The Care and Feeding of Your Captive Earl (What Happens In Scotland Book 3) (21 page)

“Thank you for that,” Gwen whispered to Pippa. “You are a good friend.”

Pippa smiled at her tightly. “I am sorry you were subjected to that. Let’s get you home.”

“Yes, I do feel suddenly unwell.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

He hadn’t seen her since that damned argument months ago. He’d sent scribbled notes, beseeching her to reply at once with a report of her health and manner, but each one had been returned unopened. The silence, the uncertainty, was driving him mad—as surely was her plan.

Lucas had vowed to work on her, and had met Matthias on several occasions at White’s to give report on her general countenance. Regrettably, Lucas had made little progress on warming her feelings toward Matthias. Though Lucas had said she was now referring to Matthias as “disagreeable cur” and “insufferable sod,” which was an improvement—however slight—over “that damned bastard.” So perhaps
some
progress
was being made—though not nearly enough to satisfy Matthias.

He was sitting at his desk, going over the household accounts, when Benson, his butler, announced Lord Carrington.

“See him in.”

Lucien, his friend since Eaton, strode in moments later, a smile on his face. “Well, thank God. I haven’t seen you out in Society these several weeks. I thought for certain you’d given up the ghost.”

Matthias sat back in his chair and heaved out a sigh. “I have no time for Society these days. My great uncle left his accounts in shambles and it has taken these several weeks to put them to rights.”

He didn’t mention Gwen—or the real reason he was not out in society. He had a feeling Lucien would not be sympathetic—and Matthias had little patience as of late.

“Dear God, save me from talk of accounts and ledgers.”

“You may need to think of such matters yourself when your father sees fit to give up the ghost.”

Lucien moved to the sideboard and helped himself to a snifter of brandy. He swirled his glass a moment before taking a drink. “Not likely. Father is nothing if not meticulous.”

“Fortunate for you.”

“You lost our bet, by the by.”

Matthias raised a brow. “Our bet?”

“On the books at White’s. Tell me you haven’t forgotten already. Miss Abigail Quisenberry. I kissed her last week at Vauxhall. Caught her alone behind a shrubbery.”

Indeed, he
had
forgotten. With all that has happened, that bet at White’s seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Congratulations.” He pulled ten-pound note from his pocket and placed it on the desk. “I bow to your superior skills.”

“As you should,” Lucien said. He pulled a piece of parchment out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. “I assume you’re attending.”

Matthias picked up the thick parchment. It was an invitation to the annual Tisdale ball. He had received an identical one last week and had sent his regrets. Having become the Earl of Hastings meant the invitations now fell thick at his door.

“I have declined.”

“You may wish to reconsider.”

“I think not,” Matthias said, tossing the invitation back down onto the desk. “I have plenty to occupy my time here.”

“I have it on good authority that Gwendolyn has accepted the invitation. Or shall I call her Lady Hastings?”

That caught Matthias’s attention. “Gwen has not been out in society for weeks. I daresay she’s given it up entirely for fear of seeing me.”

Lucien shrugged. “My sister has been assisting Lady Tisdale with the arrangements, and I can assure you, Gwendolyn will be there. I thought you might want to know.”

When Matthias had returned to London, he’d told Lucien everything—sparing no detail, except for the names of the participants. Though with all the gossip circulating, Lucien had clearly added up the facts.

Matthias nodded, formulating his plan.

Yes, he would be there.

He smiled. He had her now.

* * *

Days later, Matthias stepped out of his carriage. The Tisdale ball had always been a garish, tedious affair—and signified the end of the Season. The ballroom was a crush and the cloying scent of many perfumes assaulted his senses. One sweep of the room did not yield Gwen, and he wondered if perhaps she had decided not to attend after all.

For a half hour, he circulated, making small talk, artfully dodging the many questions regarding his marriage. Had it not been for the prospect of seeing Gwen, he would have retired to the gaming room and looked for solace at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. But he forced on a smile, all the while scanning the room for a familiar pair of green eyes.

