Sleepless at Midnight (15 page)

Matthew refrained from mentioning the two additional invitations he’d dispatched, or the fact that Hartley and Thurston unexpectedly tagging along with Berwick had thrown off his male to female ratio. “Yes, they’re all lovely,” he murmured.

“Lady Julianne, especially,” Berwick said, his composure back in place. “She’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”

Matthew barely refrained from looking skyward. Bloody hell. The last thing he needed was a determined rival for Lady Julianne’s attentions, especially with time so short. Jennsen turned toward Hartley and said, “You said all three women are lovely. There are actually four and yes, all of them are lovely.”

Hartley’s brow puckered in confusion. “Four? Surely you don’t mean to include Lady Gatesbourne or Lady Agatha?”

Matthew’s shoulders stiffened. Damn it, he knew all too well to whom Jennsen was referring.

“I meant Miss Moorehouse,” Jennsen said mildly. His gaze shifted, and Matthew was treated to the same inscrutable stare Jennsen had fixed upon Berwick only a moment ago.

“Miss Moorehouse?” Hartley repeated in an incredulous tone. “Surely you jest. She is naught but Lady Wingate’s traveling companion.”

“And most assuredly not lovely,” Thurston said, his lip curling with distaste.

“Unless one was without benefit of any lighting at all,” Berwick added.

“I completely disagree,” Jennsen said. “But I’ve always believed that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” His dark gaze challenged Matthew. “Wouldn’t you agree, Langston?”

Matthew’s jaw tightened. Clearly Jennsen was staking a claim of some sort upon Miss Moorehouse something that certainly shouldn’t have mattered to him or bothered him in the least, especially given his situation and his need to court Lady Julianne. But damn it, it did bother him. A tide of unwanted yet undeniable hot jealousy washed through him, and it was only with the greatest effort that he managed to tamp it down.

Returning Jennsen’s stare, he forced a calmness into his voice he was far from feeling and said,

“Yes, I agree that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

And so long as he kept his eye trained where it needed to be on Lady Julianne all would be well.

After partaking of a brandy in the drawing room with his male guests, Matthew begged off a move to the billiards room and instead made his way to his private study. Once there, he tried to concentrate on the estate’s account ledgers, but the task proved frustratingly impossible. And for no good reason. With the men engaged with billiards and the ladies not yet back from the village, the house was quiet. Even Danforth wasn’t snoring on the hearth rug as he usually would be at this time of day. There was no excuse for him not to be making good use of this uninterrupted time to go over his finances, to see what else could be sold, to find another way to cut expenses. Unfortunately he knew that no matter how hard he pored over the ledgers, he was out of options save two. The very practical “marry an heiress” option, or the “succeed at his quest” option, which sadly, over the past year, had miserably failed. Yet even if he succeeded at his quest, honor dictated that he still needed to decide upon a wife. And soon. And given his failure thus far at his quest, an heiress his wife would have to be.

Although the house was quiet, his thoughts were anything but. No, his thoughts were filled with images of her. And the passionate kiss they’d shared. A kiss that had somehow tested his restraint as no other kiss ever had. Perhaps because she was unlike any other woman he’d ever kissed. Regardless of her questionable level of experience and he judged that in spite of her penchant for sketching naked men, she wasn’t very experienced at all she was…natural. Unpracticed. Completely lacking in guile and vanity. And he found that irresistibly alluring. That and those huge eyes. Those luscious curves. And those soft, plump lips…

He dragged his hands down his face. Bloody hell, he’d wanted to know how she felt, how she tasted, and now he knew, and he’d been unable to think of anything else since she’d left his bedchamber. Certainly his erratic performance on the archery field reflected his distraction. This preoccupation with a woman who was in every way the complete opposite of what he was normally attracted to utterly baffled him. He’d always preferred demure, soft-spoken, classically beautiful, petite, blue-eyed blondes. Someone like Lady Julianne. Yet for some reason, Lady Julianne who was also conveniently the much-needed heiress had failed to capture his attention. Instead he’d been grabbed in a stranglehold by an outspoken, brown-eyed, dark-haired, tall, bespectacled spinster who would never be described as a classic beauty. But there was something about her that somehow ensnared him. In a way he couldn’t name because he’d never experienced the feeling before. And based on Logan Jennsen’s behavior and words, Matthew wasn’t the only one affected by her. Bloody damn hell.

