Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) (23 page)

“Or her husband didn’t get her with child.”

Matilda stroked a hand over Ashton’s hair, just the once. “Thank you. A child did not bless the union, much less a healthy male child. Tensions
rose, and to make matters worse, the son tried to assume liberties with his step-mother. He was little more than a boy, just gone up to university, but he
was a persistent boy, with one thing on his mind.”

Ashton had missed a piece of glass glinting among the fringe of the worn carpet. The jagged edge would cut an unsuspecting foot badly on some dark night,
so he crawled over and retrieved it, then set it on the windowsill.

“Most boys have the same thing on their minds,” he said, “as do many men. They have enough couth not to act on their urges,
though.”

Or some obliging father, uncle, or older brother would beat the manners into them and, by example, educate the young cretin regarding the pleasures of
having one’s bodily privacy disrespected. Ashton had provided that education to two of the stable lads who’d worked for him at Blessings, and
the housemaids had nearly gathered around to applaud.

“Couth was in short supply among my in-laws,” Matilda said. “I mean, the young lady’s in-laws. An older brother, the title holder,
was the worst of the lot. He appeared full of genial understanding and occasionally attempted to diffuse tensions, but all the while, he was making plans
of his own.”

“If he succeeded where the son did not—”

“His lust was for the young lady’s money, which he does indeed have control over and has for the past six years. The marriage settlements were
generous, for the young lady was one of only two daughters, and the other child was a mere infant.”

The cut glass caught the sun at an odd angle and reflected a bright beam right onto Matilda’s hands. She did not have the pale, idle hands of a lady.
Her nails were short, her fingers red, and in the bright sunshine, the scar near her wrist was in high relief.

Ashton wanted those hands on his body every night for the rest of his life, so he summoned patience and a question.

“How did your husband die?”

“An accident. He accused me of betraying him with his son, shouted at me, and for the first time, I feared he’d raise a hand to me. I shouted
back—I’d had enough by then—and this only enraged him further. He’d been drinking, of course.

“If Althorpe had shown me a tenth of the affection he had for the bottle, ours would have been a pleasant union. The row went on until I
couldn’t tell if I was being castigated for cheating with Stephen, or for refusing Stephen’s overtures. The boy had been sent down for getting
some girl pregnant, proving his ability to sire children, and this upset his father terribly.”

“Not the life you’d envisioned for yourself,” Ashton said, weathering a wave of shame. He’d pouted for three years because a title
had been thrust upon him in place of a muck fork. Matilda had got a house full of spoiled, greedy imbeciles in place of her domestic dream, and she’d
yet to complain.

“My ambitions have become modest, Ashton. I’d like to remain alive and at liberty.”

Ashton’s vision of the future had changed as well. He’d like Matilda to remain alive and at liberty and to have a title as she’d been
promised long ago—his title.

“So you and Althorpe were arguing. Then what?”

“I stood near the fire, which a footman had just supplied with fresh coal. Althorpe railed at me from across the parlor, near the sideboard on which
a plethora of decanters stood. When I told him I was going up to bed, he rushed at me with a drink in his hand. I thought he meant to cast the spirits at
me, which was the outside of stupid with the fire roaring at my back. I stepped aside, he pitched his drink, and then he stumbled and fell.”

“As drunks are wont to do.”

That earned Ashton another caress. “Althorpe fell face first onto the hearth, then rolled to his back. The hearth stand toppled, scattering the
implements and making a great racket. I expected Althorpe to struggle to his feet, and I knelt to set the stand back up. When Stephen charged through the
door, I had the poker in my hand, and Althorpe still hadn’t moved.”

“But,” Ashton said, “he had a great gash on his forehead or temple, or some bloody where, and you stood over him with the poker in your
hand.”

“He had a welt, but I think he broke his neck. His head was at an odd angle to his shoulders. I’ve been assured a jury would convict me of
murder, regardless of the facts. I was an embittered young wife, unable to conceive a child, shackled to a nasty drunk twenty years my senior. What jury
would have allowed me to flounce on my way with handsome settlements in my pocket?”

