Amelia Grey - [Rogues' Dynasty 06] (20 page)

He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. “You have, and you can thank me again another time, but kissing this passionately between us is foolhardy here in this place. Your aunts, Sir Randolph, or the servants could come down this path at any time.”

“I know, Matson. I am desperate to kiss you. For reasons beyond my understanding, every time I see you I want to do again what we shared in the boat.”

“That is a brave statement, Sophia.”

“And true. If I believed in such things as spells, I might be tempted to think you had cast one on me.”

He chuckled. “And I might do that if I had been blessed with such capabilities.” He straightened and stood away from her. He brushed her hair behind her ear.

“It disappoints me as much as it does you, believe me, but I will go before someone comes.”

She felt bereft but knew he was being the wise one. She wanted him to linger, so she said, “We didn’t talk about Lord Tradesforke’s May Day Fair Day.”

“Didn’t we?” He smiled. “I wonder why. We have five days before Saturday. A perfect reason to return another day and enjoy the early morning, don’t you think?”

She smiled. “I think that would be nice. Just let me know which morning you pick.”

He touched her brooch, letting the heel of his hand linger against the swell of her breast. “I’m glad you got it back.”

“Thank you,” she said but realized the words were only mouthed, because her throat was once again too choked up to let the words be heard.

He turned away, and finding her voice, Sophia called to him, and he looked back. “What should I tell my aunts and Sir Randolph about how I got the brooch?”

“Tell them the truth. It was delivered to you by private messenger early this morning.”

While man’s desires and aspirations stir he cannot choose but err.

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The end of the tree-lined path called Rotten Row was almost deserted. Matson saw a couple of other riders on horseback ambling along at a slow pace, enjoying the warm late afternoon, but no carriages. Dash had been restless since they entered the park. He’d stop, stomp and paw the earth, and then prance again.

“You’re eager for a run, aren’t you, boy?” Matson said, patting the horse’s firm, warm neck. “I think we can do that. There don’t seem to be any pedestrians on the pathway right now. It should be safe enough. We don’t want to run anyone down, do we?”

Matson had already made one slow trot around the park, looking for Sophia. He assumed her aunt June was still refraining from her afternoon walks because of her tender ankle, but Matson expected Sophia and her aunt Mae to show. He hadn’t seen Sophia last night, though he’d made an appearance at every party he’d been invited to. After he’d given her the brooch yesterday morning, he’d forgotten to ask which parties she would be attending and at what time.

A warm, good feeling settled over him. It was no wonder he forgot about asking about the parties. They’d shared that heated kiss, which he hadn’t expected and he certainly hadn’t regretted. She could stir the passions in him faster than any other woman he’d ever been with.

Matson took off his hat and dropped it around the pommel, and then ran his hands through his hair. No doubt about it. Sophia had gotten to him, and he couldn’t get her out of his thoughts. Maybe both he and Dash needed a good run.

He replaced his hat on his head, picked up the reins, and giving them plenty of slack, he dug his heels into Dash’s flanks, and the horse took off. Matson leaned low and forward over the horse’s neck and let the animal have his head.

Taking the freedom his master gave him, the powerful roan showed off his racing skills in fine fashion. They flew past the other horsemen before the riders knew anyone was behind them. One gentleman yelled for Matson to get control of his animal, but he just smiled and kept allowing Dash to race the wind. He didn’t slow the horse until he came to the other end of the mile-and-a-half path. Both he and Dash were winded from the exhilaration of the ride.

He patted the roan’s neck after they stopped. “Well done, my boy, well done.”

Dash jerked his neck and snorted, as if to acknowledge Matson’s praise.

While Matson let Dash cool down, he searched the park for a glimpse of Sophia or her aunt. He knew her walk and the way she carried herself so well that he could find her even at a great distance away in the park or milling among fifty other ladies on a crowded ballroom dance floor.

Matson shortened the reins. “Come on, Dash, let’s walk to the gate where Sophia usually enters.”

Just as Matson urged the horse forward with his knees, someone called his name. Matson looked behind him and saw Iverson riding toward him at a fast clip. Matson smiled. It was always good to see his brother.

Iverson reined in his horse beside Matson’s. “That was some fast riding you were doing, Brother. I was trying to catch you, but your mount ran off and left us eating your dust.”

Matson grinned. “Maybe it’s time to buy yourself a new ride.”

“Maybe, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think hellhounds were after you.”

“You don’t know better. They might have been nipping at my boot heels.”

“Then you’re safe. I don’t think the hounds can outrun Dash. Where have you been? Brent and I are beginning to think you are trying to avoid us.”

“I suppose I am.”

Iverson’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not what I wanted to hear.”