But unlike him, Jennsen was free to pursue whomever he wished. Not that Matthew wished to pursue Miss Moorehouse. Even removing the heiress factor from the equation, she wasn’t his type at all. Which only made this situation of her occupying his thoughts more confusing and irritating. He blew out a frustrated sigh and was about to force his attention back to the hated ledgers when he heard a familiar woof. His gaze drifted to the open French windows through which a shaft of bright afternoon sunlight streamed. Apparently, Danforth had roused himself from whatever spot he’d found to nap in. Probably a patch of warm sun on the terrace. Lucky beast. Another woof sounded, followed by a soft feminine laugh. A laugh he instantly recognized. A laugh that had him sitting up in his chair as if a plank had been shoved down the back of his breeches.

“Silly dog, sit still.” Miss Moorehouse’s laughter-filled voice floated in through the open glasspaneled doors that led out to the far corner of the terrace. As if in a trance, he rose. He’d made it halfway across the Axminster rug toward the French windows when Danforth came bounding through the opening. Tongue lolling, tail wagging, the dog made a beeline for him. He greeted Matthew with a trio of deafening barks, then sat. Right on his boot.

Seconds later Miss Moorehouse burst into the room from the terrace. “Come back here, you mischievous beast. I’m not finished ”

Her gaze fell upon Matthew and her words chopped off as if sliced with an ax. She halted as if she’d slammed into a wall.

Matthew’s heart ridiculously seemed to trip over itself. He stared at her, noting her plain gray day gown and disheveled chignon from which dozens of shiny tendrils had escaped. A bonnet hung halfway down her back by its satin strings, which were tied loosely around her neck. A rosy glow suffused her cheeks, and her chest heaved as if she’d run some distance. She moistened her lips, a gesture that had him pressing his own lips together to keep from mimicking her. She shoved up her glasses, which had slid halfway down her nose, then offered him an awkward curtsy.

“Lord Langston. I beg your pardon. I thought the gentlemen were engaged in archery.”

“We finished our tournament. I thought the ladies had gone to the village.”

“I remained behind to further explore your extensive gardens. I hope you don’t mind.”

Not so long as you don’t start spouting Latin flower names at me. Or asking him how his straff worts and tortlingers were faring. “Not at all.”

Her gaze moved around the room and she frowned. “This is not the drawing room.”

“No. This is my private study.”

Her cheeks turned crimson. “Oh. Again, I must beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

She was intruding. On his privacy and his very boring, er, productive work with the ledgers. He should send her on her way. Absolutely. Instead he found himself saying, “You’re not intruding. In fact, I was just about to ring for some tea. Would you care to join me?”

Good God, where on earth had that invitation sprung from? He hadn’t been about to ring for tea at all. In fact, it was hours before his usual tea time. It was as if he’d lost all control over his lips. At the mere thought of lips, his gaze dipped to her lush mouth. He tried not to look, tried to tear his gaze away from those plump lips that he knew tasted warm and delicious, but it seemed as if he’d lost all control over his eyeballs as well.

She studied him for several seconds, as if he were a puzzle she was trying to decipher, then said,

“Tea sounds lovely. Thank you.”

Danforth chimed in with what sounded like an approving woof. Most likely because the beast knew that with tea came his favorite snack biscuits.

