply that you do not approve of such antiquated views. But let me tell you that an arranged marriage has far more chance of success than these runaway love matches one is forever reading about. I know Lady Pamela will see the wisdom in marrying whomever her mother has chosen for her."

"Will she? I wonder . . ." William mused upon the idea. "Lady Pamela is, perhaps, more strong-willed than you think. Certainly, if her mother were to choose someone she had already settled upon, then I agree that things would go smoothly. But I cannot believe she would agree to marry anyone she had not developed a fondness for.

"Nor," he added, smiling to himself, "would her mother wish her to."

"Then, you must make an effort to engage her affections, which is precisely my reason for confronting you this morning. You are talking in circles, William!"

"Am I? I do not mean to. It is you, it seems, who keeps confusing the matter. You spoke of my intended bride, and in the next breath you shifted to Lady Pamela."

By the rising colour of his mother's cheeks, William judged that it was time to stop baiting her, even before Lady Westbury demanded, "William, you will stop playing games this instant and tell me what you mean!"

"Very happily, Mama. I am delighted to inform you that I have asked the Duchess of Upavon to be my wife."

"That. . . creature! You are joking with me, William, I know it. I have always deplored that tendency in you, but this time you try me too far!"