Page 8 of Enticing Odds
But despite his herculean effort to ignore the throbbing ache in his chest as he stared out the compartment window at the passing countryside, his thoughts inevitably drew back to her.
He’d fallen in love with Harriet upon his first return to England, numbed by the brutality of war, by the terrors he’d seen as a young field surgeon. He hadn’t expected to feel anything ever again, his capacity for emotion sacrificed to the never-ending horrors of war. And then he’d seen her at his aunt and uncle’s dinner table. She’d been gentle, innocent, clean. As far from the blood and mud and shit of the battlefield as anything could possibly be.
But young, far too young. Matthew felt it wrong, forcing her to decide her future at sixteen, leg-shackling herself to a reserved and shattered man several years her elder. But when she teased him for his beard—every man in Crimea who could grow one had done so, desperate for whatever measure of warmth could be had—he shaved it off.
And waited.
And then, when after a few more years she still seemed interested in him and his conversation, he thought he’d muster up whatever courage he had left and ask her to marry him.
But then her mother died, and Matthew decided to wait. More years passed. Until, finally, everything seemed to have fallen into place again.
And then… his own uncle passed. Aunt Albertine went into a pitiable state, and Matthew had scarcely a moment to sleep the entire following year, constantly shuttling back and forth between his practice in London and his aunt’s house in Wolverhampton.
And then?Matthew’s own reflection suddenly appeared in the window as the railcar pulled into the light of the London railway station.
By then it had been nearly a decade. Harriet’s father had done well in those years, his business increasing tenfold, and the Coxwells had moved to a more upscale street, no longer next door to Aunt Albertine. Their new neighborhood was smarter, their home larger and grander, their furnishings far finer. They now dined with local aldermen and an aristo or two.
Matthew had panicked. He had a reasonably comfortable living in London, with a home in Marylebone that housed his doctor’s surgery and a steady stream of respectable patients. But it wasn’t enough, not good enough for Harriet—he was certain of that. By then he’d all but given up. How could he trust his suit to win her heart when she kept such company?
Matthew couldn’t even manage to finagle his way into a first-rate club.
Dejected as he walked toward the grand pediment that was the station entrance, recounting the past, he realized the answer far too late.
Harriet hadn’t cared a fig for those fancy toffs. She had waited for him. Blimey, she’d all but told him so that morning at the wedding breakfast!
And he had forfeited his chance.
Suddenly Matthew felt as if at sea. He stumbled to the side, placing one hand against a massive Doric column to steady himself, his worn leather holdall dangling from the other.
Twenty years she waited…He was seized by shock; if he wasn’t a man of medicine he would surely think himself dying. Why hadn’t he asked her? Why hadn’t he declared his love, made her his companion for life?
But the panic subsided quicker than he anticipated, washed away by a cold, difficult question: Had he ever truly wanted her?
Matthew stood up straight and swallowed, adjusting his collar. He thought of how Harriet had looked at Mr. Grice, her eyes languorous and full of want. Then he thought of the locked drawer in his study, the one filled with lurid magazines, obscene cabinet cards, and a small stack of well-worn novels of the salacious sort. He thought of Harriet before him. Nude. With her hands bound, perhaps. And having to ask her to…
A cold sweat broke out over him.
It was mortifying, the thought of propositioning Harriet in such a crude manner. How could he even imagine her unclothed? He felt his face redden. It would never have done. He blew out a sigh and looked upward, wondering if perhaps it had all been for the best. One couldn’t handle one’swifeso perversely.
Perhaps he possessed an aberrant nature. But did that have to preclude his chance to take a wife, to have a family?
To find love?
Blood rushed to his head. Matthew felt as though his ears had been stuffed with cotton wool and were now cleared, the sounds of the station blaring with a fiercer intensity. Men shouted, an engine chugged, the bell rang. Carriages and hacks rattled before him. Hoofbeats pounded.
No, he reassured himself.That’s enough of that.Still, he felt odd.
Two hotels flanked the avenue before the portico. The lower-quality Victoria to the west, which advertised only sleeping accommodations, and then to the east, the full-service Euston Hotel, named for the station. Matthew had taken refreshment within on several occasions, usually when he didn’t feel like crowding into the station’s bustling waiting room. Matthew far preferred the peace and quiet.
His thoughts were still a jumble as he approached the Euston, not taking care to mind his step. Which was how he came to crash headlong into a woman.
Somehow, Matthew had never gotten fully used to his large form, often forgetting just how solidly built he was. The woman ricocheted backward with a gasp.
Without thinking, he reached out quickly with his free hand, catching the lady’s arm.
“Sir!” she exclaimed, yanking her arm back as soon as she’d righted herself.
“I’m so sorry, infinite apologies are due on my end,” Matthew stuttered, appalled at his lack of awareness. “I ought to have…”