“A bachelor can take only so many long conversations about happily married bliss.”

Iverson laughed. “You lie, Brother. We do no such thing.”

“You come close. And before you ask, no, I’m not free for dinner tonight or any night the rest of the Season. I’m otherwise engaged.”

“That’s good to know, even though I hadn’t planned to ask you to join us for dinner.” Iverson smirked in amusement.

“Then that makes us both happy,” Matson said with a smile.

“I’m glad you are staying busy. Does that mean a lovely lady has caught your eye and you don’t want to miss seeing her for even one evening?”

Iverson had always known him too well. Sometimes it was hell being a twin. “It means I’m busy.”

“A new mistress to occupy your time?”

Matson ignored his brother’s prying. “So tell me, did you just stumble upon me, or were you searching for me?”

“I was looking for you,” Iverson said, all teasing gone from his tone and his features. “This letter was delivered to me this morning.” He pulled a folded paper out of his pocket. “I’d rather you handle this. You have a more level head about this kind of thing than I do.”

“All right,” Matson said. He took the folded sheet and slipped it into his pocket without bothering to open it.

Iverson pointed to the letter. “I think that is something that needs to be handled with haste.”

That piqued Matson’s interest. “What’s it about?”

“Sir Randolph. He wants to void our leasing agreement with him.”

“What?” Matson frowned. “He can’t do that!”

“Apparently he thinks he can.”

“After we’ve paid for the space for almost six months,” Matson said. “Who does he think he is? He has to know that our ships have arrived and we’re unloading our machinery and materials.”

“Yes, they started yesterday. And yes, I think the man knows every little thing that goes on in London. I think perhaps he just wants to stir up a little trouble and get people to gossiping about us again.”

“Then he knows just how to do it,” Matson grumbled.

“In the letter, he had the audacity to say that he’d subsidize our lease payments somewhere else for six months.”

Matson grunted irritably. His horse stirred restlessly beneath him. “Does the popinjay think we can’t pay our own way? If he’s trying to insult us, he succeeded.”

“I don’t know his thinking, Matson, but I have a couple of theories as to what might be behind this.”

“They are?”

“The only reasonable explanation I’ve come up with is that he has received a better offer for the space, and he’ll make more money leasing to someone else.”

“If he wants more money, we’ll have to pay what he asks until we can get in touch with the Duke of Windergreen,” Matson said.

“Agreed. We have no choice, and according to Brent, there is no telling how long it might take us to find the duke.”

Matson’s ire increased. “I never trusted that man to be fair about anything.”

Iverson hesitated and then said, “I also have an unreasonable explanation as to why Sir Randolph might want to throw us out of his space.”

Matson wrinkled his forehead. “Unreasonable? What are you talking about?”

“You and his ward, Miss Hart.”

Matson went still. His horse snorted and pawed the ground. “What could Sophia possibly have to do with this?”

“So Sophia is her name?” Iverson said.

Matson realized his mistake as soon as he said her name, but it was too late to take it back. “This is business and has nothing to do with her.”

“For you it’s business. I think it might be personal for him.”

Matson remained silent, pondering what Iverson had said.

“I hear you are her partner for Lord Tradesforke’s May Day Fair Day event,” Iverson said, picking up the conversation again. “Maybe Sir Randolph doesn’t like the interest you’ve shown in his ward. Maybe he doesn’t want you courting her.”

Matson started to say he wasn’t courting her, but he was. He just wasn’t doing it openly. He agreed that Iverson had a point. A very good point. Sir Randolph was a clever and astute man. He certainly knew about seeing a lady on the sly. This shenanigan could be his way of telling Matson to back away from Sophia. If it was, Matson didn’t like it.

Matson knew Sophia was bound by a vow to marry a titled man. He tried not to think about that. And he sure as hell didn’t want Sir Randolph trying to force him to stay away from her.

Suddenly Matson swore under his breath. Ever since their time on the Serpentine, he had felt like she belonged to him. He had tried not to get involved with her. He’d tried to forget about her, but she was constantly on his mind.

“I think I would be a little more satisfied right now, Matson, if you were to tell me you have no designs on Miss Hart.”

Matson wasn’t in the habit of lying to his brother, so he ignored the references his brother made about Sophia and said, “I’ll go see the man and find out what he has up his sleeve. I never wanted to lease from him, but now that we have the space, I won’t have him trying to throw us out.”

Iverson grabbed hold of Matson’s reins. The startled horse yanked at the tight hold, but Iverson held firm and stared into Matson’s eyes. “You’ve been with her, haven’t you?” Dash yanked his head again and pulled at the short, tight hold. “Speak to me, Brother.”

