Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) (11 page)

“Has the bleeding stopped?” Mr. Fenwick asked.

“I beg—oh.” Matilda peered at her injured finger. “Yes, thank you. I haven’t stabbed myself for ages. I’ve got blood on
your handkerchief. I’ll soak it in cold water overnight, and it should wash out.”

“You must keep it,” Mr. Fenwick said. “What would have made your Season happy?”

He was an odd man, admitting loneliness and finding no awkwardness in a late-evening chat with a mere widowed landlady.

“A different marriage would have made me happy,” Matilda said. “No one can know how a union will progress, but my husband was a cold man,
and even in my innocence, I had misgivings. I should have heeded them, not that it would have done any good. My father’s mind was made up.”

“I’m sorry, Matilda. Sorry your heart was broken. We’re tender-hearted when we’re young.”

The wistfulness was back, and Matilda let it pull at her. “You are so very old, I take it?”

“I am old enough. So are you. Why did you kiss me?”

She had no idea. “You are in a mood tonight, Mr. Fenwick.”

“Ashton. Humor me, please. I had a disagreeable dinner with a man who professes to be my friend, and the upcoming weeks will be worse yet.”

Matilda spread his handkerchief on her lap in anticipation of folding it. One corner bore a family crest—a unicorn couchant with roses vining its
horn. The opposite corner was spotted with her blood, redder than the roses.

“I like you,” she said. “I don’t like much of anybody, and very few men, but so far, I like you. This is an interesting
seal.”

“Our land lies astride the Border, such as the Border is these days, hence the Tudor rose entangling a Scottish unicorn. I like you too,
Matilda.”

His admission was so simple, and yet, no man had ever told her that before. She’d been desired, coveted, flattered, and physically admired as a man
might admire a healthy heifer, but not
liked
.

“Even when I wave a knife at you?”

“Especially then. I like your spirit, your quiet ferocity, your kindness to Helen, and your apple tarts.”

 Warmth bloomed in Matilda’s heart. Stupid, silly, and precious. “Helen is growing attached to you.”

“You’re shy,” Mr. Fenwick said, “or maybe you’re out of practice. When somebody pays you a compliment, you thank them. As for
Helen, I’m growing attached to her too. My horse, who is an excellent judge of character, approves of her.”

“If you encourage her attachment, she’ll be devastated when you leave.”

Dark eyes regarded Matilda levelly. “Will she?”

“Helen isn’t as tough as she wants the world to think she is.”

Mr. Fenwick stood, and he was so very tall in his boots. “I will consider Helen’s situation, between now and when I remove to the Albany, but
for now, she’s safe upstairs in bed, her hands nominally clean for a change and her belly full.”

“You’re off to bed?” Matilda said, folding up his handkerchief and setting it aside.

“I’m away to my slumbers, though there’s something I’d like to do first.”

Matilda’s heart beat faster, and an old memory came to her of standing on the edge of a ballroom, the orchestra tuning up, the sets beginning to
form. Would she be asked to dance, or would she sit out, or best of all—stroll the terrace on the arm of a witty, charming gentleman?

She’d forgotten that old vulnerability, or maybe it was a strength—the courage to hope—and now here it was, back at the most unlikely
time.

“What will your last task for the day be, Mr. Fenwick?”

He drew her to her feet. “Not a task, but rather, an expression of gratitude. I’d like to kiss you good night.”

Ashton had wandered the streets of London after his dinner with Hazelton, thinking over the coming weeks. The countess’s list was tucked in a pocket
for later study, and homesickness had kept him company along every street.

London stank, outside of Mayfair proper. The stars weren’t in evidence, because even in spring, coal smoke obscured the night sky. Noise was
unceasing, and game girls flirted from doorways while elegant coaches tooled past mere yards away.

Ewan had no use for London, which was some consolation. The Scottish peerage didn’t travel south en masse when Parliament sat, but rather, sent a
small delegation, whom Ewan referred to as the hostage party or the forlorn hope.

When Ashton had turned his steps to Pastry Lane, he’d felt as if he were arriving at a sanctuary, a small island of sanity and peace in a heaving sea
of loud, noisome, striving humanity. Matilda’s stoop was adorned with potted heartsease, and he’d sat on her front steps in his lordly finery
eavesdropping on the quiet exchange of the ladies in the parlor.

