Page 6 of Enticing Odds
He had always visited his aunt and uncle’s home each autumn for that express purpose, ever since he’d returned from his first appointment as an apprentice surgeon in the Crimean War to find that the next-door neighbor’s daughter had grown into an exceedingly lovely and kind young lady of sixteen.
From that point forward, Dr. Matthew Collier had always returned to the household that had raised him, to celebrate the birthday of the only girl he’d ever loved—Harriet Coxwell, now Grice. Not Collier.
For that birthday he’d given her a pen.
“Oh, Matthew,” Harriet laughed.
He furrowed his brow, heart thudding in his chest. Had she not liked the pen?
Unfortunately, she appeared disinclined to explain her meaning, for she shook her head fondly and changed the subject.
“And how long do you expect to stay in Wolverhampton? I’m sure your aunt would be well pleased were it to be a longer visit.” Her gaze drifted away from him and landed on the back of her husband, whereupon her countenance changed entirely; her lids became heavy, her eyes distant, her lips just slightly parted.
It was then that Matthew finally comprehended his true loss: She would never desire him.
Of course, he’d known it to a degree when he received his aunt’s letter excoriating him for waiting so long to act, he’d known it when he received the wedding invitation on thick, cream-colored paper, and he’d known it when he glumly set foot on the platform at Euston Station yesterday.
But now, the finality of it slid gently over him, like a sheet of white muslin drawn over a cadaver.
“No,” he said, with such conviction that he startled both Harriet and himself. “No,” he repeated, this time in a gentler tone. “I’m off for London today.” He glanced about the room, looking for his aunt. “Now, actually,” he decided suddenly.
“So soon?” Harriet protested, but her heart was not in it.
Matthew took her hand. “Best wishes to you, Mrs. Grice.”
He couldn’t bear to look upon her anymore.
“I had a word with my grandfather, you know. Earlier this week.”
Cressida froze mid-movement, pins between her teeth, one heavy hank of chestnut hair in each hand. She raised an eyebrow at her reflection in the small vanity mirror. Letting go of one handful, she took the pins from her mouth and set them atop the dressing table.
“Is that so?”
“Yes. He thinks it’s high time I stopped all this nonsense and settled down.”
“Oh dear,” Cressida responded mildly, tilting her head so she could see as she twisted one section of hair. “What sort of nonsense, Richard?” She looped and pinned generously; other women might have a need to bolster their locks with switches, but she’d never been one of them.
Richard Rimmer, the charming diplomat whom she’d entertained for a handful of years, cleared his throat.
“I don’t think he supposesyou, exactly, so have no fear on that count; our entire association could still be easily disavowed.”
“Thank my stars for that,” she said in a low tone, more to herself than to him. Cressida wasn’t in the habit of leaving her reputation in the care of flippant young men, however handsome.
“But he’s well aware of my, ah… interests. My…carrying on. He’s getting on, and he wants me sorted, you know. Forget all this diplomacy work. Back in England, with the family.” He paused before adding apologetically, “Perhaps… with a family of my own.”
Cressida shifted so she might see his reflection behind hers. Goodness, one would think the Euston could afford aslightlylarger looking glass. It might be a decent enough hotel, but as with all rail accommodations, it was far from what she’d consider luxurious. Especially considering the other hotels to be found in London.
“Certainly a prospect worth considering,” she said.
Her hair finally sorted into something respectable enough for a carriage ride back to Rowbotham House, she turned her head this way and that, one slim hand running along her bare neck as she inspected.
Once she was satisfied, she studied his reflection as he crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. He shook his head, then stood and set to pacing.
She supposed the poor thing was having a time of it, attempting to end their association in such a tawdry manner, with the bedsheets rumpled in the tightly cramped room. Cressida chuckled to herself at the thought as she replaced her dainty gold filigree earrings. Bartholomew had gifted them to her in their first year of marriage, so it seemed only fitting to wear them each and every time she lay with a lover.
When Richard finally spoke again, it was to the wall opposite her, his hands on his hips.
“I’m nearly thirty, if you’ll recall,” he declared with conviction.