And then he saw her.

She was standing on the far side of the room in the company of two gentlemen—a smile tilting the edges of her plump, kissable lips. A sudden flare of jealousy welled up in his chest.

She’d been back out in society for what, a quarter of an hour, and already the vultures were circling?

He watched as she tipped her head to the side subtly, laughing at something one of the men had said. She wore a gown made of pink silk that was a touch too snug for his liking. The neckline was far too low, cutting just above her nipples, putting her lush breasts on display for any and all to see.

It was more than he could tolerate.

Striding across the ballroom, he stopped beside Gwen. She was laughing, and it took a moment for her to take note of his presence.

“Mr. Turner. Lord Clifton,” he said, acknowledging the men before turning his full attention on Gwen.

She turned her head toward him, her eyes as wide as a startled faun’s. “Lord Hastings,” she breathed, an edge of disbelief to her tone. “There was speculation you would not be attending this evening.”

“And yet here I am.” He smiled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were disappointed to see me, Lady Hastings.”

Lord Clifton interjected. “Lady Hastings was just telling us how keenly she wished to dance.”

Gwen laughed again. “You are unkind, my lord. I said no such thing.”

“Will you excuse us, gentlemen?” Matthias took her by the elbow and guided her to a shallow alcove within the ballroom.

“What in the devil was that?” he snapped, as soon as he was sure no one was within hearing distance.

She tugged her arm out of his grasp. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He took in the sight of her, drinking her in. It had been ages since he’d seen her face, or taken in the subtle scent of her skin. Seeing her again, being this close, was a relief—a salve to his suffering.

She looked wan and exhausted, as though she hadn’t slept in days. It was a subtle change, so subtle he doubted anyone else would recognize it. But he did. There was something altered about her countenance.

“You look pale. Have you been unwell?”

There was a startled look in her eyes a second before she shuttered it. “What concern is it of yours?”

Matthias pushed out a frustrated breath. He had so many questions, but she was being inordinately difficult. “You will not allow me to call, you return my letters…” He tugged on the ends of his hair. “God, Gwen, tell me why have you refused to see me.”

She swayed slightly, looking far too weak for his liking. When she glanced up at him, there was something unreadable in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, and he had the sudden, undeniable urge to pull her into his arms and cradle her. It took everything in him to remain stationary.

“Matthias, please. This is not the time or place for such a conversation.”

Christ.
Insufferable woman. “I would not feel compelled to broach such topics in a ballroom if you had seen fit to receive me when I’d called.”

“There is nothing you could say that I would wish to hear.”

When they’d returned from Scotland, his treatment of her had been abominable, he knew. He should never have lied to her. She deserved the truth. But by the time he’d realized his folly, she had resolved to sever their connection.

Tilting her chin up with the crook of his finger, he scrutinized her delicate features. She looked unwell. “We were not careful,” he whispered—preventing his voice from carrying beyond the small alcove. “Gwen, if there is a…” He stopped himself. “If anything has resulted from our time together, then you must tell me.”

She glanced away and he sensed a war within her. His heart beat rapidly in his chest as he awaited her response. Her eyes glistened and she swallowed. At length, she shook her head, no.

Something like disappointment washed over him. Given the state of their marriage, he should be relieved. But he couldn’t deny that the thought of Gwen swelling with his child held a certain appeal.

She shook her head again. She was hiding something—he felt it in his gut.

The dinner bell gonged, which seemed to jerk Gwen out of her melancholy. “Excuse me. I must find my dinner partner.”

When she turned to leave, Matthias reached out to grab her elbow. “We aren’t done, Gwen. You can’t run from me forever.”

She nodded, and he released her, watching as she blended into the crowd that was funneling into the adjoining dining room.

Dinner was a sumptuous affair and the conversation was lively. But Matthias couldn’t help but notice Gwen farther down the table, speaking demurely to a gentleman beside her. She picked at her food, and had left the table twice already. On the third occasion, he waited a discreet few minutes, and then followed.

