Page 82 of Enticing Odds
“And therein lies the problem,” he sighed. “Sharples has been nipping at my heels all summer long.”
Cressida’s chest felt heavy, as if it were being crushed by an invisible vise.
“But why didn’t you say so?” she cried out. “I’d be more than pleased to pay this odious man to go away!”
“That’s out of the question,” Matthew said, his voice low and stern. “I won’t see you mixed up in this sort of… business.”
“And yet I have been, you see,” Cressida spat, furious.
He flushed again, lowering his gaze.
“It’s no matter. I’ll fix it, I promise. I’ll…” He looked up, his jaw set, his eyes filled with a sudden hope. “I’ll marry you.”
She felt struck, frozen in place. Marry Matthew? Cressida had been certain she would never marry anyone again. The idea was so novel, so wild, that she could do naught but stare, her heart thumping.
His face reddened, and he looked away. Somehow, that hurt more than anything.
“I… I admit it would solve the problem at hand,” she rushed out, wishing to soothe him. “There would be nothing with which to blackmail us. But have you even considered the particulars? Why, where would we live?”
“Where would you wish to live?” he said, utterly serious.
“Not here. Someplace warmer. Someplace with a garden,” she said without thinking. And then she realized she was legitimizing the absurd suggestion, and she shook her head. “But it’s no good, Matthew, for I cannot live inMarylebone, surely you know that. I cannot… I cannot remain in London as a doctor’s wife. I cannot…willnot ever be a wife to anyone again.”
Once more he turned away, a muscle flexing in his jaw.
Cressida felt rotten, a beastly witch of the highest order. Here was the first decent man to ever offer for her, and she was turning her nose up because he hadn’t considered the practicalities, and because she didn’tneeda husband. Or did she really just not want another husband like Bartholomew?Perhaps a different kind of husband could be tolerable, a voice from the back of her mind said.
For the briefest moment, a vision of a different kind of life came to her. Some things—reputation, social capital—would certainly be lost. But others—companionship, romance, the ease of living for oneself and one’s loved ones alone—would be gained.
And flowers. So many blooms, of so many varieties, could fill a charming little garden with a white gate. Foxgloves, daisies, poppies, hedgerows of hawthorn. The sun warming her cheeks as she spent her days outside. And Matthew warming their bed, every night.
But that wasn’t who she was, wasn’t how she’d built her life. Bartholomew had destroyed every girlish hope and dream she’donce harbored. In response, Cressida had worked to become stronger, to become unshakable. And now Matthew had asked her to cast aside everything about who she had become.
It made her angry.
“How did he find you?” she asked. How was it even possible, in a city of this size, to track down one nameless gambler?
“It was… a handkerchief.” Matthew keeled forward, head in his hands, elbows on his knees.
“What?” Cressida stood, speaking in a voice colder than she could ever recall using with him.
“It’s… it was a mess. A botched raid by the Met. I only got out by the skin of my teeth and, well, so had a young lad, one of Sharples’ associates. He’d suffered a deep laceration from the broken glass of the window. I couldn’t fix it… but I did what I could to clean and dress it with what I had on me.”
Cressida recalled the ragged lad on the hotel steps, clutching the handkerchief with M.C. embroidered on it. She hadn’t been silly. She’d been seeing very clearly indeed. As she always did.
“And now, it seems, he knows about us,” Dr. Collier continued, his voice flat.
Cressida felt as if she were falling.
“And he will not be persuaded to let it lie. Not until he’s blackmailed both of us to within an inch of our lives.”
She’d never before wanted a man as she had wanted him. He was noble, gentle, good. Handsome, intelligent, and curious. As strong and giving in bed as he was outside of it. She’d almost had it all—first the easiest, most charming life, free to do as she pleased, her hard-won wealth and widowhood protecting her, and then this man, this kind, middle-class doctor with lurid desires and tastes to match her own.
She’d almost had it.
And now she would have to cast him aside to save her good name. Her sons’ good name.
Her horrible dead husband’s name. Caplin.
