"What?" William gazed innocently around the bath. "Oh, yes, I see the difficulty. You would not want all these other people to witness your deshabille. And now that I think about it, neither would I, although I shall miss the pleasure myself."
"William, you mustn't talk in that fashion!"
"No? Then, how should I talk to you, Mattie, so you will hear?"
Mattie felt an ache rising up inside her. She had not missed the gentle note of pain in his voice. "You know how I feel. And you know how futile this all is."
"Not at all." A flippant note had replaced the pain. "I think I will wear you down eventually.
"How did you like the flowers I sent you?" he asked before she could refute his statement.
"Oh . . . " Mattie could not keep her voice from softening. "They were so beautiful. All of them. I had them carried up to my room, so I— "
"Aha!" William's brow rose wickedly. "To your bedroom, do you mean?"
"Yes, but not because of what you think!" Mattie felt heated by her mistake. Now that William was here, the water's temperature had gone up by several degrees, and whereas before it had felt mildly oily and cloying, now it seemed like a pool of warm milk, silky and smooth and seductive. "I took the flowers up to my room because I thought their aroma might freshen the air. You know I have not been well, and it has long been thought that flowers soothe the invalid."
"Oh, I see. You must pardon me, Duchess, but I have not yet heard what your symptoms might be."
William had the nerve then to put two fingers about his eye as if he had an ogling glass and to stare down at her figure in the water. "No, I see nothing glaringly missing, nor too much out of place, but it could be my eyesight in this dusky room."
"William, what are you doing here?"
"I have come to see whether you would attend the theatre with me this evening."
Ohhhh. . . the wretch, Mattie thought. When he must know how much I would love to do just that. As much as it hurt to refuse him, Mattie stiffened her spine and said, "I cannot. I am afraid if I did it would look very particular."
"Which is exactly what it should. I would not invite anyone else but you, now that I love you."
"William, please, you must respect my age and illness."
He clapped his palm to his forehead. "Alas, I forget again. Just what are you suffering from, Mattie?"
"From— from palpitations!" Mattie asserted indignantly, grasping at the first thing that came to mind.
"Ahhhhh. . . " the satisfied way William said this told her she had made a grave error. "Then I know the cure for that. Have I not told you that I suffer from palpitations, too, whenever you are near? But we can do something about that, Mattie."
"William . . . no." Mattie felt her breath coming in delightful little gasps. Her knees had grown weak. "We cannot— and you mustn't— " Then a light went off inside her head, and she thought, If William feels as weak about me as I do about him, then perhaps he will agree to an affaire after all.
"At least," she said, pitching her voice so low that no one else would ever hear and turning away to hide her own blushes, "there is something we might do, but I have already proposed it to you . . . ."
She trailed off on a note of inquiry. A second passed. Then another. And another, before William slid back into the water. Mattie felt him take her arm in a rigid grasp.
"Your Grace, you must let me escort you to the ladies' quarters before I take myself out of here. I am finding the air a little thick."
Mattie quaked at the suppressed anger in his tone. Cowed and ashamed, she allowed him to lead her to the other side of the room where an attendant waited to open the doors for her.
"Good day, Your Grace." William bowed his head to her before wading through the chest-high water to the gentlemen's quarters. Mattie would have watched him go, but for the woman waiting to hand her up the steps. All she could do was drag herself up and away through the swinging doors with a heavy heart.
Chapter Fourteen
All the rest of that day, and throughout the night and the next morning, Mattie
felt
lost in a sea of misery. She had angered William. William, who had never shown her anything but gentleness and kindness, who had humbled himself to pursue her futilely in public, who had had the courage to bear public scorn. And whose only sin had been to fall in love with someone worse than a coward.
But had she been cowardly for herself? Her mind argued no, not as long as she was a mother and had Pamela to think of. Pamela must not be made to feel she was an outcast of society, not when living as a member of the Ton had so many delights to offer her: the theatre, the opera, the parties. Why, only this afternoon, Pamela had gone with friends on a visit to Sydney Gardens, which had been followed by a shopping expedition.
