Wedding Matilda (Redcakes Book 6) (17 page)

“I think it was a row house,” she said. “Not a small one, because the coach came through what could have been the back garden, but I think there were fences on either side. I feel like the garden was enclosed.”

He fought his arousal in an attempt to make sense of her words. Hazy with lust and longing, he tilted his mouth toward her again, but she moved her hands from his back to his chest and pushed gently at him, forcing him to listen.

“It wouldn’t be a house on the end, but in the middle of a row. Somewhere around here, I imagine.”

“That was the entire point of the exercise, to figure that out.” He swallowed hard, still tasting her on his tongue, his lips.

“We should keep looking, before it rains.”

“Yes, of course.” He nodded sharply but wished quite desperately that he could somehow get her back to his hotel and have her naked underneath him again. They both would be more focused after. If only time was not of the essence. A niggling thought at the back of his brain made him wonder if the kidnappers would move Jacob after last night, however, in order for them not to find him by just this means.

He breathed in, smelling the river and smoke, and garbage, and offered his arm to Matilda again. She took it with her most businesslike nod. What strength she had, this woman. She would rise to any occasion with the heart of a warrior queen.

“If you are right about Douglas Flour,” Matilda said, as they walked through malodorous mews, “then it would be best if we had someone inside.”

“Pity they sent me packing.”

“I agree,” she said, chewing on her lower lip. “I think you have to return to London.”

“Why?”

“You need to apologize. I need to see Mr. Bliven. It’s Friday, and the kidnappers will know we can’t get any more money until Monday at least. So this is the time to go back to London.”

“You can’t marry him now. I’ve had the special license changed.”

“I will have to break our engagement.”

Ewan’s heart gave an extra thump as he thought of what that might mean. “We can take the train this evening. I will attempt to meet with the earl tomorrow and apologize, while you see Mr. Bliven. Do you want me to come with you?”

“Of course not; it isn’t your place.” She glanced around, her head drooping. “I wish we could have found the house.”

“We’ll set the factory men on the case. Have them document every house not on the end of a row, made of brick, that has a back garden with just mud and obvious fencing. Then we’ll go to each one when we return.”

“I wonder how many that will be,” she said as they turned back toward the main road to find Gawain.

“We’ll find out when we return from London.” He wished he could kiss her again, but from his height and present vantage point, her hat was in the way.

 

Shadrach Norwich had sighed when Ewan telephoned him from Bristol before boarding the train, and told him to present himself at Fitzwalter House at two
P.M.
the next day. Ewan was surprised he’d be allowed to pay a visit with so little fuss, but he supposed he was the man’s heir after all.

The house’s stone edifice impressed him as he climbed the stairs to the front door. A liveried footman opened it, and he was ushered up the stairs into a study. He felt like a boy called on the carpet by his father. After about fifteen minutes, the earl entered from another door and sat behind his desk, steepling his fingers across his expensively attired chest.

“Come to apologize, have you, Ewan?”

Ewan pushed all thoughts of Matilda’s passionate kisses of the day before out of his mind. “Yes, my lord, of course. I was out of bounds.”

“Lust will make a young man do the strangest things,” the earl observed with an air of malicious satisfaction. “Come to beg for your position back? You know, I should send you to one of those farms, far away from the Redcakes.”

Ewan had discussed his approach with Matilda on the train. “She has thrown me over, sir, agreed to marry another man. I have learned a valuable lesson.” In saying this, he hoped once again to uncover any relationship the earl had to the misdoings.

The earl smirked. “Sir Bartley has found another victim, has he? Money has spoken, and he has plenty. Not only that, but Lord Hatbrook has gone from strength to strength financially, and there’s the son to account for as well. Gawain, is it?”

Ewan nodded.

“We old guard cannot sit back on our laurels anymore, Ewan. Money speaks almost as much as position. I’m told you are the competent sort, despite your poor taste in females, so I will give you another chance.”

As if the earl really had a choice. He’d be talked about in clubs all over town if he mistreated his heir, regardless of who he was. Ewan had lived a respectable life, if not a fashionable one. He thought he’d have supporters if he needed them among the higher classes.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“See that you don’t fail me this time.”