Lodgers move on.

Ashton wanted to go home, not move on, and yet, he wanted Matilda Bryce too. When he drew her to her feet, he saw acknowledgment of mutual attraction in
her gaze.

Acknowledgment was not the same as assent. “As much as I’d like to kiss you,” Ashton said, “I’d rather we kissed each
other.”

The curtains were drawn, fluttering in the mild evening breeze. Nobody would see Ashton and Matilda standing so close in the candlelit parlor.

“What is the difference if you kiss me, or we kiss each other?” Matilda asked.

Her husband must have been stupid in addition to cold-hearted. “This is me kissing you,” Ashton replied, brushing his mouth over hers.
“Not quite a mutual endeavor.”

“This dinner with your friend upset you,” she said, stroking his hair back from his brow.

Ashton wanted to move into her caress as a cat pushed against a friendly hand. “The conversation tonight saddened me. Difficult negotiations lie
ahead, and I’ve put them off for too long.”

“And I’m to kiss it better?”

As a younger man, Ashton would have taken himself upstairs and indulged in solitary pleasures rather than endure this exchange. Matilda was entitled to her
caution, though. All ladies were, and he’d had to learn caution as well.

“When was the last time anybody kissed your hurts better, Matilda?” He captured her hand in his and kissed the finger she’d pricked
earlier. “I’m not proposing a marital alliance to end twenty years of war. All I’m asking for is a kiss.”

He sought to share a moment of sanctuary and pleasure amid a season of posturing and foolishness.

Her hand slid around to Ashton’s nape, her touch cool and confident. Matilda wasn’t anchoring herself so much as learning his contours. She
brushed her fingers over hair growing too long for fashion, then braced her other hand on his chest.

She glossed her mouth over his lips, repeating his overture more slowly. Ashton held still, letting her decide whether to venture on or retreat. A breeze
licked at the curtains, and one of the sconces guttered.

Maybe that was a sign to her, for she embarked on a kiss that fit with shadows and quiet. Her explorations were tentative to the point that Ashton wondered
if she’d done much kissing even during her marriage.

He brought her closer, and she yielded, becoming a sweet, soft weight against his chest. When Ashton ran his tongue over her lips, she reciprocated, but
didn’t seem to understand that he wanted
in
. Wanted into her mouth, into her mind.

Into her heart, to the extent a temporary liaison could involve the heart.

He went slowly, enjoying all the curves he’d missed for so long. Feminine shoulders both elegant and sturdy, the taper of a female back, the swell of
a woman’s hips, the fullness of her derriere. The Creator had surely improved on the initial model when he’d fashioned woman, and Ashton
reveled in all the wonders of having Matilda Bryce in his arms.

She warmed to the kiss, pressing close, clutching at the back of Ashton’s head and pulling his hair. Arousal tugged at him as well, a friend
who’d been away for too long.

“Does that qualify as kissing each other?” she asked, subsiding against Ashton’s chest.

“We did, indeed, share a kiss. Thank you, Matilda.” For a few moments, polite society, burned steak, and stupid lists had faded from
Ashton’s awareness. He owed her for that, if nothing else.

“Now what?” she asked.

Now, Ashton could embark on negotiations of a sort he’d been conducting since he’d turned fifteen. More kisses, bolder caresses, whispered
promises to use a sheath and withdraw, because Ashton put little stock in an apothecary’s tricks.

Secret touches between a woman’s legs that tempted her past propriety, attention paid to her breasts that bespoke pleasures yet to come.

He knew the entire dance, and all of its variations, but he was also coming to know Matilda Bryce.

“Now, my dear, I hope you dream of me.”

She relaxed, which meant Ashton had guessed correctly. Matilda was not a merry widow, ready to pounce on the next randy swain who yodeled beneath her
window.

“I’ll likely dream of you long after you’ve gone,” she said, patting his chest. “They will be pleasant dreams.”

She was both complimenting him and reminding him that his lease was very short-term indeed. He ought to be relieved that she sought nothing from him but
timely rent and pleasant dreams.

Ashton wasn’t relieved at all.

He stepped back, keeping his arms about her shoulders. “I will go up to bed. I left a parcel on the stairs that I should take down to the kitchen
first, some meat for the cat from Lord Hazelton’s club. The chef ruined it, as chefs often do, but it needn’t go entirely to waste.”