Outings such as these would be impossible if Pamela's mother disgraced herself. The feeling of knowing that each person she passed was whispering about her was so painfully fresh to Mattie that it might have happened yesterday instead of twenty years ago. She could not bear the thought of Pamela's suffering the same estrangement.
But to realize how much she had hurt William, whom she loved— she, who had always tried to spare the feelings of others— was almost more than Mattie could stand. His steely expression, the cold light in his eyes as he had bid her good day, the hurt in his tone drowned all other thoughts and feelings from her mind, so that she was startled to hear Pamela address her by name.
"Mattie?" Pamela had entered the parlour some time before, but Mattie had been so swamped with unhappiness she had not noticed how unusually quiet her daughter was.
"Yes, dearest, what is it?" Her concern aroused, Mattie sprang to alertness.
"Oh, it's nothing, I suppose . . ."
Now, Mattie truly was alarmed. Pamela had never been one for reticence. "Darling, you must tell me. I can see that something has overset you."
"Well . . . ."
Mattie could feel Pamela's struggle, and the thought of her daughter's mind in turmoil brought out her most protective instincts. "Go on," she said, trying to sound calm.
"Well, I was in a shop in Milsom Street, and I overheard two ladies talking."
"Yes . . . ."
"They were talking about you."
A pang shot through Mattie's heart. "What were they saying?"
Pamela squirmed uncomfortably. "It was about Lord Westbury, too."
Oh, dear Lord. Mattie suddenly realized she had been so intent upon hiding herself that this possibility had never entered her mind. She should have known that eventually some of the gossip would make its way to Pamela's ears.
"What were they saying, dear?" Mattie tried to act as if nothing anyone could say would ever bother her. "And who were they?" Pamela must not grow up being afraid of her own shadow.
"It was Lady Repton and one of her friends. They
said— " Pamela paused, and then went on with her cheeks aflame— "they said that Lord Westbury was in love with you and that you were leading him on a sad dance."
Mattie gave a false, high laugh. "What an absurd bit of gossip. Is that all they said?"
"No." Pamela did not offer to repeat the rest. "But they did not sound as if they approved of your behaviour to him."
"Pamela, dear— " Mattie assumed the firmest tone she had ever used with her daughter— "you must not let other people's approval or disapproval disturb you."
"Oh, I didn't." The surprise in Pamela's voice rang astonishingly true. "It is just . . . . Don't you like Lord Westbury?" The look accompanying her question turned it into an accusation, which took Mattie aback.
"Yes, of course. Of course, I like him. Very much. He is one of the— kindest, the most honourable, the most considerate gentlemen of my acquaintance." Her heart nearly melted to acknowledge it.
"Then, why won't you marry him if he wants."
"Marry?" Pamela's incomprehension startled her. "Why, because he is younger than I am, dear."
Pamela's brows rose. "Is he? He doesn't seem like it to me, and I think is fond of you."
"It is possible that he is," Mattie admitted, shaking inwardly, "but I am afraid that does not necessarily make us suitable partners."
Pamela's face crumpled in a confusion behind which Mattie could read disappointment in herself. She tried to make Pamela understand.
"Darling, if I were to marry Lord Westbury, then people would say I had robbed the cradle. Some people might be quite unpleasant about it, indeed."
"Yes . . . ?" Pamela was looking at her as if to say, what would that matter?
Mattie started to speak. She hesitated when she found her own words to Pamela coming back at her, those brave words about not letting what people said determine her own happiness. Mattie found that she could not defend her conduct without going against every lesson she wanted Pamela to learn.
Looking at Pamela now, she felt an instant revelation. This daughter she had raised so far from society had created a happiness all her own. Pamela had not needed the balls and gowns, the admiring friends, or the approval of great ladies to forge her success. She had pursued the things she loved and found a soul-mate in the process.