Ironically, Ewan had not failed the earl in any way, but he kept that thought to himself. At least his business had been a success. He hoped Matilda had let her dying Mr. Bliven down easy. They had to return to Bristol as soon as possible.

He had agreed to call on her at the Redcake home on St. James’s Square around teatime that day. He had never been invited there in all these years and looked forward to seeing it.

M
atilda walked into the house on Grosvenor Square, dreading the meeting with Theodore Bliven as any person would, an encounter with a fellow being so close to the grave. To bring him bad news was deeply unfortunate.

As she walked behind the silent servant up the stairs, she argued with herself. How much should she tell? The stench of the sickroom had changed. While the camphor, lavender, and laudanum were still present, along with coal and smoke, the human reek seemed to have diminished.

She thought Theodore Bliven had looked bad before, but now his tongue rested on the corner of one gray lip. How this emaciated figure needed peace. She sank into the chair at the side of the bed and bowed her head.

Unbelievably, Mr. Bliven spoke. “Did you find him?”

She felt tears prick her eyelids. “I am so sorry I didn’t return. We had trouble with the special license.”

“My son?” he rasped.

“Then we had Jacob and I couldn’t leave him, or travel. I am so, so sorry,” she lied, the instinct of a moment.

“Safe?”

“Yes, you poor dear,” she said, touching his hand, which looked more like a claw. Almost all his hair was gone now. She could see a scar on the side of his skull and remembered him telling her about a cricket match gone wrong at school, all the blood.

“Safe,” he repeated.

She noticed his breathing, a rattle in his chest. “I did want to marry you.”

“I cannot help,” he wheezed.

“It is fine. We’ll be fine. He’s a strong boy, and he has your name.”

“The will.” His chest rattled again.

She stood, as his eyes popped open, sunken. His hand clutched her, spasmodically, then his grip loosened.

“Jacob,” he said, a soft, keening moan, then nothing more.

The attendant came up on the other side of the bed and touched Mr. Bliven’s neck. “He’s gone.”

Matilda tore her hand away from his, then felt ashamed of herself. She bent, kissed his brow. Even as she watched, his features seemed to relax. He was still warm.

“Only sleeping,” she murmured. “You’re only sleeping.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He was just thirty-two years old,” she said.

“At least his line won’t end with him.” A new voice came from the doorway.

She turned and saw a man with Mr. Bliven’s curls. A clerical collar showed under his coat. This must be the vicar. “You are too late. He is with God now.”

“I heard part of your conversation. Is your son truly found?”

“We paid a ransom and I saw him, alive and well, but then we were separated again.”

“How dreadful.” The man’s eyes were full of sympathy instead of Mr. Bliven’s dancing humor.

“I assume we’ll receive another demand on Monday,” Matilda said. Already, she sensed the encroachment of death in the still air. She had an animal’s keen desire to escape this horror.

“I hope you have better luck,” the man said. He went to his cousin’s bedside and seated himself in the chair Matilda had vacated. She wished he had offered her some useful words of comfort, but she supposed to a vicar, she was nothing but a lusty sinner.

She left the room and went down the stairs, meeting the footman in the hall. “I’d like to give you my direction in case the family needs any assistance with Mr. Bliven’s burial.”

“He’s passed?”

“Yes.”

The footman nodded his head solemnly as she found a pencil and paper in her reticule and wrote her information for him.

“Please, will you make sure his son is mentioned in the death notice? He would have wanted that.”

The footman nodded again, and Matilda asked for her carriage. She considered walking, to clear her head, but she wasn’t dressed for it, nor did she have an umbrella. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be exactly what the vicar thought of her, a lusty sinner. Ewan would arrive at her parents’ house soon. She needed to see him, see his healthy, hearty self, touch him, taste his love. Those strong muscles, lovely skin tone and color; hear his voice, rich and deep. With a desperate hunger, she wanted to drink him down like a perfect cup of Earl Grey tea with cream and sugar.

When she reached the mansion, she called for tea in the front parlor, and settled down to wait for Ewan. She hadn’t even poured it when he arrived. He stood in the doorway, his smile crooked and endearing.