He had a feeling he knew precisely where to find her.

He walked the perimeter of the empty ballroom until he reached a corridor that led to the ladies’ powder room. Without knocking, he opened the door.

Gwen sat at on a chaise longue, a maid hovering over her with a chamber pot held out. The room was otherwise empty and they both looked up as Matthias strode through the door.

“My lord,” the maid said in astonishment. “If you please…”

“Leave us,” he commanded.

With a nervous glance at Gwen, the maid wisely obeyed, curtseying before leaving the room, closing the door behind her, and taking the porcelain pot. Matthias slid the bolt into place and turned back to face Gwen.

She was standing now, looking a bit startled by his presence. “This is the ladies’ retiring room. You should not be in here.”

He stepped toward her. “You’ve left the table three times.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been watching me.”

“I admit I have,” he said, advancing on her. “You seem much altered since I saw you last, and I’ve been asking myself why.”

Shaking her head, she retreated a few steps.

His gaze fell from her face to the low cut of her gown. “Your breasts for example—” Reaching out, he skimmed his fingers over the upper swells of her breasts. She drew in a stuttering breath. “—are much fuller than I remember.”

“Matthias, please. Not here.”

His hand traveled down to her hips and he tugged her close. His lips found the smooth, flawless curve of her neck.

“How I’ve craved the taste of you,” he whispered against her skin.

She moaned faintly. “This…This is not wise. Our absence from the dinner table will be remarked upon.”

He kissed her neck, nipping at her skin with his teeth. She tasted like fucking heaven. He couldn’t get enough. “Let them make their remarks. I have a point to prove.”

“A point to whom?”

“To myself, my dear.”

Pulling away, just slightly, he eased one arm around her waist and flipped her around, so her back was pressed to his front.

“Matthias, what are you doing?”

She attempted to twist away from him, but he held her fast with one hand, while his other hand fell to her stomach. And there, just there, he found it. The slight swell of her belly that he somehow knew he’d find. It was so faint, one would scarce notice it. But Matthias knew every crevice and curve of her body by heart. This one was new.

Still, confirming his suspicions felt like a fist to his gut. “You are with child.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she said nothing. Not a whisper of sound. Her throat worked as she swallowed, glancing down at her feet.

“Is it mine, Gwen?”

She glanced back up at him then, a potent mixture of shock and affront etched into her beautiful features. And then she did the unexpected—she slapped him hard across the face. His head was thrown to the side, and heat bloomed where her palm had made contact with his skin.

“Do you think me so free with my affections that I would engage with another man so soon after…” Her voice trailed off.

She was offended by his question; good. He wasn’t in any humor to smooth her ruffled feathers. He was too angry. Clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides, he began to pace the length of the small room.

“And when, precisely, did you plan on sharing this news with me?”

She shook her head as tears started down her cheeks. “I…I...have hardly begun to accept it myself.”

He raked a hand through his hair as he continued to pace. “Good God, Gwen, why didn’t you come to me directly? How long have you known?”

“The sickness came on only a week ago. That’s when I began to suspect.” She paused, and he saw real fear in her eyes. “It has since been confirmed by a physician.”

This was his fault, entirely. Her pain. The pregnancy. The estrangement. Everything.

Tears rolled down her face and his chest tightened. He couldn’t bear to see her in pain. He walked over to her and took her face in his hands, wiping her tears away with the pads of his thumbs.

“I will make amends for this,” he said. “All will be well.”

“You cannot promise that.”

“Come home with me.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I cannot do that.”

“Tell me why.”

Turning back around to face him, she looked up at him through her wet lashes. “You know why.”

He couldn’t bear this. To have her so close and yet so far away was an agony he would not wish upon anyone. There were no words that could reach her. Nothing he could say that would convey his chaotic, riotous emotions. So he did the only thing he could. He kissed her.

CHAPTER TWENTY

His lips fell over hers in a hot languid kiss. She should have pushed him away, but it had been weeks since she’d tasted him, and all of her resolve was suddenly gone.