The Spinster's Secret (15 page)

He blushed rosily and assumed an expression of such bashful confusion that I could not help but like him even more.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Tom, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Tom,” I said, and kissed him again, this time laying my salute upon his mouth.

After a moment’s hesitation, Tom returned my kiss, with such sweetness that it provoked a warm friendliness in my breast. You will anticipate what happened next, dear reader, although I shall describe it for you to the best of my memory.

Mattie paused and closed her eyes again, remembering the shadowy coziness of the hayloft, remembering Edward’s kiss. If Hoby hadn’t made a noise, if Edward hadn’t stopped . . .

She opened her eyes and picked up the Countess’s diary, flicking through the pages until she came to the one she wanted. She read the entry intently. What would it be like to do this with Edward?

Mattie laid the diary to one side and wrote swiftly.
Tom removed my clothes, kissing my skin as he bared it. It was clear that for all his bashfulness he had lain with a woman before, for he knew precisely how to place his kisses to most effect. When I lay utterly naked, he proceeded to give me the most intimate of kisses that a man can give a woman, bringing me swiftly to a state of . . .

Mattie glanced at the Countess’s diary. How had she described it?

. . .
a state of urgent and voluptuous ecstasy
.

She had puzzled over that description when she’d first read it all those months ago. Now she understood what the Countess had meant—the fierce urgency, the intense, rippling surge of pleasure flooding through her.

Mattie dipped the quill in ink and continued with the confession.
As you may imagine, dear reader, once I had recovered myself I lost no time in divesting Tom of his clothing and returning the favor, an intimacy to which he most willingly submitted.

A scene blossomed in her mind. Not Chérie and the groom in the shadowy darkness of the hayloft, but herself and Edward, undressing each other, tasting each other’s skin…

No. The scene dissolved. Mattie frowned at what she’d written. She couldn’t imagine Edward wanting to kiss that most womanly part of her.

But the other way—
that
she could imagine—kissing his organ, as the Countess described in such precise detail, learning the shape of him with her tongue, learning his taste.

Heat flushed sharply beneath Mattie’s skin.

What would Edward taste like?

She shoved the thought aside. If she wasn’t already a whore, then inviting Edward to her bedchamber a second time, kissing him like that, would certainly make her one.

She dipped the quill in the little inkpot again and continued the confession.
That wasn’t the end of our interlude, dear reader. On the contrary, it was merely the beginning, for Tom was quickly roused again to action, and he made himself master of my body at once, possessing me with a most pleasing vigor.

Mattie glanced at the clock. With a shock she saw that it was nearly time for dinner. Hastily, she gathered the pages that she’d written and the Countess’s diary and thrust them in the hidden cupboard.

…

Three hours later, she returned to her task, describing Chérie’s coupling with the lusty young groom in as much detail as she could think of.

Afterwards, I lay replete in his arms, smelling the scent of horses and the dusty, summer smell of hay, the scent of man, the scent of sex. It was dark and cozy up in the hayloft. I felt as if I had stepped into another world, one where Chérie the courtesan didn’t exist, and nor did London salons and gentlemen vying for my attention. Here it was just Tom and me, enjoying each other, with no money changing hands.

His hand smoothed gently down to my hip and then up to my breasts. He shifted, pressing himself against me, asking a silent question, letting me feel his body’s eagerness to resume that most pleasurable of activities. I smiled against his shoulder.

“Again?” I asked.

“If it pleases you.”

Mattie yawned, her jaw creaking. It was only half past ten, but her eyes stung with tiredness. She counted the pages. Four. That was enough for one confession.

It did please me, dear reader,
she wrote,
but I shall lay down my pen here and leave the rest to your imagination.

Chérie.

Mattie yawned again. She hid the pages in the secret cupboard, snuffed her candle, and crawled into bed.

…

Edward lay awake for a long time, listening to the muffled patter of snow against the windowpanes. All he wanted in the world was to climb out of bed, pull on his dressing gown, and tiptoe along the cold corridors to Mattie’s room. He imagined himself standing alongside her bed, imagined himself taking off his dressing gown, turning back the covers and sliding in alongside Mattie. He imagined her heat and her softness, the taste of her mouth, her eager response to his lovemaking.

