Who Needs Mr Willoughby? (33 page)

As they climbed up on the porch, she waited as he opened the front door. “When do you bring them in?”

“When it’s very cold, or snowing,” he replied, and shut the door as she came inside. “And I bring them in for grain, and lambing, or if they need their hooves trimmed or their fleece sheared.”

He went into the kitchen and began opening cupboards and banging pots and pans, and Marianne wandered from the lounge to the dining room, admiring the Welsh cupboard once again, and the bright spots of colour offered by the rag rugs and the seat cushions tied to the chairs.

“I like this house,” she called out. “It feels like a proper home.”

“Thanks,” he called back as he set out a frying pan and began sautéing onions and green pepper. “But I take no credit – it’s all down to my gran. She had a way with taking castoffs and charity shop finds and turning them into something exceptional. ‘A slap of paint and a bit of love,’ she always said, ‘can transform anything.’”

“I wish I’d known her.” Marianne picked up the photograph of Matthew and his grandmother from the fireplace mantel and studied it. “She sounds amazing.”

“She was. Although she’d scoff at the very idea, I promise you.” He took the frying pan off the heat and set it aside. “I could use a hand in here, if you don’t mind peeling a few potatoes.”

“Not at all.” She set the photo back down and went into the kitchen. “Where’s the paring knife?”

He nodded his head towards a drawer opposite. “In there. You can grab a bowl from the cupboard up there. I put the potatoes in cold water until they’re ready to go on the hob.”

“I know how to peel potatoes, thank you very much,” Marianne informed him tartly as she opened the drawer and searched for the paring knife. “And I even know how to make mash. I’ve done it a million times at home.”

“That’s me, put in my place, then.” He turned back to the stove. “There’s a bottle of Cabernet on the sideboard, if you’d like to put it in the fridge to chill while the meatloaf bakes.”

“I’m on it.” She found the paring knife and glanced at him. “Are you sure you trust me around a bottle of red? You know what happened last time.”

He shrugged. “That was a one off. It was cheap wine. And you’d just experienced your first severe bout of Willoughby-itis.” He eyed her quizzically. “You’re cured now, I hope?”

She hesitated. “I am,” she said firmly. “Completely cured.”

An hour and a half-glass of wine later, dinner was ready. They ate at the dining room table, with the fire softly flickering and the delicious scents of meatloaf and mashed potatoes adrift on the air.

“I didn’t realise I was so hungry,” Marianne said as Matthew set a plate loaded with meat and veg down before her. She picked up her fork. “I can’t wait to try it.”

“The true test of any meatloaf,” he observed, “is when it doesn’t require a dousing with HP sauce but stands on its own merit.”

She took a bite and closed her eyes. “Oh my God, this passes the test. It doesn’t need a single drop of HP sauce. And it’s better than mum’s.” She grinned. “But don’t tell her I said that.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” He reached out and topped up her glass with more wine. “Enjoy.”

And, to her very great surprise, she did.

***

Later, when they’d finished dinner and washed up, laughing and talking and exchanging friendly insults, Marianne sat in the lounge with Matthew on the sofa and gazed into the fire.

“I love the fireplaces in these old houses,” she said, and set her glass aside. “They’re not only beautiful to look at, with their carved mantels and stone surrounds; they really
do
keep the place warm.”

“Good thing, too. Heating oil’s expensive. But as long as I keep enough wood put by, and with the generator to fall back on if the mains electric goes out, I can make it through the coldest winter with no worries.”

“And do you chop your own firewood, too?” she asked, amused.

“I do.”

“Is there anything you don’t do? You can cook, nurse lambs back to health, chop wood, operate a generator…” She glanced at him. “You’ll make some lucky girl a very useful husband one day.”

He regarded her with one brow raised. “‘Useful?’ That’s damning me with faint praise, isn’t it? You might as well say ‘he has a nice personality’ or ‘his heart’s in the right place’, when what you really mean is ‘his face could stop a clock’.”

Marianne laughed. “That’s not what I meant at all,” she protested. Her smile softened. “You have a very nice face, actually.”

“There you go again.” He let out a snort. “That’s another insipid word – ‘nice’. Bloody hell, woman! Can’t you do any better than that?”

