Page 35 of Enticing Odds
“I’ve never grown daylilies; do keep up.” Cressida finished climbing the stairs, then turned and said, “I trust you can make your own way home.”
Now it was Mrs. Brenchley’s turn to gape at her. She was still agog when the footman shut the door.
Cressida turned about, a smug smile upon her lips. She felt elation, every fiber of her being alive and electrified. Sauntering into Rowbotham house, she handed her hat and gloves toWardle. Was there a more powerful drug than victory? An act more satisfying than revenge?
Then she thought of Dr. Collier’s wide, strong shoulders and his massive, yet deft hands.
Oh yes, she admitted silently. There was one thingfarmore enjoyable than revenge. Pity she hadn’t yet convinced her prospective partner. She really ought to see to that.
She removed her jacket and passed it to Wardle as well. Humming to herself, she made her way to the conservatory. It felt the perfect moment to inspect the flowers she did grow, even if none of them were daylilies.
Perhaps she ought to consider planting some.
An amusing thought.
“Are you enjoying the summer holidays?” Matthew asked cheerfully, placing markers back into their boxes. He slowed his tidying as he looked up yet again at the shelves surrounding them. If only he could just… peruse them. Perhaps borrow a volume or two.
“Not really,” Henry said glumly.
Matthew tore his gaze away from the temptation of literature. The boy’s shoulders were slumped as he attempted to delicately lean two cards upright against each other. When he thought he had the balance right, he let go, but both cards fell back upon the table. Sighing, he began again. The entire picture recalled the lonely, indolent summers of Matthew’s youth. His heart went out to the lad.
“Have you any friends? Perhaps on the street, or sons of your moth—of Lady Caplin’s—friends?”
“No. I’m not my brother, am I?” he mumbled.
Henry collapsed upon the table, arms extended flat in front of him, upsetting the tiny house of cards once more.
“Lord Caplin?”
“Yes,” Henry scoffed, rolling his eyes. “He’s the admired one, you know. Everyone wishes to know Arthur, theviscount.”
Matthew had to bite back a laugh at the bitter adolescent tone; to chuckle would be to destroy every scrap of goodwill he’d earned with the boy.
“Well,” Matthew said as he gathered the scattered cards, “when I was young, I too often found myself without amusement or companions.”
“Did you have a brother?” Henry lifted his head, resting his chin upon his folded arms.
“No, nor a sister. It was only myself and my aunt and uncle,” he mused, shuffling the cards absent-mindedly.
Henry frowned at that. “What of your mother? Your father?”
“Both died when I was young. Very young.”
Henry looked away, thinking. Yes, they both had lost their fathers at a young age. But at least Henry still possessed a loving mother. When Matthew was a lad he had often wished for a mother, someone who might spare him a kind word. Aunt Albertine and Uncle John had meant well, but lacked the warmth necessary to properly rear a child.
“And they—my aunt and uncle, I mean—were getting on in age. They never much cared to venture beyond their own doorstep. Not that there was much to venture out for in Wolverhampton,” Matthew added as an aside. “Not like here, in the city. No grand museums, hardly any parks. Not even trees.”
“What?” Henry said. “No trees? Now I know you’re just stretching it, trying to make me feel better.”
“Well? Is it working?” Matthew looked up from his task, his mouth upturned at the corner.
“Mama said you don’t have to tidy up, you know,” Henry grumbled. “A servant will see to it.”
“I know. I can’t help it. I loathe being idle.”
They fell back into silence, Henry sulking and Matthew thinking. By the time Matthew had finished tidying, he had an idea.
“What would you do, this holiday, do you think,” he began, wandering over to the bookshelves, “if nothing restrained you?”
