Amelia Grey - [Rogues' Dynasty 06] (7 page)

In delay there lies no plenty; then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.

—William Shakespeare

Matson hesitated, shaking his head at what he was pondering. Did he really want to go poking around Sir Randolph’s home? Just to get a glimpse of Miss Hart?

“Yes,” he whispered to himself.

Something about her kept drawing him. He was smart enough to know it was more than her red hair, her obvious beauty, and more than his desire to learn what she knew about his past. And he didn’t need to go over in his mind again all the reasons why Miss Hart was not a young lady he should consider pursuing. Right now, they didn’t matter. He was going to do it anyway.

If he couldn’t see her by fair means, he’d see her by foul means. He looked both ways down the narrow street with its rows of closely nestled town homes, and didn’t see any carriage or pedestrian traffic nearby. He quickly walked to the right side of the house and looked toward the back. The wide, high hedge wasn’t yew, but a type of shrub with a bigger and fuller leaf. He casually walked to the other side and looked. A narrow path of less than three feet between the side of Sir Randolph’s tall hedge and his neighbor’s hedge formed a kind of tunnel effect. That was by far the better route to take to the back of the house in hopes of not being seen by anyone passing or by the servants.

Matson walked slowly down the narrow path, carefully peeking through areas of thinning leaves for sight of anyone in the garden. When he was almost at the road that led to the mews at the back of the property, he found a spot big enough for him to move some leaves and peep through the hedge. The garden was small, but the abundance of lavish flowers, shrubs, and trees seemed to be well tended. In the center of the garden was a large fountain in the shape of a Cupid, with his head thrown back in laughter as he relieved himself into a vase. Water overflowed from the vase and into a birdbath. Near the back gate, a grouping of chairs and a table stood on a stone patio, but all the chairs were empty.

There was no sign of Miss Hart. No doubt the minute the twin guards shut the door behind him, they had called her inside. Those ladies were double trouble for him too. He scoffed a short, soft laugh. Perhaps he should call them Double and Trouble.

“Excuse me, sir, but are you looking for something?”

Matson froze at the sound of Sophia’s voice behind him. He’d wanted to see her, but he hadn’t wanted her to catch him peeping through the shrubbery.

He turned. She was walking down the footpath toward him. His stomach muscles tightened at the sight of her. She wore a pale melon-colored dress and matching bonnet. She had a dark brown shawl wrapped around her shoulders with the ends tied in a knot in front of her chest.

“Yes, Miss Hart, I am, but not something, someone. I was looking for you.”

Surprise brightened her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Brentwood, it’s you.”

She smiled, and suddenly he felt warm all over. He didn’t understand it. Of all the young ladies in London, why was she the one who heated his blood like no other and made him feel desperate to touch her?

“Wouldn’t the better place to look for me be at my front door, knocking and asking to see me?”

“Yes, it would, if your aunts were anyone other than the Misses Shevington. Your aunts refused to let me see you.”

Sophia’s lips twitched with suppressed merriment. “So you decided to spy on me through the hedge. That was very naughty of you, Mr. Brentwood.”

“Did you just call me naughty?” He grinned. “I don’t believe I’ve been called that since I left the nursery.”

“The shoe fits, does it not?”

He placed his hand over his heart. “On my gentleman’s honor—I will never own up to that.”

Sophia laughed. “My aunts told me you had called, but I assumed you left.”

“Then perhaps I should pat myself on the back because I managed to stay longer than your average gentleman caller.”

“Yes, just how did you manage that?”

“Because I am also a twin, and your aunts adore talking about being twins.”

She laughed. “So they told you the story of how they got their names.”

“In great detail and more than once,” he said with a smile.

“That subject would definitely give them reason to allow you to stay. I believe I’ve already mentioned that they are a bit overzealous concerning their duties to me.”

“A bit?” he said good-naturedly. “Surely you jest, Miss Hart.”

She looked as if she was trying to stop another smile from spreading across her face, but her efforts went unrewarded. His comment had amused her, and it showed. That pleased him.