Matilda slipped away and busied herself putting embroidery paraphernalia into a workbasket. “You dined with a lord?”   

“The earl is a neighbor at a distance up north, and a friend of sorts. He’s one of few people I know in London, and I didn’t want to
offend him, though I’d rather not dine at his club again.”

  Matilda’s mood had shifted in the last few moments, from drowsy and kissable, back to the landlady with much to do. When her workbasket was
tidy, she closed and locked both windows.

“I’ll wish you good night, Mr. Fenwick.”

“I’ll wish you sweet dreams, Matilda.”

He was halfway out the door, the scent of overcooked steak perfuming the stairway, when he turned.

“I will go to my fate in less than two weeks, Matilda. You needn’t worry that I’ll tarry here and make a nuisance of myself. Any fool can
see you treasure your independence and suffered greatly to arrive at it. I have no designs on your freedom. I well know how precious that freedom
is.”

She blew out that last candle, plunging the parlor into darkness, save for what light leaked down from the sconce on the floor above.

“I will never surrender that freedom, Ashton. Not for all the kisses in the kingdom, not for gold sovereigns raining down from the sky, not for a
palace or a crown. I’m glad you grasp that.”

Ashton bowed and made his way down the steps. In the dark, he delivered the ruined meat to the kitchen, then returned to his apartment, Matilda’s
final words ringing in his head.

She’d told him much in those few sentences.

First, she wasn’t interested in marriage to
anybody
, which was a consolation. Her objection wasn’t to him, it was to an institution in
which she was bitterly disappointed.

Second, she and Ashton had in common a taste for self-reliance and independence. He respected that about her, even as it made him wonder about her past.

Third, she had no family worth the name. Ashton wasn’t contemplating marriage for money, prestige, or power. He was marrying because his family
needed him to, and for them, he’d do anything. Family had betrayed Matilda Bryce, and what a bleak, unfathomable loneliness she must carry as a
result.

Finally, Matilda Bryce wasn’t interested in surrendering her freedom, but she’d not rejected the possibility of a brief, pleasurable indulgence
with somebody who had no aspirations toward a greater commitment.

Ashton hadn’t rejected that possibility either.

Matilda woke early the next day, an odd lightness in her heart. Then she recalled that it was the third Tuesday of the month. The weather was fair, and
thus she’d make the walk to Hyde Park.

And yet, she didn’t pop out of bed, head for the kitchen, and start the day’s first pot of tea.

She was also aware of a lightness in her body, an
aliveness
as foreign as it was pleasurable. Ashton Fenwick had kissed her. Not a chaste peck on
the cheek or the forehead, not a presumption visited upon her hand, but a kiss.

Her first real kiss, truth be known, and it had been
lovely
. Mr. Fenwick was respectful. The more intimate his touch, the more it approached
reverence. Matilda had never felt so cherished or so flustered, because she did not know how to cherish him in return.

Somebody should be cherishing Ashton Fenwick. Why hadn’t his bachelor status ended years ago?

Solomon hopped onto the bed, doubtless exhausted from a night of debauchery in the mews.

“Good morning.”

He sat and wrapped his tail about his front paws, looking sagacious and inscrutable.

“I am contemplating foolishness, my friend.”

The cat slitted his eyes.

“Mr. Fenwick is making a positive impression, and he has no designs on my future.” Matilda could not see past the seventh anniversary of
Althorpe’s death, which would pass in less than a year. After that date, she could breathe, she could plan, she could think.

More than Mr. Fenwick’s kiss, his embrace had opened in Matilda a vast awareness she’d struggled to ignore. She wasn’t merely lonely, she
was in the last, exhausted throes of self-reliance, without anyone to trust, without a source of affection, without anywhere safe to truly rest.

In Ashton Fenwick’s arms, she could rest. When he kissed her, the 347 days remaining to her sentence disappeared along with the constant fear of
discovery and the anger.

Ashton Fenwick made the fear and anger subside, and the magic of that was beguiling.

“But I must away to the park today,” Matilda informed the cat, who’d begun circling at her hip. “I leave the warmth of the covers
to you. Behave yourself, or you’ll be living in the mews.”