Well, perhaps this was for the best. After all, hadn’t he decided to spend some time with her to decide if she might, with her extensive knowledge of plants, help him in his quest? Yes, he had. It was necessary that he spend time with her. So long as he kept the conversation away from straff wort and tortlingers, he’d fare well. Which reminded him, he needed to ask Paul about the straff wort and tortlingers so Miss Moorehouse wouldn’t again catch him unawares.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” Matthew said, indicating the grouping of chairs near the fireplace. He wriggled his boot from beneath Danforth’s rump and crossed to the bell cord near his desk. By the time he put away the ledgers, Tildon had answered his summons. After ordering tea to be served on the terrace, Matthew joined Miss Moorehouse at the fireplace. Rather than sitting, she stood before the hearth, staring up at the portrait hanging above the marble mantel. He followed her gaze and looked at the painting that never failed to tighten his gut.

“Your family?” she asked.

He felt a muscle tick in his jaw. “Yes.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother and sister.”

“I don’t. Not anymore. They both died.” The words came out more clipped than he’d intended, but while he thought about James and Annabelle every day, he rarely spoke about them. He felt the weight of her stare and turned toward her. And found her regarding him through very serious eyes.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said softly.

“Thank you,” he said by rote, years of practice allowing him to shove back the grief that had once paralyzed him. He’d learned how to live with the grief. The guilt, however, never went away. “It happened a long time ago.”

“Yet the loss of a loved one is a pain that never heals.”

He raised his brows, surprised, as her words so closely mirrored his thoughts. “You sound as if you know this from experience.”

“I do. When I was fourteen my dearest friend Delia, a girl I’d known since childhood, passed away. I still miss her and shall continue to do so for the rest of my life. And I loved my sister’s husband Edward as if he were my own brother.”

He nodded. She understood the grief. “Your friend, how did she die?”

Deep pain flashed in her eyes, and it took her several seconds to answer. “We…we were riding. I suggested a race.” Her voice dropped to a whisper and she looked at the floor. “Delia’s horse went lame just before the finish and she was thrown. Her neck broke in the fall.”

He instantly recognized the guilt in her voice. How could he not? It was a sound as familiar to him as his own voice, and a deep sense of empathy rolled through him. “I’m sorry for your loss as well.”

She looked up then turned to face him. Their gazes met and the area around his heart went hollow at the bleak expression in her eyes. It was a look he knew all too well. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“I believe I now understand why you fear horses.”

“I haven’t ridden since. It’s not exactly fear that stops me, it’s more…”

“Not wanting to revisit painful memories.” It wasn’t a question because he knew the answer. Knew precisely how she felt.

“Yes.” She studied him through her huge, magnified eyes. “Now you sound as if you speak from experience.”

He quickly debated what, how much, to say. It was something he never talked about. But that bleak look cried out to him, grabbed him by the gut. Brought out all his protective instincts. Made him want to comfort her.

After clearing his throat, he said, “I do. It’s the reason I never go to the village.”

Although she said nothing, he saw understanding dawn in her expression, and she nodded once. She might not know what happened, but she knew his aversion to the village had to do with his siblings’

deaths. And she understood. And didn’t question him. Simply stood with him in quiet, shared understanding.

Something inside him seemed to expand. He very much liked that about her. She didn’t find it necessary to fill silences with nervous chatter or to ask him endless questions as so many other women did. Although she was outspoken, there was a quiet patience and self-possession about her that appealed to him greatly.

And before he could even think to stop himself, he found himself saying, “I was eleven. I was supposed to be studying mathematics but instead I went to the village to see my friend Martin. He was the butcher’s son. My father had specifically told me not to go to the village, that people were falling ill to a fever and he didn’t want anyone at Langston Manor exposed to it.”

He drew a deep breath, and the words came faster, pouring out of him like poison from a lanced wound. “But I heard that Martin was sick and I wanted to see him. Bring him some medicine the doctor had left the last time I was ill. So I went. By the next morning, I was feverish. Two days later both James and Annabelle fell ill. I survived. They didn’t. Neither did Martin.”

He stopped speaking. He felt out of breath. Emptied. And his knees weren’t quite steady. His brother and sister had died because of him. He had survived for reasons he could not, would not, ever understand, but somehow just saying the words out loud the words he’d kept trapped inside for so long afforded him a small sense of relief he hadn’t felt in years. Perhaps there was some merit to the theory that confession was good for the soul.