He suppressed a groan and shifted restlessly. Damn. How could he sleep when all he could think about was Mattie? Her hair hanging in curls down to her waist. The astonishing ripeness of her breasts. The way her hips had cradled him as he’d made love to her.

Edward rolled over and punched his pillow, trying to make it more comfortable. He was acutely aware of Chérie’s confessions, lying a foot beneath him. He could almost feel them burning through the mattress, full of passion and pleasure, full of sex.

Edward squeezed his eyes shut. He
couldn’t
go to Mattie’s room,
couldn’t
ask her to let him bed her. Mattie wasn’t a prostitute, available for his pleasure whenever he wanted. Mattie was…

Perfect. Luscious.

And she’s Toby’s cousin.

His lust began to fade. In its place was a creeping tide of guilt. What would Toby say if he knew?

But Toby would never know. Toby was dead.
Because of me
.

Edward opened his eyes and stared across the dark bedchamber. The last vestiges of his lust shriveled and disintegrated, blowing away like a handful of dust.

…

Mattie was halfway to Soddy Morton, her half-boots crunching through the icy crust of snow that had fallen overnight, when she heard the sound of a horse behind her. Her heart gave an absurd little kick in her chest. She turned and looked back.

Edward.

He trotted up alongside her and swung down from the saddle. Breath plumed from his mouth, from the horse’s nostrils. “Should you be walking in this weather?” he asked.

“It’s not snowing.”

“It’s still damn . . . er, dashed cold.” His gaze fastened on the letter she held. “Is that to be posted? Shall I take it for you?”

Guilt heated Mattie’s cheeks. She resisted the urge to hide the confession behind her back and shook her head.

“No, thank you.”

The corners of Edward’s eyes creased in a smile. “Your daily escape from the Hall?”

Mattie nodded, feeling slightly sick. She was deceiving him, not with outright lies but with subterfuge.

“Do you have business in the village? Don’t let me delay you.”

“You’re not delaying me. It’s always a pleasure to walk with you, Mattie.”

His words brought more heat to her cheeks. Mattie looked hurriedly away from those smiling eyes. Shame choked in her throat.

“And besides, I would like to ask you about Mrs. Dunn.”

“Cecily?” She glanced at him, lifting her eyebrows. “What would you like to know?”

Edward didn’t speak immediately. He walked alongside her, leading the horse, his boots crunching in the ankle-deep snow.

A frown creased his brow. “Mattie…is she on the hunt for a husband?”

“Of course not!” Mattie said indignantly. She didn’t pretend to misunderstand the question that he was really asking. “Cecy’s not pursuing Sir Gareth . . .or deceiving him! She is precisely as you see her, sweet and kind and…and practical.”

Practical enough to know what she wanted in a husband.

Edward’s frown deepened. “Does she truly like Gareth? Or is it his baronetcy she likes?”

Mattie stopped. “Cecy isn’t after a title or a fortune.”

Edward halted.

He regarded her steadily. “No?”

“No,” Mattie said. And then she bit her lip.

Honesty compelled her to say, “Cecy’s first husband died in penury. She couldn’t even afford to bury him decently. She said that…when she marries again it will be to a man who can afford to look after his family. But I swear that she’s not on the hunt for a fortune!”

Edward stared at her, saying nothing. He appeared to be weighing her words.

“Cecy is an exceptionally nice person,” Mattie said. “Sir Gareth would be lucky to have her for a wife!”

Edward released his breath slowly. It hung in the air between them.

“Mattie…Gary was engaged to be married, but after Waterloo…his fiancée didn’t wish to marry a man with one arm.”

“Oh.”

Her heart contracted in her chest. Poor Sir Gareth.

“Mrs. Dunn looks like Miss Swinthorp. Remarkably like her.”

“Oh,” she said again.

“I don’t want Gary to be hurt. To be taken advantage of.”

“Cecy wouldn’t do that,” Mattie said stoutly. “I know that she wouldn’t!”

Edward didn’t reply. He merely looked at her, his eyebrows pinched together in a frown. She had the feeling that her words had failed to convince him.