“Theodore Bliven died today,” she said as she poured them both tea. The scent of citrus normally cheered her, but today it did not have the power.

He nodded and seated himself. “I am terribly sorry.”

“Is it wrong of me to say that I’m not unhappy to have avoided being a widow? Mr. Courtnay’s daughter lost her first husband after one month. He was ill the entire time, and then she had to spend eighteen months all but locked up in her father’s home, wearing deepest mourning.” She shuddered. “I do not want that.”

“Of course not. I do not entirely understand our nation’s customs. Of course we grieve our dead, but what good does it do to lock away widows? Especially under such circumstances. She was probably quite young as well.”

“Rose’s age,” Matilda agreed. “Now, we need to get back to Bristol and see what the factory men have found.”

“I think we should wait until tomorrow.” He set down his teacup and took her hand. “You must be exhausted.”

She squeezed his hand. “I feel an odd sort of levity, as if I must celebrate being alive.”

“What do you want to do?”

She lowered her voice. “Things we should not do here.”

He matched her tone. “Such as we have done before?”

She nodded, scarcely believing her own audacity. Yet the man was all but her affianced husband. She knew he would marry her as soon as he could. “Please, Ewan.”

His other hand reached for her. He stroked her palm with one hand. The back of her hand rested in his other palm.

In the doorway, someone cleared his throat. Matilda snatched her hand away. “Yes?”

“The stables wanted to know if they should keep the carriage ready, or if you will stay in for the night,” Pounds, the family butler, said.

“Have it brought around. We are going out again, I am afraid.”

The butler nodded and left the room.

“Where are we going to go?” Ewan asked.

She smiled at him. “Your rooms, of course. I have never been in a bachelor establishment.”

His gaze was incredulous. “I live in a single room, Matilda. It is not luxurious. I am ashamed of what I have to offer you, in fact.”

“I need to know more about you.” She leaned forward to touch his knee, then picked up a slice of seed cake and fed him one end. “Have you eaten since the train?”

“No. And I should tell you about my conversation with Lord Fitzwalter.”

“Eat.” She watched him take another bite of cake, feeling very maternal. “You need fuel.” Was someone feeding her son?

He allowed her to finish feeding him the slice of cake without protest, then drank the contents of his cup. “What about you?”

She pressed her hand to her stomach. “I don’t think I could.”

He kept his gaze on hers as he took another slice of the caraway-studded cake and broke off a piece. “Open your mouth, Matilda.”

Mesmerized by the way his full lips moved when he said her name, she did as she was told. He placed a fragrant bite on her tongue. She chewed and swallowed, staring into his eyes. Her nipples, taut and sensitive, rubbed against her chemise, and she could feel heat pooling between her thighs.

“The carriage is ready, Miss Redcake.” Pounds had appeared in the doorway again.

She swallowed a second bite of cake, then nodded. “Shall we go?”

Ewan folded the rest of her cake into a linen square and tucked it into his hand. “Drink your tea. I’ve often noticed that not drinking sufficiently at meals leads to an aching head later.”

“A topic Gawain would be pleased to weigh in on, given that he is in the tea-selling business.” She tilted her cup to her lips and drank the contents.

“No doubt, but I would prefer not to think about your family for the remainder of the evening,” he said, his mouth making that funny half smile again.

She quite agreed. “They would have telephoned if anything had occurred.”

“Exactly.”

A maid stepped forward in the front hallway with their coats and hats and they were soon on their way to Ewan’s single room. Matilda wondered how mean it would be. Did his clothing hang on pegs on the wall? Did he have a comfortable chair? To think how he’d worked alongside her father, who came home to a large mansion once owned by aristocrats, while Ewan just had the one room.

She could not be displeased by what she actually found, however, when he ushered her inside. The space smelled like him, which instantly put her at ease. While not large, he had a bed with sufficient soft blankets, an armchair, and a table with two straight-backed chairs, along with a chest and a washstand. Tidy and clean, she could find no fault with his housekeeping ability, and no scent of food fouled the air.

“I would have thought Redcake’s paid you better,” she said. “But I suppose you spend a lot of money on clothes.”