Fair question. “So you fled?”

“Not at first. At first I was too upset, too bewildered, and too trusting. Althorpe had been annoying, but I’d learned to tolerate him, and
even have some pity for him, because he was unhappy. The spirits he consumed to deal with the unhappiness only worsened most of his problems, but he
couldn’t see that.”

“Bugger your compassion, Matilda. The man was a disgrace.”

Matilda slid from her chair and sat next to Ashton on the floor, her head on his shoulder. “If only I’d met you years ago.”

“I was far to the north and smelled often of the stable. When did you realize you were in jeopardy?”

“My brother-in-law was summoned to the scene, and his lordship was concerned for me. He ordered Stephen to await him in the library, poured me a
stout drink, and told me to get straight up to bed. I took the drink but didn’t sip it. Brandy had made my marriage miserable and likely cost my
husband his life. Then too, I assumed the authorities would interview me, and evidence of strong drink even under the circumstances wouldn’t be
ladylike.”

Ashton looped an arm around her shoulders when he wanted to pace and shout and hit things—Matilda’s in-laws, for example—hard.

“You made the shrewd choice, Matilda. If you’d been drinking when the magistrate questioned you, your credibility would have been ruined.
Stephen could have drained three bottles while conversing with the king’s man, and his word would have been taken as gospel.”

“His word
was
taken as gospel. I couldn’t sleep and I wanted to retrieve my journal from the library before the magistrate and Bow
Street runners were loose in the house. Outside the library door, I heard Stephen explaining to the magistrate that I’d always had a spoiled
girl’s temper. Stephen went on to claim he’d seen me beating his father with the poker and heard me shout at his father that I hated him and
wished he were dead.”

“And Stephen was doubtless in tears at the recollection?” Ashton was nearly in tears.

“Oh, of course. For a hale man badly beaten by his much smaller wife, Althorpe had had only the one welt when I’d seen him. I expected my
brother-in-law to speak on my behalf, to counter Stephen’s allegations, because I’d told his lordship Stephen was making a pest of
himself.”

“And the earl remained silent?”

“Not quite. He cleared his throat and hemmed and hawed and left no doubt that I’d been very much of a problem from the day I’d joined the
family—my fits of pique and ungovernable temper had become apparent only after the wedding. A warrant was issued for my arrest, the charge murder. My
money—including a generous inheritance from my father—has been in his lordship’s hands ever since. Because I haven’t been convicted
of anything, even the portion of Althorpe’s estate that was left to me in his will has been languishing in the earl’s hands. My disappearance
was very profitable for the earl, who is managing all of Althorpe’s estate until my fate is settled.”

Which meant Stephen had more reason than ever to wish his step-mother ill. “The whole estate is tied up in chancery proceedings?”

“The whole estate is in a temporary trust, thanks to friendly chancery judges, and that trust is managed by the earl, along with my settlements. I
left with little more than the clothes on my back and a few of the jewels my husband had given me as a part of my dower portion. Those, at least, I could
not be regarded as stealing.”

For a young woman who’d been traumatized by the loss of her husband, and by the betrayal from his family, Matilda’s clear thinking was
remarkable.

Ashton hauled her over his leg so she sat on the floor between his knees, cradled against his chest.

“What was your plan, Matilda? You have a plan. I can feel it in you.” Right along with the anger, bewilderment, and despair.

“My plan was to die, and that is still my plan.”

Matilda hadn’t told Ashton the whole of it, but she hadn’t
intended
to tell him any of her past, so she waited for his next question.

He kissed the top of her head. “That plan will not do, not if it involves hastening the Creator’s original schedule for you. I’ve grown
fond of your apple tarts.” His tone was gently chiding, his hold was utterly secure.