“All right, a lot, but perhaps you’ll take comfort knowing they have not singled you out. Lord Snellingly, Viscount Hargraves, Lord Bighampton, Mr. Parker Wilson, and others were all told that I won’t be at home to visitors for a few more days.”

“To be added in with those gentlemen is of little comfort. However, while I was having a delightful conversation with your aunts, Miss Mae Shevington let it slip that you were in the back garden, writing poetry, so I thought I would have a look and see if I could find you.”

Sophia folded her hands together in front of her and lifted her head slightly. “Are you fond of verse, Mr. Brentwood, or did you decide you had to see me?”

Her teasing expression delighted him. He looked down at the sheet of vellum she held in her hand. “Very clever, Miss Hart. If your poems are as sharp as your wit, I’m sure I would enjoy them too.”

Appreciation for his compliment sparkled in her eyes. She folded the paper once and then held it behind her back. “You will never know. I write only for myself, sir. A gust of wind swept this page away from me and up and over the back gate. I came out to chase it down. On my way back, I caught a glimpse of someone peering through the hedge.”

Ignoring her comment about his peering, he said, “I think the lady doth protest too much. It must be very good poetry if you went to such lengths not to lose it.”

The corners of her tempting mouth lifted again. “No, it’s so bad I didn’t want anyone to find it and read it.”

Matson chuckled lightly. “I doubt that’s true.”

“I have to admit that I’m surprised to see you here. I had the feeling you were not very happy with me after our encounter last night.”

He’d wondered if she would mention that. “I admit I was caught off guard when I discovered you were Sir Randolph’s ward.”

“I think we were both startled when we were introduced.”

He nodded. “True. Yet, your aunts showed no recognition of my name when I was talking to them earlier.”

“My aunties are of the old, old school that ladies should not read newsprint.”

“Not even the scandal sheets?”

“Especially so. Aunt June disapproves of such reading for ladies and only reluctantly allows me to read them because my father told her I could. When I first went to live with them, she would hide the newsprint and then come up with ridiculous things that might have happened to it, one time going so far as to say Lord Pinkwater’s ghost was stealing it.”

Matson chuckled. “A woman without curiosity about what others are doing and saying is very rare.”

Her brows lifted, and her eyes widened. “Oh, I agree. I want to know about everything.”

“Which brings me back to the reason I’m here,” Matson said.

“Have you found the thief?” She took a hopeful step closer to him. “Did you recover my brooch?”

She seemed eager for good news, and Matson hated to say, “No.”

“Oh,” she whispered softly and looked away from him for a moment. “The constable’s search hasn’t yielded anything either.”

“There’s still hope it will be found,” he offered.

“But less and less with each passing day.”

“The brooch, it must have been your favorite.”

She shook her head. “No.” Her voice remained low as she continued. “And it’s not even very expensive. It’s just that it’s all I had.”

Matson could see in her eyes and hear in her voice she was still sad over the loss. “What do you mean?”

She brought her hands back in front of her and seemingly unconsciously folded the sheet of vellum again. “I lost everything of my mother’s except that brooch in a house fire when I was seven.” She blinked several times, breathed in deeply, and lifted her chin and shoulders a little higher.

“I’m sorry,” he said, angry at himself all over again for allowing the boy to steal it in the first place. Now he knew why she’d been so frantic that day at Timsford’s Square.

“Yes, so am I, but just as Sir Randolph reminded me this morning, I have memories. I will always have those.” Suddenly her forehead wrinkled. He could tell she was trying to decide if she should say more. He remained silent and gave her the time she needed.

“So, if you didn’t have news about the lad, why did you want to see me?”

The change of subject let Matson know she didn’t want to say more about her loss. But he made a vow to continue to look for the boy who stole that brooch, so he could return it to her.

“I wanted to finish the conversation we were having last night. You obviously know things about my past that I don’t know, and I would like to hear more.”

“I really don’t know any more than I told you last night. I already admitted to being curious about conversations from time to time, so I’m certain I didn’t hear the complete story. Your parents and Sir Randolph wanted to shield you and your brother from ever knowing that he was your father. They hoped, in sending you to America, you would make your life there in the new land and never return to discover the truth.”