“They are expensive,” he agreed, “but I’ve always made an effort to save because I had no family. I’d hoped to buy a cottage, be ready to support a wife. It was no harm to live simply for now.”

“I see. Very sensible of you.”

His smile seemed tinged with sadness. “Not what you expected?”

“Much nicer,” she said quickly. “And very clean, given that you had no idea I would come here.”

“Ever,” he muttered. “I admit I thought you came from humbler surroundings. I had never seen the family home in Bristol before.”

“My father built that house when I was a girl. I don’t think the previous house was as nice,” she assured him. “He had turned around the family finances by then.”

“Do you remember the earlier house?”

“It smelled like the factory,” she said, frowning as she tried to remember. “Sweat and flour. Alys and Arthur and Gawain, they worked at the factory, as did my father, of course. Our family was fairly humble not so long ago.”

“One would never have known it from you.”

“Finishing school.” She stared into his eyes as she unbuttoned her coat. “It sanded off all my splintery edges.”

“You had any?”

“You know I still do.” She unbuttoned her coat next, leaving her in a blouse and skirt. “I do not think like a lady. I am too impulsive.”

“No, you think like a Redcake, and as someone who has allied himself with your family for my entire adult life, I do appreciate that. Plus, I like your impulses.”

He took her hands and pulled her toward him. His mouth met hers, and she opened eagerly for him. They went to work on his buttons, then hers. Fabric dropped to the spotless floor next to his bed as they wrestled each other out of their clothing, their mouths never separating. His hands tunneled into her hair when they had finished with their clothing, knocking pins askew.

“I love your hair,” he said. “Is it a crazy nimbus of red in the morning?”

“I’d look like a lion if I didn’t keep it in a braid,” she assured him.

“You don’t get to braid it when we are wed. I want to see it.” His gaze on her intensified.

“You will soon regret that, when I make you brush it smooth.” She tucked a stray lock behind her ear.

“I would be honored to brush your hair. And undress you. But I shall leave the dressing to someone else. Too depressing.”

She ran her fingernails lightly down his chest, following the thin line of dark hair, marveling at the contours of his body. To think she could marry this man, have all of this heat and muscle in her bed each night. How could she have reconciled herself to a life without passion? It didn’t suit her at all. She fairly ached with pulsating lust.

He seemed to know what she was thinking. Instead of reaching for her breasts or hips, his palm went to her mound. Then, as she gasped in pleased surprise, he feathered his fingers through the ginger hair that covered it. Pulling her to him with one arm around her waist, so that her side touched him, he spread her inner lips open with the other and stroked through her silky heat. She arched against his hand as it moved in tantalizing circles, her open mouth on his throat. As she suckled a tiny patch of skin there, her thoughts wandered between the pleasure of leaving a visible mark on his body—the ownership of such a gesture—and the glorious feelings he was firing in her most intimate place.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands continuing their soft, heaven-sent strokes inside her, along her flank. But then, his mouth found her right breast and closed over her nipple, sucking hard enough to draw a moan from her, a wriggle of pleasure. One of his fingers slipped inside her channel and he moved it in and out. She wanted to collapse against him, but he might stop.

“I want you inside me,” she whispered.

She heard his breath catch. “Matilda, you’re killing me.” His mouth moved to her left breast, suckled there, too.

Her nipples were distended, aching. She would never get enough of this man, ever. Losing all sense of decorum, she straddled him, his hand still between her legs. She put her palms on his cheeks and slid her thumb along his lips, then kissed him so hard that their teeth clicked together. He chuckled and tilted his head.

She felt his penis against her belly, thick and deliciously hot, and moved a hand down to stroke the tip, spreading the bead of his own precious moisture across the broad head. Amazing to think something so large could fit her so perfectly, but it had and would again.

“Are you ready for me?” he whispered.

“Yes, please.”

 

His lips tilted up. He filled his warm palms with her bottom, lifting her off his thighs so he could fit himself inside her. Her eyes opened wide as she smelled her own arousal, felt his head, too big. But her own juices lubricated him, and slowly, he worked himself inside her.