He’d grown fond of her apple tarts? Matilda wasn’t fond of Ashton, she was enthralled with him. Entranced by his patience, his humor, his
stubborn brand of honor, his disdain for the world that had delighted in a scandal that might yet cost her her life.

He’d grown fond of her apple tarts.

An old, familiar ache started in Matilda’s chest, then got a tight hold on her throat. This time, she could not think, move, or flee past it. The
tears ambushed her, coming even more unexpectedly than Lord Drexel’s betrayal, more unexpectedly than Althorpe’s unkindness.

“I never cry. It does n-no good.”

“Where’s the harm in admitting you have much to cry about?”

Six years and twenty-odd days’ worth of tears was a lot of tears, and they left Matilda weak, hot, and spent. She remained in Ashton’s arms,
not only because his embrace was an ineffable comfort, but also because without the anchor he provided, without the tears to weigh her down, she might have
dissolved on the next spring breeze.

“How did you survive, Matilda? How did you, a gently bred countess-in-training, avoid the law and make a new life?”

“It’s not a pretty tale,” she replied, “but the long and short of it is, I grew up. I was in the habit of saving back from my pin
money, because I liked to buy my husband an occasional gift or surprise. A pair of cuff links, a book I thought he’d enjoy. I eventually gave up on
the gifts—nothing ever pleased him—but I kept the habit of living within my means.”

Ashton rose with Matilda in his arms. The sensation was like a ship casting away from the dock. Calm one minute, in the grip of a powerful tide the next.

“This calls for a sofa, at least,” he said, depositing her on the cushions. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“Yes, please.”

Matilda hoarded up the sight of Ashton pouring her drink—doing for her, as Pippa would have put it—right down to the grip of his hand on the
plain glass. He settled beside her, stretched an arm along the back of the sofa, and passed her the drink.

She took a sip, the cool liquid sliding down her throat like balm.

“So you took your money, crept down the back stairs, and disappeared?”

“I’d read enough Gothic novels to know I needed to mound the pillows on the bed first, and I instructed my maid that I wasn’t to be
disturbed, for any reason, until the earl summoned me in the morning. I knew the magistrate would have to examine me before I could be bound over, and he
was hardly likely to haul me off to Bow Street to spend the night with habitual drunks and abbesses.”

“There is worse company.”

“I know that now.”

Matilda fell silent, reveling in the sense that Ashton would sit right beside her, no matter how long her recitation took, no matter what misdeeds
she’d done in the name of survival. Tomorrow, she’d likely be on her way to France, all the lonelier for having trusted him.

For the moment, she was sitting beside a man who was a true friend, the first true friend she’d ever had.

“You collected your money, your wits, possibly a small bundle, and away you went, into the London streets in the dark of night.”

“Not quite the streets. I had socialized among our Mayfair neighbors enough to know where a ducal mews was, and I took shelter there until morning. I
hid for days, venturing out at dawn before the grooms stirred, and traveling not into the parks or squares familiar to me, but east, into the part of
London that works for a living. I took great comfort in sharing the leavings of my chophouse meals with the alley cats.”

“For me, it was the horses,” Ashton said. “I was never entirely alone as long as I could confide my troubles in a friendly equine. I
gather your money ran out.”

“My money was stolen. I had purposely let my cloak get dirty, but it was finely made. My reticule was stolen the second week. By then, I carried only
money in it. My comb, jewels, and other bits and bobs remained hidden in whatever stable I was sheltering in, thank God.”

“I gather the tale grows darker.”

Matilda gave in to temptation and curled down to rest her head on his thigh. “I nearly starved. I wasn’t any good at rooting through garbage to
find sustenance, and the best garbage heaps are fiercely guarded by those tough enough to make use of them. I knew I couldn’t pawn my jewels for two
reasons. First, I would be cheated, being a woman clearly in desperate straits, and second, word of the transaction would get back to my brother-in-law.
He’s shrewd; he’d know that pawning jewels was one option open to me.”