…

Edward escorted Miss Chapple to the inn and then went in search of the third and final person on Miss Eccles’s list, a Mrs. Starling.

Mrs. Starling lived to the east of the village, just off the pike road. Edward dismounted and surveyed the cottage. This was it, the end of his search. He would deliver his warning to Chérie and return to London, leaving Soddy Morton and Creed Hall and Mattie behind him.

He found himself oddly reluctant to tread down the snowy path.

Edward gave himself a mental shake. He strode down the path and knocked on the door. It was opened by an elderly lady with round, rosy cheeks. Three fat spaniels tumbled out, yapping.

“Mrs. Starling?”

“Yes.” She blinked when she saw his scarred face, but her smile didn’t falter.

Edward pulled the tattered letter from his pocket and showed it to her, while the spaniels snuffled around his ankles, their tails wagging.

“It’s not mine,” Mrs. Starling said, shaking her head. “Now that my niece lives with me, I’ve no need to send letters.”

“Your niece?” His interest pricked. “Has she been with you long?”

“Six months,” Mrs Starling said. “Ever since my dear sister died.”

“Er…could she perhaps have sent this letter?”

“I doubt it,” Mrs Starling said. “But you may ask her if you wish. One moment, I’ll fetch her.”

Edward waited on the doorstep, while the spaniels sniffed his boots. Curiosity surged inside him. What would Chérie be like? Flirtatious? Reserved and business-like?

Mrs Starling returned, leading her niece by the hand. “This is my dear Hannah.”

Hannah curtseyed. She was a plump, pretty girl, perhaps twenty-two years of age, with fair hair and blue eyes and cheeks that were as rosy as her aunt’s. Edward wondered what she’d been. A Covent Garden nun? A high-flying Cyprian? An opera dancer? She looked too wholesome to be any of those things—and yet her confessions proved she was no innocent.

“I believe that this is yours,” Edward said.

He showed Hannah the letter, wondering how to speak with her alone. If her aunt didn’t know that she’d been a whore in London, he didn’t want to disclose her secret.

“No, sir. I haven’t sent any letters, sir.”

Edward narrowed his eyes, and then he understood. Hannah was simple. The intelligence behind those limpid blue eyes was no greater than a child’s.

“But I can write,” Hannah said proudly. “Mamma taught me. I used to send Aunt Starling letters every month.”

“You’re a good, clever girl,” Mrs Starling said, patting her cheek.

Edward swallowed his disappointment and returned the letter to his pocket. “Thank you, Mrs Starling, Hannah. I beg your pardon for disturbing you.”

…

Edward handed Trojan to the ostler at the inn, ordered a tankard of ale in the taproom, and climbed the stairs to the parlor that Gareth had hired.

Gareth was reading a newspaper while eating a hearty luncheon.

Edward took off his hat and cast it down on the sofa. Chérie could be anyone in Soddy Morton or the outlying cottages and farms. Anyone.
I wish that I’d never set eyes on that damned letter
.

“Hungry?” Gareth asked. “Want to join me?”

Edward grunted and stripped off his gloves.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Edward pulled out a chair with a jerk. The harsh scrape of the chair legs on the wooden floor echoed his frustration.

“I’m going to be stuck in this godforsaken part of the country until I die!”

Gareth laughed, choked on his food, and fell to coughing. When he’d caught his breath, he took a deep swallow of ale. “No luck, I take it?”

“It’s a damned wild goose chase.” Edward combed his hair roughly with his better hand, resisting the urge to pull a fistful out by the roots. “I was a fool to agree to it!”

Gareth lifted his eyebrows but said nothing.

The waiter brought the tankard of ale. Edward took a long swig and turned his attention to the food on the table. When he’d eaten his fill, he sat nursing the last of the ale. There had to be
some
way of discovering who Chérie was. All he had to do was find it.

Edward drained his tankard and pushed it away. “When are you returning to London?”

Gareth shrugged. “Haven’t thought about it.” A smile lit his eyes. “I might stay a while.”

“Mrs. Dunn . . .” Edward hesitated. Would a friend hold his tongue or tell Gareth the truth?

A friend would tell him the truth.
“She’s looking for a husband.”