“Sorry.” She turned on the sofa to face him, one arm resting along the back, and her expression grew serious. “The truth is, you’re amazing. You’re not like any other man I’ve ever met.”

“Given your previous suitor, I’m glad to hear it.”

Marianne blinked, surprised. “Oh? Are you calling yourself a suitor, then?”

He reached for his wine glass and took a quick drink. “Of course not. I meant Willoughby, not myself. So you can rest easy.”

“What happened with you and Philippa, Matthew?” she asked him, and tucked her knees beneath her on the cushion. “Why didn’t the two of you get married?”

His expression darkened. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s done.”

“But I want to understand. Did you break it off…or did she?”

“Why do you care?” There was an edge to his voice.

She knew she was treading on dangerous ground, but couldn’t let it go. “Because it obviously makes you unhappy. I just…I need to know why, if you loved her, you didn’t go through with the wedding.”

“I didn’t go through with it,” he said, and leaned forward to set his glass on the coffee table, “because I couldn’t. Philippa’s Aunt Eugenia put a stop to the marriage.”

Marianne stared at him in consternation. “Why would she do that?”

“She threatened to cut Philippa off without a penny if she went through with the wedding. I wasn’t good enough for her niece, evidently. Since the prospect of marrying me meant losing a third of her aunt’s considerable estate, my fiancée caved. She broke it off with me straight away and gave me back my ring.”

“Oh, Matthew,” she murmured.

“It soured me on love,” he said flatly. “She put money ahead of me, ahead of our love for each other, ahead of our future together. And she never looked back.”

“She’s an idiot, then.” She spoke firmly. “And I’m sure she’ll regret it one day.”

He looked over at her then, his expression unreadable. “I doubt it. She’s already forgotten me.”

“No one who knows you,” Marianne said softly as she reached out to touch his hand, “could ever forget you.”

“Is that right?” His eyes met hers. “And is that the wine talking,” he mused, “or you?”

“I’ve barely touched my wine, I’ll have you know.” She drew herself up and wrapped her arms around her knees.

“It’s true. You haven’t.” He glanced at her glass, still half full, and regarded her with a quizzical smile. “In that case, then…”

And as easily and simply as that, he leaned forward and cupped his hand round the back of her neck, slanted his mouth over hers, and kissed her.

Marianne forgot the scratchy sofa cushions, the crackle of the fire, and the smell of wood smoke that permeated the room; nothing existed or mattered but Matthew’s lips on hers. He drew her closer, and she uncurled her legs and slid her hands over his shoulders, drinking him in like the wine she’d so recently abandoned.

The cotton of his Oxford shirt was soft under her fingers as she opened her mouth beneath his.

Their tongues met, advanced, retreated; hesitantly, then growing bolder as Matthew deepened the kiss, Marianne relaxed into his arms. He tasted, she realised somewhere in the drugged recesses of her mind, like wine, and desire.

She wanted her first time to be with Matthew. She wanted it to be tonight.

Marianne made no protest as he drew her onto his lap. She kissed him, twining her arms around his neck and pressing herself against him.

He drew back, and his eyes were filled with questions. “Marianne – this is no good.”

“It feels pretty good to me,” she said, and cupped the rugged planes of his face in her hands. “Shut up and kiss me again, please.”

With a grunt, he covered her lips with his and plundered her mouth, his tongue thrusting, tasting, making her yearn for more. As if sensing her need, his hand slid up her torso, skimming over her hips and waist, and came to rest on the curve of her breast.

“Are you sure,” he said, lifting his head to regard her with his grey, steady gaze, “this is what you want, lass? Once we start, there’s no going back. At least – not for me.”

“I’m…I’m sure.”

But even as she spoke, Willoughby’s face flashed before her, and she imagined Willoughby’s body pressed to hers, and his mouth, not Matthew’s, warmly kissing her neck and nipping at the slope of her shoulder.

“Matthew,” she whispered, and closed her eyes as he kissed his way up the other side of her neck and found her mouth once again.

His lips burned her skin, branding her with a desire for more.

“Ah, Marianne…”

As Matthew began, slowly, to unbutton her shirt, she caught her lip between her teeth and tried to push the images of Willoughby out of her thoughts. She wanted Matthew. She did. She wanted to give herself to him completely.