Matson remained calm. “I’m not going to say anything about Sophia,” he said more cautiously than he intended.

“You just did.”

“Let go of the reins.”

Iverson dropped the leathers. “Matson, you know she’s already had several offers for her hand, and from titled gentlemen.”

An ache started in Matson’s chest. “She’s beautiful and wealthy. It’s expected she will get many offers.”

“And her wealth and her beauty will insure that she can pick whomever she wishes, and the rumor is that she will choose a title—Hargraves, Bighampton, or Snellingly.”

His brother wasn’t helping his feelings. Iverson knew how to lay it all out with no sweet talk to soften the blow. Matson tried to tamp down the frustration building inside him.

“We both know that Londoners delight in believing rumor over truth. I’ll take care of the letter. You go take care of your beautiful bride.”

Matson kneed Dash and sauntered away.

***

Matson hit the doorknocker twice and waited. He never would have dreamed that one day he’d be a regular caller at Sir Randolph’s house, but ever since Miss Hart came to town, he found himself coming back to either the front door or the side of the house. He was in an unusually foul temper, and the only way he could think to change his composure was to set a few things straight with Sir Randolph.

The housekeeper he remembered from previous visits opened the door. “Good afternoon,” he said, removing his hat. “I’m Mr. Matson Brentwood to see Sir Randolph.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said politely. “He isn’t in, and I don’t know when he’s expected back. Would you care to leave your card?”

Matson smiled at her. “Thank you, no, but I would like to wait for a time, if I may, to see if he returns shortly.”

She smiled at him. “Don’t mind at all, Mr. Brentwood. I remember you’ve been here a few times before.”

“Yes, that’s right,” he said affably, though inside, he felt far from it.

“Come in and let me take that hat and coat for you.” She laid them on a side table. “Follow me. You can wait in the drawing room for as long as you want. I’ll get you some tea.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself,” he said, following the sturdy-framed woman into the drawing room.

“No trouble at all, but I can get you a glass of something stronger, if you prefer.”

“No, thank you.” He didn’t need courage from a bottle to take on Sir Randolph. “Tell me, are Miss Hart and her aunts home?”

“The Misses Shevington went out earlier in the afternoon, something to do with having a new apothecary look at Miss June’s ankle, and they haven’t returned. Miss Hart is here. Should I ask if she’s available to see you?”

Matson’s breathing escalated. “Yes, thank you.”

Sophia was home without her guards. He bet that didn’t happen often. No wonder he couldn’t find her in the park this afternoon. Any other day, it would have thrilled him to have a few moments alone with her, but right now he was too interested in getting to the reason for Sir Randolph’s rescinding the lease. And though he couldn’t put his finger on why, he was upset with Sophia too.

Matson stood in front of the fireplace and chuckled softly. Oh, no, he couldn’t lie to himself, even though he wanted to. He knew exactly why he was upset with Sophia. It was her vow to marry a titled man. When he’d first heard that she was bound by such a vow, it made no difference to him. He had no plans to marry her, no designs on her; but somewhere along the way of getting to know her and making love to her in the boat, things had changed. His resolve to befriend her, but not get involved with her, hadn’t worked. She was the most exciting and intriguing lady he’d ever met, and that included his long-ago desire for Mrs. Delaney.

Maybe he did have designs on Sophia. And if he did, he didn’t want to be told he didn’t measure up because there was no title connected to his name. Perhaps because of Sophia’s beauty and wealth she deserved a titled husband. But a title would not make a man love her, be good to her, or watch over her fortune for her. If she wanted a title from England’s peerage, she had a fop, a scoundrel and card cheat, and a tired old boar to choose from.

Matson felt like growling. He didn’t even want to think about her marrying any of those men. How could she have made such a foolish vow to her father? How could he have asked it of her?

Matson heard a door close. If it was Sir Randolph, he would suggest they go into his book room. He didn’t want to take the man to task with Sophia present.

“Mr. Brentwood,” she said, walking into the drawing room. “Mrs. Anderson told me you were here to see Sir Randolph.”

Matson looked around, and his gaze fell on Sophia. She looked like an exquisitely hand-painted doll. Her lavish golden-red hair was pulled up on the sides and hanging in luscious curls down her back. Her pale lemon-colored frock suited her coloring perfectly.

His body and his heart were telling him she was his, but his mind was telling him she could never be his, and that thought made his words clipped when he said, “Yes, but I found out he isn’t here, and neither are the Misses Shevington. I’m surprised they left you alone and defenseless.”

Sophia’s eyebrows shot up defiantly. “You forget yourself, sir. I am not alone. The housekeeper is here, and I’m never defenseless.”