Page 89 of Enticing Odds
This time, he felt the weight of the goddess’s scrutiny. What he did now mattered more than anything henceforth.
He would not fumble this like some clumsy oaf.
Matthew crossed the room to a small standing desk where he knew a fresh stock of paper and writing implements were kept.
It was better this way, to not see or speak with her. But he would leave her a message explaining himself, to accompany the legal papers that ceded possession of Cookham Place to him. Cressida could work through his own solicitor to transfer ownership to herself.
The library’s longcase clock began to clang as it rang the five o’clock hour. Afternoon tea.
Matthew set his mouth in a thin line and began to write. He would finish his letter, seal it up with the papers, hand it off to Wardle, and be gone before Cressida returned and chanced upon him.
He paused, the pen hovering over the paper as he neared the end.
How to close the blasted thing? Sorrow welled in his chest. It seemed an imposition, to lay his regard at her feet. But Matthewwould not lie to her. He could not. Swallowing his hurt, he signed it honestly.
The doors to the library crashed open, giving him a start. Heart racing, Matthew shoved the pen back in its stand.
“Ah, there you are. Dr. Collier, I presume?”
Standing before him was a pair of young men. They were of a similar height to each other—a good foot shorter than Matthew—and appeared of an age, but whereas the red-haired one was sparse of form, with deep, dark circles underneath his eyes that suggested an acute case of insomnia, the dark-haired one was sturdy and donning a smug grin that usually implied one thing: the fortunate circumstances of one’s birth.
“Viscount Caplin,” the dark-haired one said, stepping toward Matthew with his hand extended.
Matthew took it, albeit warily.
“This is my chum, Middlemiss.”
The red-haired young man followed the viscount and offered his hand as well, nodding as Matthew shook it.
“My apologies for the intrusion; Wardle informed me you’d be within.”
“I—” Matthew began.
“Oh no, please don’t apologize. I’m well aware of your arrangement with my mother; there’s no need to explain,” Caplin cut in, dismissing his concerns with a wave of his hand.
Arrangement?Matthew felt a deep flush settle upon his face.How could he know?Was Matthew too late? Had Sharples wasted no time in blackening their names throughout society?
Caplin appeared shocked at Matthew’s reaction; quickly he schooled his features, his eyes narrowing as if something had suddenly been revealed to him.
“Or apparently I’m not aware,” the young man drawled. “At least, that is, Iwasn’t.”
Shit.
“Arrangement? Oh, yes, the use of the library,” Matthew rushed out in a pathetic attempt to deflect.
Judging by the way Caplin’s friend was choking back laughter, it had failed.
“Yes, the library,” Caplin said with a sigh of resignation. His cheeks pinkened, making him look very much his age, and not the grown man he strove to portray.
Matthew was appalled with himself. He’d taken this boy’s mother to bed, outside the bounds of marriage, without any promises or assurances. He felt the lowest of the low.
“Midder?” Caplin turned to his pal. “Make yourself useful, ring for tea.”
“Right-o,” came Middlemiss’s easy reply.
He bounded off toward the bell pull in the nearest corner.
“Join us for tea, Doctor?” Caplin picked his way across a clutch of armchairs and settled into the largest one.