But…

A pair of laughing blue eyes mocked her, and she knew it was Willoughby she still yearned for, not Matthew.

Marianne let out an anguished cry and pushed him away, then slid from his lap. Her hair fell into her face and she pushed it away with an unsteady hand.

“What’s wrong?” His breathing came heavily. “What’s the matter?”

“I…nothing,” she lied. “I just, I can’t do this right now. I want to. But I can’t.”

He straightened. “What’s wrong?”

She glimpsed the unmistakable evidence of his arousal and blushed, quickly averting her eyes. “I’m sorry. I really am.” She gave a shaky laugh. “There’s a name for girls like me, isn’t there? And it isn’t very nice.”

“It’s Willoughby, isn’t it?” His words were flat.

Marianne opened her mouth to deny it, to tell him she was over Kit Willoughby; but it was a lie and they both knew it. Her voice was a thread. “Yes. I thought I was over him. But I guess I – I’m not.”

“He has that effect on women, so I’m told.” Matthew thrust his hand through his hair. “He bewitches them with his handsome face and his unrelenting, insincere charm. But the more callously he treats them, the better they seem to like it.”

“You mean your sister.”

“And you,” he added sharply. “You both succumbed to his smooth talk and fake gallantry – he rescued you in the middle of a storm, astride his
horse
, for fuck’s sake! What man can possibly compete with that?”

“It’s true, it
was
very romantic,” she admitted. A note of defensiveness crept into her voice. “But it wasn’t fake, and his charm was completely sincere. I never felt so – so cherished as I did that night.”

“Cherished,” he echoed, scorn underlying the word. “Is that what you call it? Cherished, when he asked you to marry him, and ran away instead, with no explanation? When he humiliated you, and cut you dead in a room full of people?”

“You knew about that?”

“Yes, I know. It’s the talk of London according to my father.” He stood up. “And here’s me, thinking you cherish someone by treating her as if she’s the most precious, most – most important person in your life.”

Marianne looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Matthew.” Tears brimmed and matted her eyelashes. “I really am.”

“Save it.” He grabbed up his keys from the table and made his way to the door. “It’s time I took you back home, Miss Holland.”

She heard the front door open and shut, and numbly began to button her blouse.

Chapter 48

It was late when Marianne let herself into the cottage. All was dark and quiet; everyone was upstairs, sleeping. Someone – probably Elinor – had lit a fire earlier in the evening.

She dropped her handbag on the table and went to sit in the drawing room, sinking onto the sofa in front of the fireplace and staring at the dying embers in anguish.

She’d made a muck of things. Of everything. Fresh tears fell as she remembered the anger on Matthew’s face. She didn’t blame him for being angry with her. It was wrong, what she’d done, leading him on so brazenly, and then pushing him away because of someone else…

…because of Kit Willoughby.

Marianne swiped at her face with the back of her hand. She hadn’t meant to tease him, or lead him on, or play games. She honestly liked Matthew. She wanted him.

But until she knew why Willoughby had left and fled to London, until she understood why he’d treated her so coldly in Harriet’s ballroom, his face and his memory would continue to bedevil her.

“I’m haunted by you, Willoughby,” she whispered, her expression desolate. “I don’t think I’ll ever be free of you.”

“Marianne?”

Her mother stood in the doorway clutching a robe against her breasts. “What are you doing down here? It’s late. Come to bed.”

“I’ll be up soon. I promise.” She averted her face and only hoped her tears were not visible.

“How was your dinner at Dr Brandon’s house? That was very kind of him, I must say, especially in view of the fact that his father is having us to dinner tomorrow.”

“It was good. Very nice.”

“That’s another insipid word – ‘nice’. Bloody hell, woman! Can’t you do any better than that?”

Marianne felt a smile tug at her lips as she remembered Matthew’s words. “He’s a very good cook,” she added, and stood up. “But if you don’t mind, it’s late, and I’m tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Are you sure everything’s all right?” Mrs Holland asked her again, her face stamped with concern. “You look a bit pale.”

“Just tired, I expect, mum. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, love.”

So saying, she slipped an arm around her youngest daughter, and together, they made their way upstairs to bed.

***

“Are you ready, Marianne?” Elinor called up the stairs late on Saturday afternoon. “It’s nearly time to go.”