Matson had to admit to himself that he had been happier before he knew he was another man’s son.

“And that’s all you know?”

“Truly. Since I was a little girl, my father always said that I speak and act before I think about consequences. I’m afraid I’ve never outgrown such impulsive behavior. I was guilty of that last night. I spoke out of turn. I’m sure you are not happy about all the gossip that’s been written about you, your brother, and Sir Randolph. I should have been more sensitive to your feelings and never brought it up.”

“What has been said or written about us matters not a whit. What we don’t like is how it reflects badly on our mother.”

“I believe you. I shouldn’t have mentioned the horrid story that poet wrote.”

Their eyes met, held, and though he saw only softness, gentleness, and innocence in hers, he knew she was as dangerous to him as a sharpened blade. Sophia could never be the right lady for him, yet something about her beckoned him. His desire for her made him want to wrap her in his arms and hold her close. He wanted to kiss the light smattering of freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose.

“Why are you looking at me so intently?”

“Am I?” he asked, knowing full well that he was.

She nodded.

“Maybe that’s because I’m wondering if you are thinking what I’m thinking right now.”

“What are you thinking?”

A gust of wind caught a strand of her hair and blew it across her face. He caught it with the tips of his fingers and secured it behind her ear, caressing her delicate skin with the backs of his fingers as he lowered his hand. His mind was reminding him she was Sir Randolph’s ward, telling him to leave, but his body was urging him to stay.

“That I want to kiss you,” he said softly.

He watched her swallow. “I believe I’m thinking something very much like that, even though I know it’s not the proper thing to have on my mind.”

Matson didn’t give a bloody hell about being proper. His problem was that she was Sir Randolph’s ward. He didn’t want to be attracted to her. But he was. He felt different inside when he looked at her, when he was near her. Whatever it was that caused these feelings, he seemed powerless to stop it. And the way she looked at him told him that whatever it was, she felt it too.

“I’m certain it’s not proper too, but…”

He stepped closer and bent down and lightly kissed the bridge of her nose, then under one eye, and then over to the other side. He raised his head a little and looked into her eyes.

“Hmm,” he said and then moistened his lips. “I wondered what your freckles tasted like.”

She stared into his eyes and frowned. “Do they have a taste?”

He nodded once. “They taste like sugar. Soft, sweet, and they melt in my mouth.”

“You are teasing me.” She smiled cautiously. “I expected you to kiss my lips.”

“Did you? And so I shall, but first…” He bent down and placed his nose on the soft skin just behind her ear and breathed in deeply. “Mmm. I knew you would smell as fresh as rainwater.”

Matson slid his arms around her waist and pulled her up to him. He let his lips glide across to her mouth and slowly, softly, pressed them against hers.

“Yes,” she whispered into his breath and melted willingly, easily into his arms.

Matson savored the taste of her. Her lips were warm, and the inside of her mouth as refreshing as a piece of summer fruit, making him want to devour her. His hand moved up and down her back, feeling her delicately rounded shoulders and straight spine. His hand slipped to her narrow waist and rested there for a moment before inching down the flare of her shapely hip. Her body was as slim, firm, and supple as he imagined it would be. The soft, feminine sounds she made heated his body and filled him with an eagerness to do the unthinkable… to lift her skirts and possess her.

“Oh, yes,” he said huskily. “This is much more intoxicating than freckles.”

She stretched her arms around his neck and pressed him closer. He moaned softly. He fitted his lower body tightly against hers by cupping her bottom with one hand while his other hand slid down her chest to capture her breast and cover it with his palm.

Sophia gasped and leaned into his palm. He heard a crinkling noise and knew her hand was tightening on the sheet of vellum she held. He liked what he was doing to her, and what she did to him.

Matson held her tighter and smiled to himself as his lips left hers and he kissed the warmth of her neck.

“Sophia,” a high-pitched voice called.

They quickly broke apart.

Sophia raked the back of her hand across her lips as if she could erase what had just happened between them. “It’s Aunt Mae. Did she see us?”