A bell sounded deep inside Mattie, a sound which mingled with a dawning indignation over Lady Repton's gossip. How dare that woman criticize her for discouraging William when she would be among the first to be outraged if Mattie accepted him.
And how dare Lady Westbury accuse her of ensnaring her son when nothing had been farther from Mattie's mind?
This thought, that there were some people who would talk spitefully about her no matter what she did, no matter how worthy her intentions, hit Mattie soundly in the face. Mattie knew suddenly that she could never please Lady Repton or her ilk. And why should she bother, when she did not particularly care for the woman in the first place?
She had only been harming herself and hurting William, her dearest love, in an effort to please those filled with spite. A feeling of relief washed through her, a feeling of lightness and giddiness and hope. It was instantly followed by an anxiety so fierce that it gripped her stomach. What would she do in the event she had given William such a disgust of her that he would never propose again?
* * * *
William had quickly recovered from his anger, an anger which had stemmed as much from frustration as from anything else. It had been almost more than he could bear to stand so close to Mattie in the baths and not make love to her. Then, to find that, in spite of all his efforts, they were right back where they had started, had overset his normal control. He had wanted nothing more than to shake Mattie until her teeth rattled, to see whether a stronger tactic would show her how foolish she was being.
By the time he had reached the White Hart, this desire had burned itself out in the grinding of his teeth. A pint of Mr. Woodhouse's best beer soon cooled his temper, and William was able to think about what he should do next.
He had tried patience and cajolery. Pressure had failed, but he was not reduced to begging, yet. He knew that Mattie loved and wanted him, else she would never have made such an outrageous offer, one that made light of his feelings for her. He wondered if, perhaps, Mattie's problem was that she doubted how strong those feelings were.
To provide her reassurance, he would need to show her the depth of his passion. He would need to talk to her, and not just in snatches like the one they had shared today, but in long, leisurely talks, more like the ones they used to have in the country.
With one important difference.
William knew that as a last resort, he could always use pity to trap Mattie's tender heart, but there was still one last weapon he had not used, and that was one he infinitely preferred.
He had learned early in his manhood that to engage a lady's sentiments too deeply, when he had no serious intention of returning them, was not only cruel, it was a mistake. Since discovering this danger, he had been careful that his attentions were never particular enough to be misconstrued, his ardour never fervent enough to lure anyone's heart to self-destruction.
But this case was different. If he wanted to win Mattie, he would have to put off his cool exterior and show her what their lives could be in each other's arms.
And to show her that, William realized as he sought his sheets that night, he just might have to resort to a little trickery.
His pulse raced with the anticipated pleasure of executing his plan. By hook or by crook, he would get Mattie into his arms, and when he was finished with her, he'd be damned if she refused him again.
* * * *
The next morning, her knees shaking with her own daring, Mattie was preparing to take a chair to the Pump-room to find William, when Penworth announced a visitor. Her impulse to curse at the interruption was quickly stifled by the information that it was William who awaited her in the parlour.
Her breath caught in her throat. A wild hammering started deep in the centre of her chest. Mattie put one hand to a chair back to still her dizziness.
"You may tell Lord Westbury," she said breathlessly, "that I shall be down in one moment."
"Yes, Your Grace." Penworth bowed in his impeccable fashion. "Should I ask Cook to prepare anything to serve?"
"No!" Mattie had a horrifying vision of how embarrassing it would be if Penworth walked into the room just after William proposed again. If William did— and Mattie was determined to do what she could to induce him — she planned to throw herself directly in his arms. And then . . . .
But she was getting ahead of herself. And Penworth was staring at her as if some explanation was warranted for such a negative order.
"We— that is, Lord Westbury's business may not take very long. And if it does . . . then we shall simply ring for something later."
Penworth bowed. "As you say, Your Grace." His features were composed, and Mattie was relieved to see not a trace of curiosity upon them.
He descended the stairs, and Mattie gave a quick glance in the mirror to see how she looked.